The Driver

by Steve Bartholomew

  Again Georg spoke in a calm voice. “Are you the leader of this group?”

  The man sneered. “Sure. What of it?”

  But Georg was done talking. As quick as a striking snake his arm shot out and snatched the club from the man’s hand. Then it connected with his skull. He went down like a rock.

  Georg stood for a moment twirling the club like a baton. He looked over the crowd. “Who’s next?”

  Another fellow was looking down at the body, with a horrified expression. “Are you okay, Billy?” Billy didn’t answer. Blood streamed from his scalp.

  Georg said, “Pick up Billy and get out of here, before I get mad.”

  It took two men to get Billy on his feet, only half conscious. A few moments later the crowd had moved on.

  Much later that evening Georg got his horse and car back to the barn. By that time none of the lines were running. Bob Mullins looked tired and worried. He said, “Any trouble getting in?”

  He shrugged. “Had to crack two or three skulls. I stopped several laundries from getting burned. Then I had to wait till the track was cleared. My horse was scared.”

  “So was I. Those Workingmen ain’t working men. They turned over a couple streetcars when they wouldn’t stop. I hear they murdered a few people. You’re lucky.”

  “Maybe so. Look here, I won’t be driving tomorrow. In fact I think I need a leave. My Court case is coming up. No telling how long I’ll be out of work.”

  Mullins pulled out a bandanna to mop his face. “I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Vintner. We already had a few drivers quit. They don’t like all this trouble and commotion. You can come back to work any time, far as I’m concerned.”

  “Thanks. I hope it won’t be long.”

  He turned toward home. In that moment he realized how tired he was. Dead tired.

  Next morning was Wednesday. He slept an hour later than usual, then dressed in his new suit with a clean shirt and polished boots. Mrs. Costello had breakfast waiting for him. “Fresh bread and cheese, Mr. Vintner? You’re not working, then?”

  “No ma’am, not for awhile. Thank you.” He noted the Morning Call in her apron pocket. “Is there news?”

  “I should say. Mayor Bryant called out the Army. They’re going to help regulate the city. The mayor says it’s an emergency. That ought to calm things down. I should hope so.”

  “Yes ma’am. I do hope so.” Absently he rubbed his bruised knuckles, his only souvenir of the previous night.

  Part of the morning he spent walking about looking for damage. The fires were out and there wasn’t much to be seen. Armed soldiers on horseback patrolled the major streets, and the few police went in pairs, clubs at the ready. No sign of either vigilantes or Workingmen.

  When it was time, he walked to California Street and rode a cable car up Nob Hill. He knew the conductor and didn’t have to pay. There were fewer passengers than usual.

  He found Penworthy’s house with no problem. It was by no means one of the Hill’s larger mansions, but neither was it small. He mounted the stairs, showed Penworthy’s card to a stony-faced butler, and soon found himself in a small library at the rear. He stared at the books on the shelves, wondering what they might be about, and if they were ever read. They had a faint musty smell. He waited only a few minutes until Thaddeus Milo Penworthy walked in.

  “Please be seated, sir. It’s good of you to come. I have ordered some sandwiches. Would you care for wine, or perhaps stronger?”

  “A glass of water would do me fine, sir.”

  Penworthy nodded, sat down behind a mahogany desk, and then seemed to run out of words. For a moment he stared blankly at Georg. “So, Mr. Vintner. You are the person who discovered my son’s body?”

  “Not exactly, sir. Someone else called my attention to him. I thought at first he was drunk or asleep. Sometimes a passenger will board my car just to sleep for a bit. I usually let them ride till they wake up.”

  “I see. Can you describe what happened? I mean in more detail?”

  He shrugged. “I already told all I know to the cops. There was one of those riots going on. A lot of confusion. Most of the passengers were pretty scared I guess. I was mainly worried about my horse, I didn’t want him to bolt. Then everyone else left the car and I could see your son was dead. That’s about all, sir.”

  “Wasn’t there a woman present? I believe the cops questioned her.”

