The Wicked Affair of the Golden Emperor

A Charles Goodfoote Mystery in Old San Francisco

Chapter 31

A return to the scene of the first murder reveals more evidence

“Dillman had been collecting evidence of gold smuggling,” Jubal said after he had returned from Sacramento and plopped down in the visitor’s chair in my office. Henry, always at the ready, handed him a cup of coffee, then disappeared into his cubby.

“It may be what got him killed,” he continued. “It’s a better motive than some political shenanigans.”

An hour later, I had filled Jubal in on my conversations with Lo Ping, John Fong, and Doc Thorpe. Then, I stood and began to pace, my mind mulling over his new information. “From the beginning of this case,” I said, “ we’ve been following several faint trails pointing to the Chinese. The poster in Chinatown threatening Sam Clemens. The murder of Administrator Dillman which has all the markings of a triad killing. Lo Ping popping up offering me a bribe. The veiled threat against Miss O’Rourke in that Chinese poem.”

Jubal swirled the coffee in his cup. “Even Henry’s warnings point to them,” he agreed, and took another sip.

“And,” I continued, “I have this wagonload of rumors and innuendoes from Doc Thorp about their mysterious ways. So, Jubal T., does gold smuggling fit in their web?”

“Well, “ Jubal said. “We now have a solid reason for the murder of the Administrator. Greed and thievery are understandable motives.”

“Yes, but, as we know, like all information in investigations, this knowledge leads us in more than one direction. Let’s say the Chinese are smuggling gold out of California. Then who’s supplying them with it? If it’s an operation big enough to murder a public official over, it must be huge. It must involve Whitemen. Powerful Whitemen.“

I stopped pacing and faced JT. “Did you get any idea how the gold was being stolen?”

Jubal shook his head. “I spoke to a member of his staff who said Dillman was waiting for the go-ahead from the Treasury Department before he launched an official investigation.”

“Then he must have left a report or notes. Did the staff give you any?”

“No. Almost all his paperwork is gone. I tore apart his office and his home with the help of a US Marshal but found nothing significant. It was apparent someone had beat us to it. Only his original request for aid that he had sent to Washington remains, and I brought a copy of it for you.” He handed me a folder.

I perused the scant report. “It tells us he had evidence of gold smuggling, but that’s about it. Nothing more here.”

“Like I said before,” Jubal answered, as he continued to sip his coffee, “this gang moves fast and dirty. They must have gotten wind of what Dillman was up to, stole his files, and murdered him before he could get his horse under him.”

Jubal and I sat in silence.

Finally, I shook my head. “Going back to the start, we have three dead men. Hoople, Skaggs, and Dillman. Toss in a poster threatening a reporter, and a near-miss on a church lady. Stir with a joss stick and add a pinch of bribery. Now gold smuggling?” Again, I shook my head. “We need to start over, my friend. Right from the beginning.”

“That would be Skaggs,” Bedford said.

I grabbed my Stetson.

“No, not Skaggs. I need to go back to the docks where Hoople’s body was pulled from the water. I need to smell the ocean, listen to the waves, taste the damn air. This case has layers I’m not feeling, and going back is my only way of going forward.”

Jubal rose. “You’re a spirited man, Charles Goodfoote. But I don’t get what you hope to learn.”

“I’m not sure myself, JT. But it’s like when I was just a cub and old Keeps-the-Lodge was teaching me tracking. He would find a track of some critter and have me sit down next to it. I had to listen to the birds, feel the sun on my cheek, the breeze in my hair. What did I smell? he would ask. What did I hear? Then he had me push my thumb in the soil next to the track to see how it felt. How dry was it? All that put me into the track, and into the mind of the animal we were tracking. Just looking at a track didn’t do it.”

“I’ll go with you, Boss. To me the docks just smell like dead fish, but I’ll enjoy watching you taste the air.”

“Maybe we’ll notice what’s been missing,” I said, as we went down the stair. After we whistled up a cab and climbed aboard, I explained, “When we first were there, we were looking only at one murder. Now we have a whole lot more to think about. The docks may look different, and by looking different, may be able to tell us more.”

Many of the docks were in full use when we got to the waterfront. Goods from around the world were being hauled from sailing vessels and steamers by bulky longshoremen of all races who were bent over from their heavy baskets and trunks. Cargo nets swung from tall cranes, and the creaks from the wooden ships, calls of workmen, and the whirr of lines running through pulleys composed a type of working symphony. Overhead, gulls called, then dropped from the sky, splashing after morsels of food swept from the decks of the freighters. Another fifteen ships floated on the outer bay waiting to unload, while still others were being pulled into line by small boats oared by husky lascars. The wharf, alive with activity, gave off odors of exotic spices, fresh pine tar, and, as Jubal had noted, dead fish.

