Time of Fog and Fire: A Molly Murphy Mystery (Molly Murphy Mysteries) (11 page)

“Something like that. Actually more than that. I have important news that I have to give him so I have to find him immediately.”

“Have you asked at the hotel desk here, and at the other hotels? He’d have had to stay somewhere unless he was invited to a private home.”

“He did mention a Mrs. Rodriguez in his letter,” I said.

“Bella?” He smiled. “If he knows Bella, then you’re all set, aren’t you? She’ll know where to find him. She knows everyone in the city, does our Bella. She likes to think of herself as the city’s hostess par excellence.”

“And where can I find her?”

“She has a big house—well, mansion really—up on California Street. That’s Nob Hill, where all the swells live—you know the Crockers, Mark Hopkins’s widow, and those other railroad barons. Anybody who is anybody lives on Nob Hill. And they’re about to open another fancy hotel up there too—the Fairmont, they are calling it. If you’d come a week or so later you could have stayed there.”

“How do I find this Nob Hill from here?” I asked.

“Easy. You take the cable car from Powell Street,” he said. “Just walk along Market until you come to it.”

“Thank you,” I said. “And if I wanted to visit the San Francisco police, where is their headquarters?”

“Justice building on Portsmouth Square. To get there it’s easier to go down Market until you find Kearny Street and then follow Kearny until you come to Clay. Then you can’t miss it. Fine new building on a fine new square. The city is very proud of it.”

“Thank you,” I said.

The elevator arrived and we stepped inside. We rode down in silence. On the ground floor I was about to walk away when he called after me, “Mrs. Sullivan, be careful where you walk in a city like this. There are parts you wouldn’t want to go alone, without a man to escort you.”

“I’ve been warned about the waterfront,” I said.

“With good reason. And then there’s Chinatown. It’s only a block north of Portsmouth Square and I certainly wouldn’t advise a woman to wander through the backstreets there alone. The Chinese pretty much keep themselves to themselves, but you never know. There are rumors of white slaving…” He fished into his pocket. “Look, here’s my card. You can leave a message for me at the Examiner building just across the street if you need help.”

“You are very kind,” I said. “And if you could ask your colleagues if any of them has come across Captain Sullivan, I’d be most grateful.”

“If he says he’s with Bella, you don’t need to look any further, do you?” He looked puzzled. “She’ll have him fetched for you in a jiffy. Everyone around here dances to Bella’s tune.”

“So exactly who is this Bella Rodriguez?” I asked. “Another widow of a railroad baron?”

“Not of a railroad baron, but certainly a rich widow. What we understand is that her husband owned a big cattle ranch in New Mexico. I’m not sure where she came from originally, but her husband must have been Spanish with a name like Rodriguez. Of course that whole part of the United States originally belonged to Mexico, didn’t it? Anyway from what we heard he died and she sold up and came here. Must have been worth a fortune. She set herself up with a fine mansion and quickly became one of the city’s leading lights. She’s certainly generous and knows how to throw a good party. Your husband will be enjoying a fine lifestyle if he’s staying with her.”

“He didn’t say he was staying with her, just that he’d met her,” I said cautiously. “But you’re right. She would be the person to call upon.”

Mr. Hicks tipped his hat to me and went off. I was about to follow when it occurred to me to ask at the reception desk first. If Daniel had been seen in the bar, it was possible he had stayed here when he first arrived. I saw a distinguished-looking man in a frock coat standing at one of the mahogany desks and went up to him.

“May I be of assistance, ma’am?” he asked.

“You may. I wanted to know whether my husband might have stayed at this hotel a couple of weeks ago.”

His expression changed. “I’m sorry, but we cannot divulge the names of our guests,” he said. “It goes against our policy of discretion and privacy.”

“But this is my husband I’m inquiring about,” I snapped.

“All the more reason, ma’am.” He gave me an annoying smirk. “You have to understand that there are occasionally husbands who would not like their wives to know that they have stayed here.”

“Really,” I said, my annoyance now boiling over. “My husband summoned me to join him in San Francisco and you can’t tell me whether he was a guest at your hotel?”

