Death on Telegraph Hill

by Shirley Tallman

  “Take that down, you pompous fool!” Remy shouted. “We are here to make our farewells to Mr. Wilde, not to show off that frivolous gibberish you call a novel.”

  If Mortimer Remy hadn’t appeared so distraught, the scene before us would have been comical. The generally good-natured publisher was jumping up and down, arms outstretched in an attempt to grab the book out of the other man’s hand. Aleric, who was smiling broadly, managed to keep the tome just out of the shorter man’s reach. The appreciative crowd was cheering on the combatants as if they were engaged in a boxing match.

  “You’re making a fool of yourself,” Remy shouted.

  “On the contrary, dear Remy,” Aleric said, laughing mockingly at his rival. “You are the one behaving like a fool.” He pulled back the arm that held the book, as if he were about to throw it into the crowd. “There’s a good boy, fetch!”

  Although he did not, of course, throw the book, Remy actually started to dart in that direction, causing Aleric, Wilde, and most of the mob to laugh uproariously.

  Realizing he was the butt of the joke, Remy’s face flushed dark red with fury. “You bastard!” he cried, raising a hand as if to strike the other man.

  Smiling acidly, Aleric moved forward, jutting out his pointed chin for Mortimer to punch. “Go ahead, Remy, strike me. I’ll sue you until you won’t have a single printing press left to publish that worthless rag sheet of yours.”

  He looked almost disappointed when Remy hesitated, then slowly dropped his fist. “What? Too chicken to go the whole hog? I always knew you were nothing but a lily-livered coward.”

  Remy was so furious, he actually started to shake. The crowd hooted and hurled jeers at the mortified publisher. “I’ll kill you for this, Aleric!” Remy threatened. “I should have done it when you first came to town. You took my wife, and now you want to take my newspaper. Well, you’re not going to get it. I’ll see you dead first!”

  “Come, old fellow,” Aleric said, amicable enough now that he had achieved his goal of stirring up his rival. “Don’t tell me you can’t take a joke?” Smiling, he threw his arm around Remy, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder.

  Reporters were scribbling madly in their notepads. During the argument, Oscar Wilde had stepped back a few paces to a safe distance, where he had observed the row with an amused expression. No doubt he regarded the vulgar display as yet more evidence to support the stories accusing California of still being part of the Wild West.

  Before the fracas could develop into a riot, Emmett Gardiner stepped between the combatants. Over the din I could just hear him chastising Aleric while attempting to soothe his uncle. Remy’s face was still as red as a beet, but now I suspected it was due more to embarrassment than to anger. Aleric displayed an expression of smug satisfaction, and I noticed that Wilde was now holding the man’s book. He was thumbing through it with interest, and I remembered him mentioning that he had enjoyed reading the volume as a boy.

  Remy took a deep breath and pointedly turned his back on his adversary, directing some workers to erect a simple wooden platform for Wilde. It was only a few feet tall, but high enough for most of the people in the station to see him. Leisurely, as if he had all the time in the world, instead of only minutes before catching a train for Salt Lake City, the poet stepped onto the makeshift podium and smiled out at the crowd. This morning he was dressed in more modest attire, stylish trousers and a day coat instead of his usual knee breeches and black silk stockings.

  “It is kind of all of you to see me off this morning,” he began, eyeing several women who were regarding him with fawning adoration. “Especially the beautiful women who abound in this fair city. Ah, ladies, you begin by resisting a man’s advances, and end by blocking his retreat. We are completely at your mercy.”

  There was a burst of laughter, and a few catcalls that once again questioned Wilde’s romantic proclivities.

  “You have proven to me that America is the noisiest country that ever existed.” Wilde shook his head, appearing almost sorrowful. “All art depends upon exquisite and delicate sensibility, and such continual turmoil must ultimately be destructive of the musical faculty.”

  There was another roar from the crowd, and I saw Mortimer Remy grab the sleeve of the police constable, obviously imploring him to quiet the noisy throng so that Mr. Wilde could be heard. The patrolman took a firm hold of his baton and set off to calm the fray, but it was like trying to stop crashing waves at the beach armed with nothing but an umbrella.

