Death on Telegraph Hill

by Shirley Tallman

  All of them shrank away, not saying a word as they quietly filed out of the office.

  “I believe you have your answer, Officer Kimball,” I said, then turned to Ruiz. “And you, señor, should be ashamed of yourself for attempting such a despicable ruse. Bribing those poor souls straight off the street to lie for you. On behalf of my clients, I request that you vacate these premises immediately. And do not return, or we shall be obliged to have you forcibly removed.”

  Ruiz’s handsome face suffused with fury. “You have not heard the last of this, Señorita Woolson! Those petitions of yours will not stop me from building my bullring. Nothing will prevent me from bringing the glorious spectacle of the corrida de torros to this city.”

  He stormed to the door, then turned back to me. “You may do your best, señorita, but you do not know who you are dealing with. Ricardo Ruiz will not be defeated by una mujer!”

  * * *

  It was mid-afternoon when I returned to my office. My parting advice to Mr. and Mrs. Dinwitty was to place the petitions that had already been signed in a safe place, outside the society office. Although I hoped that Señor Ruiz would not stoop to burglary or some other dire scheme, the fact that he had bribed those unfortunate individuals proved that he was not above such chicanery.

  Back on Sutter Street, I envisioned a quiet afternoon where I might at last work on the brief I intended to present to City Hall on behalf of the SPCA. Unfortunately, that was not to be.

  I had barely reached the stairs leading up to my office when Robert stormed down to grab me unceremoniously by the arm.

  “Where have you been?” he demanded, disregarding any form of polite greeting. “I was about to call the police.”

  “I cannot imagine why you would do such a thing,” I told him, pulling free of his grasp and starting up to my rooms. “In any case, it would have been a wasted effort, since I have spent the past two hours sequestered with the police.”

  “What?”

  “Calm down, Robert. I have just returned from settling a charade concocted by Señor Ricardo Ruiz in an effort to defeat the SPCA’s opposition to his bullring. The entire affair was vastly encouraging. We must be causing the man sleepless nights for him to go to such ludicrous lengths to stop us.”

  “You’re making no sense,” he bellowed, ascending the stairs behind me. “You were supposed to remain in your office today until I came to take you home.”

  I spun around so quickly, he nearly crashed into me. “You’ve been conspiring with my father behind my back,” I accused him angrily.

  “I wouldn’t call it conspiring,” he said somewhat defensively.

  “Oh, really? What would you call it, then?”

  While he fumbled to find words that might justify such a collusion, I pulled out my office key and opened the door. Before I could close it, he barged inside after me.

  “We are concerned for your safety, Sarah. Even you must admit that we have valid reasons.” He threw his arms in the air as if to punctuate his words. “Since we first met, you have been held against your will in a sex, er, in a vile men’s club, you have been poisoned, you have been kidnapped by an infamous Chinese tong lord, and now you have been shot at. For heaven’s sake, Sarah, an army would have trouble protecting you.”

  “Don’t exaggerate, Robert,” I told him, hanging up my cloak. “I was never in any risk in Chinatown. Li Ying has been one of my staunchest supporters.”

  “Yes, when it serves his purposes. The fact that he controls a major share of the vice in Chinatown is neither here nor there, I suppose.”

  I was in no mood for a lecture. Especially one from him. It was enough that I had my father watching over me as if I were still the sweet little girl who loved to crawl into his lap.

  “By the way, why are you here so early?” I consulted my lapel watch. “It’s barely three o’clock. I didn’t expect you until six.”

  “I spent all morning at the courthouse. On my way back to the office, I purchased this.” He removed a newspaper from inside his coat and spread it open on my desk. “I thought you’d want to see it.”

  He pointed a finger at a column that appeared on page four of the Daily Alta California. I started to read the article, then sucked in my breath.

  “Good Lord!”

  “Exactly,” he said. “That plug-ugly Denis Kearney is claiming that you and he are working together to defeat Ricardo Ruiz’s bullring. I must admit the article surprised me. I thought Kearney and his Workingmen’s Party lost power a year or two ago.”