Jubal and I walked along the dock toward a jetty covered by a long tent. “If memory serves,” he said, “Hoople was found just off shore, right between where those two ships are berthed. But there weren’t any docked here at the time. Thorp said he hadn’t been in the water long, maybe a day.”

“Why is that jetty covered?” I asked.

“That’s for one of Lo Ping’s ships, the Ning Shu,” Jubal said. “The rice has to be kept bone dry or it swells up. The sacks are under cover until they’re stacked in his warehouse.”

“That tent makes it impossible to see what’s being unloaded. He could be bringing in a load of cannon for all we know.”

“That’s why it’s inspected by the Custom Authorities. They have a man who’s supposed to see that nothing comes ashore that isn’t rice. He’s there until the ship is completely unloaded, then he inspects it to make sure its holds are clear.”

I pulled out my notebook and took out the piece of foolscap on which Henry had copied the names of the twenty ships Hoople had recorded, along with the numbers he had written next to them. The Glenda Stein and the Ning Shu were berthed here two years ago, but the rest of the ships on the list were abroad. I studied the names and numbers for some time.

Finally, I gave up on trying to make sense of Hoople’s numerology, and we turned to walk back. “Does anyone, I wonder, watch to see what’s put aboard before the ship leaves port? Lo Ping wouldn’t let his ships go back empty, I’ll wager.”

Jubal looked at me. “You figure he exports something interesting?”

“I wonder,” I said. “And I wonder if Hoople wondered.”

Jubal and I caught a cab and within minutes it was clopping along behind the buildings that made up the commerce center of San Francisco’s import/export trade. The street was crowded with loaded carts and wagons pulled by large dray horses. Then, without warning, a heavy beer wagon, pulled by a team of runaway wall-eyed blue roans thundered past, the teamster standing on his brake, and pulling on his leads for all he was worth. Though he missed us by several feet, it sent a panic among the horses up and down the roadway.

As we resumed a normal pace, my mind went back to my promise to John Fong to keep Miss O’Rourke safe. “About that attack on Emily O’Rourke,” I said as we rode along. “It wasn’t an accident, not a runaway team like we just saw. If they came after her once, whoever is behind Dillman’s murder may take another try at her, and the other church ladies as well. I’m sure Miss O’Rourke and her sisters are taking precautions, but we have a killer who is a master at brutal murder, and women who take too many chances.”

“Which shift you want me to take?” Jubal asked before I had a chance to suggest a watch on the Mission House. “I’ll keep an eye on the place from an alley across from it.”

“Be there at nightfall, and I’ll spell you at midnight.” If Jubal had been less experienced I would have reminded him to keep an eye on the shadows, and his back to the wall.

The Wicked Affair of the Golden Emperor

A Charles Goodfoote Mystery in Old San Francisco

Chapter 32

A young woman is attacked in Chinatown

As Saint Mathews church was tolling midnight, I met up with Jubal in the dark alley across the street from the Mission House. A wispy fog had gathered along the curbs and lampposts. As the occasional Hansom cab or carriage went past, the clopping of horses’ hooves rang loudly on the cobblestones. I heard a faint jingle of harness in the depths of the alley and realized Bedford had brought Triumph along for company.

“Any movement?” I asked.

“Lights out an hour past. No one in or out,” Jubal responded. He was deep in the shadows, leaning against a stone wall.

“You’re probably ready for some shuteye, JT. I’ll stand guard ’til sunup. They should be safe during daylight hours. We don’t have the manpower to watch them day and night.”

The sound of a carriage and two coming down Sacramento Street caught our attention. As it slowed and drew to a stop, the heavy wooden door of the Mission quickly opened and closed. We watched as the shadowy figure of a woman hurried to the coach and climbed in.

“Damn!” I said. “I was expecting someone to try to get into the place, not come out of it. I told those women to stay put at night.” Within a moment, the coach was clambering away. “Does that nag of yours carry double, JT?”

We followed the lady’s carriage at a brisk pace, and it was near a quarter hour later that we crossed Jackson Street and swung into Sullivan’s Alley in the heart of Chinatown. The carriage stopped beneath a flickering streetlamp and out stepped Miss Meghan O’Shannahan who, we now saw, was carrying a closed umbrella. She pulled open the door of a dimly lit, squat building that had Chinese characters scrawled above the door and the name “Fay Chin” in English. As the carriage rattled away, Jubal backed Triumph out of sight into a narrow alleyway across from the doorway. I slid off and peeped around the corner as Jubal dismounted.