  “That’s Mortimer Remy from Platt’s Hall, isn’t it?” Robert asked, leaning close to my ear. “What possessed him to lash out at Aleric like that? He’s made a spectacle of himself.”

  “Unfortunately, Aleric has a way of infuriating him. He deliberately antagonizes poor Mortimer until he does something foolish. It will be in all the papers, I fear, and he’ll be humiliated.”

  I felt a tug on my sleeve and, looking around, found that Eddie Cooper had joined us. “What’s happenin’, Miss Sarah?” he asked, taking in the crowd with huge eyes. “Have I missed somethin’?”

  “No,” I told him dryly. “Only grown men behaving like street hooligans. Mr. Wilde is attempting to make a speech.”

  “He looks different today,” Eddie commented, studying the Irish poet with interest. “Not barmy like the other night at Platt’s Hall.”

  “Yet he still stands there laughing at us,” Robert put in, his tone disapproving. “If he’s an example of the Aesthetic Movement, I want nothing to do with it.”

  “Yes, but that’s no excuse to treat the man so shamefully,” I said. “I shudder to think of what he’s going to tell people about us when he returns to London.” I was about to say more, but Wilde was finally able to continue with his farewell speech.

  “But, friends, I have found San Francisco to be a beautiful city. Indeed, perhaps the most beautiful part of America is the West. Unfortunately, to reach it involves a journey by rail of six days, racing along tied to an ugly tin kettle of a steam engine.”

  Mortimer Remy caught the poet’s attention. Pointing to his pocket watch, he indicated the time.

  “Mr. Remy informs me that I must leave you now to catch my train.” He held up Aleric’s book. “Before I depart, however, I want to recommend that those of you who have not already done so purchase this amazing narration of your calamitous Civil War. I read it as a young boy, when such tragedies as war held a certain fascination for me. It is a gruesome tale and it is cruel, but it relates a story that mankind would do well to remember.” He smiled down at Aleric, who was beaming up at him. “And his mastery of the English language … ah, Mr. Jonathan Aleric is, in his own way, a poet.”

  Despite Emmett Gardiner’s efforts to calm his uncle, Mortimer Remy looked so furious that I feared he might burst a blood vessel. Since there was clearly nothing he could do to silence Wilde without causing another commotion, he put a good face on it and helped the poet down from his perch.

  Instead of following the publisher in the direction of the train tracks, however, Wilde turned to Aleric, opened the copy of An Uncivil War, and held it out to be signed. The smiling author produced a pencil and wrote his name on the proffered page with a flourish. To the delight of the reporters, the two men posed together in front of the noisy throng, then proceeded side by side to the waiting train.

  Emmett Gardiner took his mortified uncle by the arm and gently led him behind Wilde and Aleric as they exited the lobby.

  “Good God!” Robert exclaimed, watching their departing backs. “I admit I enjoyed reading Aleric’s book when it first came out. But now that I’ve met him, I have to say there’s something about the man that curdles my blood. The way he harassed Remy in front of Wilde and all these spectators is enough to set my teeth on edge. I begin to see why your friend Remy dislikes him so thoroughly.”

  “Their animosity is escalating,” I said, experiencing a shiver of fear. “Remy seems to be alarmingly close to his breaking point. I wonder how far Aleric will push h
im?”

  “Not much further, if he has any sense,” said my companion.

  “Can we go now, Miss Sarah?” Eddie asked. “I don’t want to leave the brougham for too long in this crowd.”

  “Just a minute, Eddie,” I told the boy. “I want to have a quick word with someone before we leave.”

  Ignoring Robert’s protesting groan, I made my way with some difficulty through the departing crowd, toward where I had last seen Ozzie Foldger. He was no longer standing on the base of the pillar but was speaking to some of the women who had been ogling Wilde earlier. He was so occupied jotting down notes in his messy-looking pad that he did not notice my approach.