  “That would be Mrs. Sutliff. I don’t know why the police wanted to see her. She was just there. I guess she was the only other witness they could identify.”

  “Ah. I see our luncheon has arrived.”

  A maid entered, set down a tray and left again without a word. Penworthy quickly snatched up a sandwich and began to chew, as if half starved. Georg followed suit, eating more slowly. The food was delicious, but it contained some leafy vegetable he had never before tasted.

  Penworthy said with mouth half-full, “I loved my son. Don’t think I didn’t. But the fact is, I did not like him much.”

  George put down his sandwich. “Sir?”

  Penworthy swallowed, cleared his throat. He said without looking at Georg, “I said I did not like my son, sir. Alexander. I’m afraid I could not like him.”

  Georg didn’t know what to say to that. He picked up his sandwich again.

  Penworthy said, “Alexander was not an only child. He has an older sister, Cynthia. She doesn’t live here, but she does write every few months. You see, she got religion and left home as soon as she came of age. She has chosen the life of a Baptist missionary, somewhere in South Africa, last I heard. The Penworthys were never Baptists, we have been Masons for centuries.”

  He put down his food and looked up with a surprised expression. “I’ve no idea why I’m telling you this. Perhaps just because I’ve no one else. My wife, Mrs. Penworthy, refuses to discuss the case. She wouldn’t even go to the funeral. Not that I blame her.

  “You see, Alexander was a family abomination. There was something twisted within him. He nearly caused the death of his mother in childbirth. He was twisted in the womb. Mrs. Penworthy thinks that was the start. Of course that’s superstition, I suppose.

  “At a young age I believe he began to torture his sister, though I could never catch him at it. As he got older I noticed he seemed to be spending more money than was in his allowance. Again, I never was able to find him out.

  “I made my fortune in the lumber business, Mr. Vintner. Some call me a lumber baron. Be that as it may, I never lied, cheated or stole to make money. It was hard work, honest planning, and some luck. Alexander seemed to have a talent for producing wealth from nothing, with little work. At sixteen he left school and moved away from home. For a time he resided with an older woman, a music hall dancer, but that didn’t last. I heard rumors he was making money as a gambler.

  “Even then I did not disown him. I kept hoping Alexander would mature and come to his senses. Then, about three years ago I believe he discovered opium.”

  Penworthy fell silent a moment. Absently he ate some of his sandwich. Georg tried to read his face and failed. Finally he prompted, “Opium, you say.”

  “Yes. Chinatown has opium dens. I think that’s where it started. A youthful adventure, perhaps. It was not long until he was using laudanum. I know this because one night he openly bragged about it to me. I had made the mistake of inviting him for supper. When we were alone I offered him brandy. He laughed and said he had much better.

  “I think that was when he truly began to deteriorate. For some time, I learned, he had been investing in real estate. Usually that’s an honorable business, but not as he managed it. He would offer a personal loan to buyers, who would then open a mortgage on land or property. Before they had time to repay the loan Alexander would foreclose and seize collateral. All more or less legal. But he was ruining lives.”

  He stopped speaking again, this time staring down at his empty hands. Georg had enough. He said, “Mr. Penworthy, why did you wish to speak to me today?”


  The man looked up and gave a weak smile. “I’m sorry, I’ve been talking too much, haven’t I? But that’s a good question. The fact is, I want Alexander’s killer found and brought to justice. But it’s not out of any desire for revenge. If anything, I was not surprised when I heard of the murder. No, I want justice done out of a sense of family pride and honor. If there is anything you can do to help, I will be grateful. I plan to offer a cash reward …”

  Georg waved a hand. “Never mind that, sir. I just want to be clear of this business. I want to get back to driving my streetcar. I came to see you today because I hoped you might give me a hint as to who might have wanted to kill your son. You have given me more information than I wanted.”

  Penworthy gave a quick laugh. He rose from his chair, came around the desk, and offered his hand. “Perhaps we can help each other, sir. I thank you for coming. I shall see you out.”