“If you are about to join him, then I suggest he tell you himself,” the man said. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but it’s hotel policy. We have some very important guests staying here. Guests who would not want their presence to be generally known.”

“This is most frustrating,” I said. “Very well. I don’t suppose it’s important. I’m sure Mrs. Rodriguez will know where he is. He may even be staying with her.”

“Then I wish you luck,” he said. I was being dismissed.

I was just about to cross the foyer to the glass doors when I heard a loud laugh coming from my right. It was almost as if that moving picture I had seen in New York was being played over again. The same shot of the foyer and then the camera sweeping across to the bar where I had glimpsed my husband. I spun around, a hopeful smile on my face. But my husband was not among the smartly dressed men who stood there, with whiskey glasses in their hands. Complete strangers. I was tempted to go and ask them if they remembered sharing a drink with Daniel but it seemed too improbable. In a hotel like this people came and went and, as the porter had said, half the world was in town for Mr. Caruso. Also, as I’d just learned from the desk clerk, men stick together on such occasions and would not confide to me if they had met Daniel. I gave the bar one last glance and realized that I did recognize someone after all. Surely that was Mr. Endicott, standing at the far end?

I hesitated, not sure whether I should seize this chance and go up to introduce myself to him. But I had more pressing things on my mind at this moment. I had to find Daniel. Mr. Endicott could wait. At least I knew where I might find him, when things were not so chaotic and when I had located my husband. I gave a satisfied nod as I passed through the glass doors. I came out onto the street and stopped in amazement. We had arrived to bright sunshine at midday. Now a dank fog hung over the street, turning the tower of the ferry building and the tall skyscrapers along Market Street into indistinct shapes. It had become colder and I wished I had brought my shawl with me. But I wasn’t going to risk going back and having Liam wake up. Besides, I couldn’t expect Mr. Paxton to watch him for too long.

As I crossed Market Street, dodging out of the way of a trolley car, I was still in a state of indecision about what to do next. Logic told me there was no reason not to go straight to Bella Rodriguez. Mr. Hicks, who as a reporter should know all about his city, had spoken of her as a respected citizen. He had warned me about other matters. Would he not have warned me if there had been anything suspect about Bella Rodriguez? And Daniel had mentioned how well she was looking after him. Was I being too suspicious not to take that statement at face value? I could go to the bottom of Powell Street, a hop, skip, and jump away from where I was standing, and take a cable car to her residence and might find myself reunited with my husband immediately.

On the other hand there was still that nagging doubt that I might be walking into a trap. I tried to think what Daniel would have done when he arrived in the city. He was the sort of man who did everything by the book. That would mean he’d introduce himself to the local chief of police. There could be no harm in my going to Portsmouth Square and seeing what they knew about Daniel and where he was staying. So I walked along Market Street, noticing the smartly dressed women and handsome, rakish men. Trolley cars clanged as they ran along Market Street, but there was also a procession of fine carriages and even automobiles. This was clearly a city of money and progress. The shops I passed were full of exotic merchandise—silks imported from the Orient, champagnes from France. And there were also many bars, oyster houses, and even French restaurants. Lots of money and plenty of ways to spend it, I thought.

To begin with, Kearny Street also had an elegant feel to it. A large jewelry store. A department store similar to the ones we’d find in New York. But as the road climbed gently uphill the atmosphere of the street changed and I realized I was on the fringes of Chinatown. Smells wafted toward me, smells that I recognized from my own adventure in New York’s Chinatown. But that was just a tiny area, comprised of three city streets. And in New York, Chinatown had a distinct absence of women. When I looked up the side streets I passed on my left I saw a true Chinese community: newspaper vendors on the street, hawking Chinese newspapers; women with baskets over their arms haggling at a vegetable stall; and above all children—little girls with long black pigtails, wearing baggy, colorful trousers and little boys with strangely shaved heads. It looked like a place that was full of life, not danger. I would have liked to explore but I had more pressing things on my mind.

Portsmouth Square was a wide expanse, newly laid out with gardens and young trees. Spring bulbs were blooming in the flower beds and children were playing, just like they did in New York. Only some of these children were Chinese, being kept by a watchful mother or nursemaid well apart from their European counterparts. The Hall of Justice was an impressive brick building on the far side of the square. I went up marble steps and into a central foyer.