  “May I have a quick word with you?” I asked, forcing myself to be polite. Throughout our childhood, Papa had often preached the old adage that you could catch more flies with honey than with vinegar paper. I hoped he was right.

  Foldger’s pale gray eyes regarded me warily. Nonetheless, he appeared interested enough to close his notebook and bid good-bye to the young women.

  “All right, then, Miss Woolson, what’s this about?” he asked, following me to a relatively quiet corner of the station. “You didn’t seem all that eager to speak to me the other day when you were taking around those SPCA petitions.”

  I gave him my best imitation of a winning smile. It was not my custom to mask my opinion about an individual I disliked as thoroughly as Ozzie Foldger, but I doubted that candor would elicit any meaningful information about this evening’s issue of the San Francisco Tattler.

  “I was curious as to what we might expect to read next in your series about Claude Dunn,” I said, holding the false smile on my face as if it were glued there. “You indicated that it would appear in tonight’s edition.”

  The reporter’s sly sneer let me know that he had not been taken in by my sprightly performance. “That toffee-nosed brother of yours sent you to find out, didn’t he?” He laughed unpleasantly. “Well, you can run back home and tell him that he can read all about it in tonight’s edition.”

  “I still say you’re playing a dangerous game, Mr. Foldger,” I said. “Especially if you’re right about Claude Dunn’s death not being a suicide. You should go straight to the police.”

  “That’d make your brother happy, wouldn’t it? Well, you can tell him not by a jugful. This is my story and it’s gonna stay that way.” He gave another caustic laugh. “Tell you what, I’ll have a copy of the Tattler personally delivered to your house tonight. Look for my article on the front page, above the fold.”

  He was still chuckling when he left the station. I watched him go but could think of nothing further to say that might change his mind. I found Robert and Eddie waiting for me out on the street. They were looking after Ozzie Foldger’s retreating back.

  “What did you say to him?” Robert asked. We were following Eddie, who indicated the carriage was parked in the same general direction the reporter had taken. “He had some uncomplimentary things to say about you as he left the terminal.”

  I sighed. “The man is a fool. He promises to reveal new information about Claude Dunn’s death in tonight’s Tattler.”

  He gave a dismissive grunt. “I don’t know why you’re letting that worry you. Foldger is a reporter. You can bet that this is just another wild story he’s made up to sell copies of that disreputable paper.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I said, quickening my pace to keep up with Eddie. “There was something about the way he described the article, though. As if he really had come across some kind of evidence.”

  “If he has, then he surely is irresponsible not to take it to the police. But that’s his business; it need not concern us.”

  “I can’t shake the feeling that it may concern us a great deal,” I said more to myself than to my friend. “How far away did Eddie park the brougham?”

  Before he could answer, there was the sound of a woman screaming, and we both came to a startled halt. More shrieks followed. They seemed to be coming from nearby, but it was difficult to tell from which direction. Ahead of us, Eddie had also stopped in his tracks; then, after looking around, he charged after a group of people who were rushing toward the corner.

  “What the devil?” Protectively, Robert took hold of my arm.

  I watched Eddie round the corner. “Let me go, Robert. We must see what’s happened.”

  Before he could stop me, I wrenched free and rushed after Eddie. I could hear Robert hard on my heels as I stumbled on my skirts. Muttering an unladylike expletive, I picked them up and ran full out around the block toward what appeared to be a small alley behind a warehouse. It was a narrow passageway, and a group of spectators were clustered around the filthy entrance. There was a strong smell of garbage and other, even fouler, odors made by vagrants. Most of the women were standing well back.

  Pushing my way through the crowd, I saw what appeared to be a pile of rags thrown carelessly in the narrow space between the warehouse and another building. I drew closer, and my heart caught in my throat as I realized that these were not rags at all. It was the body of a man, blood slowly forming in a pool by his side. Through the alley’s deep shadows, I could just make out the blade of a knife sticking out of his chest.

  As I took in the scene, I caught sight of a small notebook lying several feet inside the alley opening. I gave a little gasp as I recognized that all-too-familiar pad. I had, in fact, seen it only moments before. It belonged to Ozzie Foldger!