  “And thank you for the fine lunch, sir.”

  That was not quite the end of Georg’s visit. On their way through the front hallway a woman stepped from a side corridor. Georg guessed she was in her sixties, thin and pale, wearing a dark and somber green. Penworthy paused.

  “Ah, I didn’t know you were up yet, dear. Mr. Vintner, allow me to present my precious wife, Mrs. Harriet Penworthy. And this is Mr. Georg Vintner. We have been consulting.”

  Mrs. Penworthy looked Georg up and down. She said, “Indeed. I am happy to meet you, sir.” Then, instead of offering her hand, she took a step closer and looked him in the eyes. She said, “Are you the man who killed Alexander?”

  Georg, startled, found his voice after a moment. “No, ma’am. I did not.”

  She turned away. “Too bad. I would have offered you a medal.”

  8

  More Questions

  On Thursday he debated going to see Genevieve Sutliff again, but decided against. She might get the idea he was courting her. He wasn’t was he?

  Instead, he went to City Hall and found the Records office. A bored clerk was sorting papers into pigeonholes.

  Georg said, “I could use some help, sir.”

  The clerk turned, blinking, perhaps with a case of eyestrain. “Help with what?”

  “I am with the Committee of Public Safety.” Briefly he flashed an old badge he had found somewhere. “It’s a criminal case.”

  “So?” The clerk looked interested. “What sort of crime?”

  “Murder and mayhem. Also fraud. I will need a list of all properties in this city owned by the late Alexander Penworthy. Also any properties in recent foreclosure by him.”

  The man scratched his head. “Shouldn’t it be the Police or D.A. investigating? Anyway, those are public records. You can look them up yourself.”

  “We’re helping the Police because they’re short on staff, what with all that disturbance going on. I don’t have time to search the records myself, I’m sure you’re more familiar with them. I’m willing to pay extra.” He slipped a ten dollar gold piece onto the counter. That would be about a week’s pay.

  “Oh, well, if you put it like that …”

  Half an hour later Georg left the office with a thin sheaf of documents which he could not read. He went home and had Mrs. Costello read them. He memorized names and addresses. Georg had always had that ability. He could instantly memorize anything he wanted to remember, and recall it years later if necessary.

  By the time Mrs. Costello was finished the afternoon was growing late. There was still time to check out one address on that list. This was the address of Alexander Penworthy himself. It was located down in the Barbary Coast.

  He climbed aboard a streetcar, said hello to the driver by name, and was down at the Coast in a few minutes. The address he was looking for was on a side street. He had some trouble finding it since there were no signs. It turned out to be an unplanked alley with two and three story flats on both sides.

  One of the flats looked better kept up than the others. Below a bell pull he found a brass plate that said PENWORTHY. So this was Alexander’s home and office. He rang the bell, not sure if anyone would answer.

  After a moment he heard the thud of heavy boots, and the door opened. A portly man in a vest with no coat peered out. “Oh. I was looking for someone else. Who are you and what do you want?”

  Georg put on a smile. “Nothing to worry about. My name is Vintner. I have a few questions about Alexander.”

  “Yeah? I already answered questions down at the station. Get lost.”

  Georg didn’t lose his smile, but he pushed his way inside. “I’m not the cops. This is about money.” As expected, the man’s expression changed. “What about money?”

  “Would you be Alexander’s secretary? Do you know who’s handling the estate?”

  The man backed off. He clasped his hands over his belly. “I’m Cyrus Orley. Yeah, I was his secretary. I had him sign me as executor so I’m handling the estate. Now who the hell are you?”

  Still smiling, Georg put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “What say we sit down and talk for a few minutes?” He let Orley lead him to a small office next to the parlor. The place was cluttered with papers and ledgers and smelled of stale cigar smoke.

  He began by mentioning three or four of Alexander’s properties that were currently in foreclosure. If Orley were to get full title they would be worth a fortune. Georg spoke in a casual tone, but Orley’s expression grew more worried. Georg said, “Now, Alexander may not have filled you in on all of his transactions. There are some people in town he owed a lot of money to. You may know he liked to gamble. Or maybe you didn’t know. Anyway, these people are not to be fooled with.”