“I’m afraid the chief is in a meeting at this moment, ma’am,” the constable at the reception desk said. “Might one of our lieutenants be able to assist you?”

“When might your chief be available?” I asked

He shook his head. “He’s in with Mayor Schmitz and Abe Ruef, the city attorney. When those three get their heads together it would be more than my job’s worth to interrupt them. What might this be about? Are you reporting a crime?”

“Nothing like that,” I said. “My husband is a captain with the New York police and he was sent out here. So I assumed he would have paid a courtesy call on your chief when he first arrived. And I thought that someone here might know where he was staying.”

“What was your husband’s name, ma’am?”

“Sullivan. Daniel Sullivan.”

“Oh, here comes Lieutenant Addison,” the desk clerk said at the sound of footsteps coming down tiled stairs. “This lady was inquiring after a Captain Sullivan, sir. Do we have any knowledge of someone by that name? Daniel Sullivan?”

The older man paused and gave me the strangest look that I couldn’t interpret. “You’re too late, I’m afraid,” he said. “The funeral was two days ago.”

Twelve

The world stood still. There was no sound. Nothing moved. I wasn’t even breathing anymore.

Then I blurted out, “There must be some mistake. I’m talking about a Daniel Sullivan recently arrived from New York.”

“That’s the one,” the man replied. “He was from New York. They found something in his wallet indicating that he came from New York.” I must have swayed because he put out a hand to steady me. “Are you all right, ma’am? Here. Sit down. Get her some water, Hanson.”

I wasn’t conscious of sitting or even of taking the water glass from the constable. “You’ve had a shock, ma’am,” the officer said. “Was the gentleman related to you?”

“My husband.” The words came out as a whisper.

“I’m truly sorry to be the bearer of such bad news, Mrs. Sullivan,” he said.

“When did he die?” I asked.

“It would have been five days ago now, on the eleventh.”

“Why wasn’t I notified?” I demanded, realizing as I said it that any message would probably have arrived after I left New York. All those days sitting in a train, looking forward to seeing Daniel when all the time he was already dead. I pressed my lips together. I was not going to cry.

“I don’t believe a home address was among his possessions,” the man said. “He had some form of identification linking him to the New York police and I think a telegram was sent to them.”

I sat there, staring down at a tiled floor, not knowing what to say next. Then I forced myself to ask, “How did he die? Was he murdered?”

“Oh, no, ma’am. A tragic accident. He was standing at the edge of a cliff, out at Lands End, when the ground crumbled and he fell with it down to the rocks below. Clearly he didn’t appreciate the fragile nature of our local sandstone. It simply isn’t stable, especially after the rains we’ve had recently.”

“An accident,” I repeated. “You’re sure of that?”

“No, we can’t be sure. It was late at night and nobody actually saw the fall. But someone was close enough to have heard a cry and called a constable to investigate. They saw where the land had given way and when a flashlight was shone down, they could make out the shape of a body on the rocks below. Of course there was no way of reaching him in the darkness but next morning a boat was launched to retrieve the body.”

I sat like a statue. “And he was definitely alone? There was no possibility that he was pushed over the edge?”

I looked up to see his expression waver. “As a matter of fact a witness did come forward to say that he saw two guys together near the edge of the cliff around that time. But he didn’t witness your husband falling. So whether there was someone with him, whether the other man was responsible for his demise, I couldn’t say. As you probably know your husband was a guest of Mrs. Rodriguez and naturally we interviewed her afterward. Most cut up about it, she was, and couldn’t think of anyone in the city who’d want to harm Mr. Sullivan.”

“It was Captain Sullivan,” I said proudly. “He was the youngest captain in the New York police.”

“A tragic loss,” he said. “But you’d probably know more than we do. What brought him across the country to our city? Was he on the trail of a dangerous criminal? Can you think of why he’d go to a remote cliff top site at night?”

“I wish I could tell you,” I said, “but in truth he told me nothing. He only sent me a cryptic letter, indicating that he might be in danger and that I should come out to join him.”