  “Evidently, he’s not a man to give up easily.” I stared at the story, then suddenly stiffened. I felt the short hairs along the back of my neck rise in fury. “Good heavens, Kearney refers to Ruiz as an ignorant wetback. And he insinuates that I approve of such racial invectives! How dare he make such a vile accusation?”

  “Have you even met the man?”

  “No. And I hope I never do. I’ve followed his sick rhetoric, mainly in regard to his prejudice against the Chinese. Now he seems intent on bullying the Mexicans as well.”

  Robert sank into one of my office chairs. “Kearney’s made no secret of his opposition to the bullfighting arena, at least since it came to his attention. You knew there was a possibility you might be linked with his cause when you took the SPCA’s case.”

  “Indeed I did,” I agreed with a rueful shake of my head. “And now my fears have been realized. The Daily Alta is all but accusing me of being a hypocrite, championing the Chinese while defiling the Mexicans, who were here long before California was accepted into statehood.”

  He was staring at me, his blue-green eyes uneasy. “Tell me what you’re thinking, Sarah?”

  Despite the circumstances, I had to resist an urge to smile. “Don’t look so worried, Robert. I’m not going to dash out and confront Kearney on a street corner. That would draw even more attention to the situation.”

  He watched warily while I pondered my best course of action. I had understood and weighed the risks of representing the SPCA, knowing that it could be construed in some quarters as a personal prejudice against our city’s Mexican population. But decisions were always open to misinterpretation. I could not falter now out of fear that my actions might be regarded as racially offensive.

  “Well,” he said at last, “what do you plan to do about this?”

  “I think I shall ignore Denis Kearney altogether,” I said at last. “He can say what he will about my motives, I cannot control that. I have taken a position to oppose Ruiz’s bullring, and I intend to see the affair through to the end.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The next few days were uneventful, for which I was grateful. There had been no new violence over the weekend, nor had anyone attempted to shoot at me or otherwise cause me harm. Samuel continued to improve, albeit at a slower pace than his impatience to be out of the house and back to work as a crime reporter. Adding to his frustration, he had as yet heard nothing from the publishing house where he had submitted his book manuscript. His mood at any given time of the day or evening vacillated between burgeoning hope and deep gloom.

  Robert fulfilled his promise to my father and dutifully escorted me home from Sutter Street that entire week. Each time he arrived, I was to be found working quietly in my office, not off gallivanting about the city, as I am certain he expected me to be. To my quiet amusement, I received the impression that this somehow disappointed him. Other than eyeing me with suspicion, though, he did not press me for details of my day.

  I received frequent notes from Mr. Dinwitty and Mrs. Hardy, informing me of how well the petition drive was proceeding. I had heard nothing more from Ricardo Ruiz or his thugs but was too realistic to assume they had given up their fight. On the contrary, I feared they were merely gathering their forces before launching another offensive.

  For my part, I continued to prepare the written brief I would deliver to City Hall along with the petition signatures. It would contain every point and authority I could uncover which might
argue against the bullfighting arena. Naturally, this made it impossible for me to remain inside my office all day, despite the fact that both my father and Robert seemed determined to keep me there. I spent little time fretting over the necessary subterfuges I was forced to employ, and I certainly experienced no pangs of guilt. Contrary to society’s outdated paradigm, I was a grown woman capable of making my own decisions and accepting my own risks. Moreover, I had given my word to a client; I owed the SPCA no less than my best efforts.

  Fanny Goodman was a co-conspirator in the plan, helping me to come and go freely as I prepared my case. She seemed to look upon the deception as some kind of game and would have carried the ruse to rather comical lengths had I not set practical limits to her active imagination. Eddie, too, was happily drafted into the scheme, providing me with transportation to and from the courthouse, the SPCA office, and any other destination I felt called upon to visit. He, too, found the “caper,” as he put it, great fun.