  Orley was sitting up straight. “How much money are we talking about?”

  “We’ll get to that later. Right now we just want to find out where we stand. For instance, there are other folks that still owe Alexander. Do you know of anybody that didn’t like him enough to kill him?”

  At this Orley leaned back and laughed out loud. “Yeah, everybody.” He grew serious again, leaning closer. “Including me. Look, none of this stuff is my fault. I was just his bookkeeper. Far as I know Alexander never did anything even illegal. Except for bribing cops and judges, and everybody does that. Alexander had his own racket and he was making money at it. That didn’t stop him from stiffing me on my salary. Once I settle the estate and take what’s left over, I’m going back to New York where it’s peaceful.”

  “Exactly how did this racket of his work? Fill me in.”

  Orley shrugged. “It’s not complicated. He puts an ad in the papers, Money to lend for investment, or something like that. Somebody answers the ad, usually someone who can’t get a bank loan. Alexander didn’t bother with small timers. Never loaned less than five thousand.

  “So his borrower takes the money and buys property, or starts a new business. Only there’s some fine print in the contract. Basically it says Alexander can foreclose any time he feels like it, but the borrower still owes any outstanding debts. If he used the money for down payment on a mortgage he still owes for that. Meanwhile Alexander has formal title for the property, but his client still owes on the mortgage. So Alexander owns the property for nothing. The contract is so tight even a bank can’t collect. Then Alexander sells off before your head has time to spin. A sweet racket.”

  “Didn’t anyone sue?”

  “Sure, but they never got anywhere. Alexander owned a few judges.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Orley. You have been helpful. My people will want a full accounting later. We’ll be in touch, I’m sure something can be worked out. You be careful, now.” He rose and turned to go, then paused half way out the door.

  “Oh, I just remembered. It’s nothing important, just something I was curious about. Do you happen to recall if Mr. Penworthy sent you to the Sutliff Printers to order stationery?”

  Orley also rose and hesitated a moment before answering. Georg guessed the man was wondering if this was some kind of trick question.

  “Yes sir, matter of fact h
e did. That was about three weeks ago. Why do you ask?”

  “I just wondered why he picked that company. There’s a lot of other printers around.”

  Orley shrugged. “He said they do nice work. I think he knew them from some time before. I mean before I was hired. It was nice stationery, engraved letterhead. You want to see some?”

  “No, that’s all right. How long have you worked for Penworthy, Mr. Orley?”

  “About six months, sir.”

  “Have a good evening, Mr. Orley. You don’t have to see me out.”

  9

  Inquest

  Next day was Friday. Georg Vintner was at the Courthouse early. He had debated wearing his new suit, but decided on the old church-going clothes. He didn’t want to look too prosperous. Timmons the lawyer was waiting. Georg never did learn Timmons’ first name. He looked impatient.

  “I see you made it. I was afraid you might skip town. Sit down over here.” He shuffled papers on the oak table before him. There were about a dozen people in the room. Georg sat, and then startled to see Genevieve Sutliff in another corner. She smiled, he nodded back.

  “What are the charges against me?”

  Timmons glanced at him. “Didn’t you read your summons? There aren’t any charges yet. This is an inquest. It’s up to the Coroner to decide the cause of death. If he says it’s murder, then the D.A. can bring charges if he wants to.”

  “I thought the cause of death was a dagger in the heart.”

  “Well, yes, but it’s not officially murder till the Coroner says so. I guess it could have been suicide, come to that. Now I think of it, that’s not a bad idea.” He broke off, as if thinking, then scribbled a note in pencil.

  All rise!

  The Coroner entered and took his seat, then waved a hand for everyone else to sit. Georg didn’t think he looked much like a judge. More like someone who worked in a grocery store. Or maybe a shoe salesman. Georg knew his name was Magruder.