  Brushing aside a faint stir of conscience, I looked around to make sure no one was watching, then snatched up the notebook and placed it in my pocket. I knew it was evidence and that it would have to be turned over to the police. But I was determined to have a quick look at it for myself first. After that, I would make certain that it was handed over directly to George Lewis and to no one else.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  At my request, Papa purchased a copy of that evening’s Tattler. I did not expect to find Foldger’s much-touted story on the front page, or anywhere else in the paper, but I had to be certain.

  To my mother’s consternation, talk of the reporter’s death dominated our dinner conversation. Several times she attempted to shift us onto more suitable subjects, but under the circumstances it was difficult to feign enthusiasm over mundane topics.

  Shortly after we left the dining room, Robert and George Lewis arrived at the house. Samuel and I had invited the men over to discuss Ozzie Foldger’s death, which weighed heavily on both our minds. Papa was obviously determined not to be left out of the conversation and indicated we should all join him in the library. There, we made a forlorn little assembly, drinking coffee—at my father’s insistence, heavily laced with brandy—and trying to absorb the latest in this growing string of tragedies. Although it was early April, the night was chilly and Edis had lit a hearty fire, which was as restorative as the liquor.

  “The man was a fool.”

  Robert was the first to speak after our elderly butler left the library, closing the door silently behind him. I wondered if he realized he was repeating the very words I had spoken outside the train station not five minutes before Foldger was killed.

  “I tried to convince him to tell us what he was planning to write in that second article,” George said pensively, and took a sip of his coffee. “He just laughed at me. In fact, he called our entire police department a farce.”

  Papa reached for his pipe. “I’ve said this before, but it bears repeating. The press today is out of control. They print gossip and innuendo, even lies when it suits their purposes. Never mind sticking to the truth. The only thing that matters to them is selling newspapers.” He eyed Samuel, as if again remembering that his own son was a part of this much reviled industry. “Sorry, my boy, but it’s no more than the truth.”

  My brother merely nodded. His handsome face appeared pale and drawn. It frightened me to see him looking more tired than he had in several days. Ozzie Foldger had been the bane of his professional life for five years, but the reporter’s b
rutal murder had shocked him. I worried that it might even set back his recovery.

  “Sarah talked to him not ten minutes before he was stabbed,” Robert put in. “He accused her of spying. He claimed she was trying to get him to divulge details of his article so that she could turn them over to Samuel.”

  “Foldger was always afraid I was going to steal one of his absurd stories,” said Samuel, speaking for the first time. “He was obsessed with making a name for himself.”

  “Well, he’s succeeded,” I said quietly. “His death will be on page one of every newspaper in town tomorrow. George, have the police any idea who stabbed him?”

  “I’m afraid not,” he answered. “The knife the killer used was so common as to be untraceable. Although there were a number of people leaving the train depot, none of them used that alley, which is hardly surprising since it’s so squalid. Evidently, a passerby heard a man cry out, but by the time he got there, the lane was deserted. Well, except for the body, of course. And precious little to go on.”

  Uneasily, I cleared my throat. It was time to admit that I had removed a potentially vital piece of evidence from the crime scene. Suddenly, four sets of male eyes were focused on me, and I was disconcerted to feel my face flush.

  “I have a confession to make, George,” I began, and reached into my pocket for Foldger’s notebook. “I found this lying on the ground near the body, and I took it away with me.”

  There was a dumbfounded expression on George’s boyish face. “You took it? But it’s evidence.”

  “Yes, I know, and I’m sorry. I’m afraid I couldn’t resist the temptation.” Even as I spoke, I recognized this was a poor excuse. “I was hoping it might contain information about Foldger’s next article.”

  “And does it?” my father asked.

  I shook my head, unable to hide my disappointment. “Very little,” I admitted. “It’s written in some kind of a code, or a style Foldger invented to jot down his notes.” I handed the book to George. “The proper names are easy to make out, but the rest of it looks like so much gibberish.”