  Other newspapers in town had taken a cue from the Daily Alta and run their own stories concerning my implied complicity with Denis Kearney to oppress the city’s Mexican population. I continued to ignore them all, hopeful that in time the true motivation for my opposition to the bullring would be understood.

  By the end of the week, Mr. Dinwitty and I decided that we had obtained nearly enough signatures to present to City Hall. It was agreed that the SPCA volunteers would finish collecting petitions over the weekend and I would turn them in to the city council the following Monday, along with my prepared brief.

  I wish I could say that I felt confident about our success in this endeavor. Unfortunately, I was not at all sure that a list of names, no matter how extensive, would be enough to challenge a project that had the potential to bring so much money into the city coffers. My arguments, too, were weakened by the fact that they were based on nuisance factors, public safety, and general community disdain for the arena, rather than established city laws regarding property use. The fact that a bullring had previously existed in San Francisco provided Ruiz with a precedent that was going to be difficult to defeat.

  Although I had honored my promise to Mr. Dinwitty and continued to search for other, more powerful ammunition to fight Ruiz, I had so far been unsuccessful. With only two days remaining before we would turn in the petitions, however, I decided to make one last trip to the courthouse. Once there, I spent dreary hours poring over pages of recorded material, evidentiary briefs, writs, and ordinances, until I began to develop a dull headache. When I finally came upon a promising lead, my eyes were so weary that I nearly missed it.

  I read the section through twice, my heart beating faster each time as I digested the words. It described a commission that had been established by Congress in 1851 to unsnarl land titles granted by the Mexican government during the years it had controlled California. I was avidly engaged in reading and taking notes when I heard my name called out in an all-too-familiar voice.

  Robert Campbell!

  “I knew it! You have played false with me from the first. Here you are out in public with nary a care for your safety. Yet had I not discovered your subterfuge, you would have sworn that you had remained innocently inside your office all day.”

  “I have never lied to you, Robert,” I responded with a clear conscience. “You did not once ask me directly if I’d gone out. If you had, I would naturally have told you—”

  “A fabricated story.” He regarded me in frustration. “Please, Sarah, show some respect for my intelligence. I know you far too well to expect honest disclosure when the matter involves your freedom. I told your father so, but he preferred to cling to the fanciful belief that he held some sort of control over you.”

  “I’m delighted to hear that you appreciate my predicament, Robert. Naturally I could not sit by idly in my office when I have a legal case to prepare.” I was struck by a sudden idea. “Why are you here, by the way?”

  “Shepard is out of town for the day,” he said, referring to the senior partner of the firm where he was employed as associate attorney. He nodded to the briefcase he carried. “He left me with a great deal of tedious research to accomplish in his absence.” His expression grew suspicious. “Why do you ask?”

  “As long as he is out of the office, there is no pressing need for you to rush back to your desk.” I pushed across the book I was reading, and he sank into a chair opposite me to scan its contents.

  “Adverse land possession?” he said, appearing confused. “What’s this all about?”

  Briefly, I filled him in on what I had discovered, then explained why I required his assistance.

  “But that could take all day,” he exclaimed, his sharp tone assuaged by a curiosity he could not entirely conceal.

  “Yes, it undoubtedly would if I were to attempt it alone. Dividing the list between us will take but half the time.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you? No, don’t bother to answer, you’re wearing that expression which means you are determined to have your way, no matter the inconvenience to others.”

  “Come, Robert, you’re being overdramatic. Naturally I’ll help you with your research once we have finished with mine.” I passed several more large volumes of public records across the table to him, then handed him one of the sheets of paper upon which I had jotted my notes. “Now, you begin with these, while I complete the preliminary research.”

  His eyes traveled unhappily down the paper. “There are a great many names.”

  “Yes, isn’t it wonderful? If I am correct, and I believe I am, this information should greatly increase the likelihood of our success.”

  He gave a soft groan but wisely chose to keep any further complaints to himself. Thus we worked in companionable silence for the next two hours, speaking only when one of us uncovered an unexpected point or to avoid duplication. As I predicted, the job was completed in far less time than if I had been forced to perform it on my own.

  After we had returned the law tomes to the stacks, Robert seemed to believe that he could now deliver me to my office. I quickly set him straight, informing him that although we had completed our task here, a good deal more work remained to be done. Ignoring his protests, I led the way to the tax office, where I informed the clerk which books we would need to examine. Despite my companion’s continued grousing, I found a quiet table situated in a corner of the office library and instructed him on what we must accomplish.

  “My absence at the firm is bound to be noticed,” he grumbled. “What am I supposed to tell them?”

  “You’re there every day,” I said, not looking up from the book I had just opened. Glancing over the numerous entries, I realized I would once again be forced to compile a lengthy list of names and dates. “Perhaps you could plead a headache, or a touch of catarrh.”

  “Humph! Now you are suggesting that I resort to lies.” He thought for a moment. “Although it would not be entirely untruthful to plead a headache. You often cause me to suffer from that particular malady. Today being no exception.”

  “Excellent. You may begin by checking these names against the list I provided you, while I examine the documents in this volume.”

  “You could at least spare me that supercilious look on your face,” he said, regarding me in annoyance. “If I had not been reluctant to leave you here on your own, I could have pretended not to see you and gotten on with my own research.”

  Regarding this as an opportunity to turn the tables on this annoying rash of overprotectiveness, I said with a touch of sarcasm, “Ah, yes, you wouldn’t want to abandon me to the cutthroats and desperadoes who threaten the corridors of City Hall.”

  This comment had the desired effect, and we once again worked in amiable silence until it was at last time to end our labors for the day.

  “I need to stop by my office and collect some paperwork before returning home,” I said as we exited the building. “I trust that will not inconvenience you?”

  “Of course not,” he replied, raising his eyes
to the heavens. “You have already disrupted the better part of my afternoon. What is another hour or two?”

  “It will not take that long,” I told him, paying no heed to his acerbic tone. “Shall we take the omnibus at the next corner?”

  “We had better find a cab,” he said, regarding the late-afternoon traffic with dismay. “That should prove a good deal easier and faster than public transportation.”

  Naturally, it did not. I have never understood Robert’s reluctance to take advantage of the city’s numerous horsecars and omnibuses. If we had had the foresight to engage Eddie and his brougham, he would be correct in supposing the ride to Sutter Street would be faster. Given Eddie’s proclivity for speed, however, it would be unlikely to prove more comfortable. At this time of day, it was nigh on to impossible to locate an unoccupied cab. Consequently, it took us roughly twice as long to reach my office as it would have if we had relied on the nearby omnibus. Ironically, as we were dropped off in front of Fanny’s shop, we spied Eddie’s carriage parked outside.

  “Oh, dear!” I exclaimed, filled with guilt. “I forgot I was supposed to give Eddie a reading lesson this afternoon. I wonder how long the poor lad has been waiting?”

  As it turned out, the “poor” lad was seated comfortably in Fanny’s cozy kitchen, happily partaking of a slice of warm apple pie and a glass of milk. To my considerable surprise, my brother Samuel was sitting with him at the table, enjoying his own piece of pastry. His left arm was in a sling, but he didn’t appear to be in pain, although he had become remarkably adept at masking his discomfort.

  “Samuel, what on earth are you doing here?” I exclaimed. “You’re supposed to be at home recuperating.”

  “Mama and Celia left to pay house calls this afternoon, and I took the opportunity to slip out.” He grinned. “Even Edis didn’t see me. Besides, as it happens, I am recuperating. In fact, I’ll wager I’m doing far better here than if I’d remained at home. Fanny’s pie is just the medicine to expedite a quick recovery. Right, Eddie?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Samuel,” the boy answered, beaming at the plump woman bustling about with cups and saucers, cream and sugar, and large slices of pastry. “No one can beat Mrs. Goodman’s apple pie, and that’s God’s honest truth.”