Within two minutes, a second carriage came from Jackson Street, went past the doorway, and stopped a short distance from it. Four men dressed in the long meen aps and caps of Chinese workers climbed out and disappeared between buildings. I checked the loads in my revolver.

“Not a pretty place for a Mission House lady,” Bedford said as he stroked Triumph’s neck.

I looked across at the dark alleys, deserted narrow street, and dilapidated buildings. Gathering grey fog flowed like smoke along the sidewalk. “What is she doing here?” I asked in a quiet voice. “These buildings are mostly whorehouses that cater to the Chinese. Fay Chin’s trade indulges men who like their pleasures young. We can speculate that Meghan O’Shannahan is on Mission House business, but at this time of night, in this area, alone? She is one brave, foolhardy woman.”

Within a quarter hour, the young lady emerged and looked up and down the street. The four men who had arrived after Miss O’Shannahan had not reappeared. Jubal and I drew back into the shadows. Apparently satisfied she was alone, Miss O’Shannahan started up the street, her skirts causing the fog to part.

As she passed the mouth of a dark alley known as Church Close, two of the men we had seen earlier grabbed her and began dragging her into its darkness. Running toward them, Jubal and I heard an anguished scream, followed by a purple curse. Inside the alley, Meghan was using her umbrella like a saber, and one attacker was huddled on the ground holding his eye. A second was swinging a hatchet, and had backed Miss O’Shannahan against a wall. Before we could act, the lady flipped her umbrella, caught his axe in its curved handle, gave a hearty tug, and disarmed him. Without pause she slammed her elbow into the villain’s face, knocking him back. Cursing, the man spit out a tooth and pulled a long knife from under his meen aps jacket. Jubal fired and her attacker went down with a shattered shoulder.

Then began a clamor behind us. We turned to see four men, all dressed in Chinese jackets and dark hats, fighting each other. While Bedford ran to Miss O’Shannahan’s side, I watched the men battle. A series of kicks and punches finally dropped two of them who then rebounded and ran toward the street. The victors, both Chinese, in pursuit. The man with the gunshot wound got to his feet and stumbled after the others, but the attacker holding his eye simply sat on the ground and moaned. I walked over to him and gave him a nudge with my boot.

“Unless you want to lose your other eye,” I said in a low voice. “you’re going to tell me who sent you to attack this helpless woman.”

“Helpless? She damn near poked my eye out.” Although dressed in Chinese garb, the man was obviously a thug from the Barbary Coast.

“And she’ll be over to poke out the other one unless you tell me who sent you and why.”

“My eye is killin’ me,” he moaned. I gave him another kick. “Okay, okay. We each got a hun’erd dollars to dress up like Chinks and get after the first woman what come out of the Mission.”

The grin on my face would have given The Duke of Darkness himself the chilblains. “Now the next question is simple. Who gave you the money?”

He hesitated until Miss O’Shannahan took a step in our direction. One look at her with her bumbershoot, and the rogue cringed. “It were Turkey there,” he said. “The one you shot. Him that run off.” He watched Meghan with his good eye, his hand still over his other one. “We weren’t out to kill her, just sport with her and cut her some. Not kill her.”

When I moved to talk to Meghan and Jubal, the hoodlum scrambled to his feet and ran out of the alley. Jubal, Colt drawn, was about to follow, but I held him back.

“He told us all he could,” I said. “Those men are Sydney Ducks, thugs from the Bull Run. They were sitting at a table jawing with Big Willie last night when I made my rounds of the Barbary Coast. Time for another talk with Willie.”

Miss O’Shannahan beamed at us. “Mr. Goodfoote. How nice to see you again. And you, Mr. Bedford. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to thank you for your support at poor Administrator Dillman’s funeral. It was so welcome.”

This remarkable woman could have been standing on a busy street corner at high noon discussing the latest dress fashion for all the distress she showed. “We heard a scream, Miss O’Shannahan,” I said. “Are you hurt?”

“No, of course not. The scream came from that poor man who felt the point of my umbrella. I do hope he’s not blinded, but fear he certainly may be. I always carry my umbrella when out at night. It comes in handy, particularly when it rains.”

My collar was beginning to tighten. I had told these women to remain indoors at night precisely to avoid the possibility of this kind of attack. “What in the name of all that’s holy were you doing here, in this district, in the middle of the night? Couldn’t your business have held off until a more suitable hour? Perhaps after daybreak?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Goodfoote. Fay Chin is never available when the sun is shining, and it was he I needed to confront. One of our young girls has disappeared and Fay Chin has been of use in the past. But I seem to have lost my carriage. Pity, since I paid the man an extra dollar to wait for me.”

With a sweeping bow that would have made his Southern mother proud, Jubal T. removed his hat and said, “We’ll see you safely home, Miss O’Shannahan.”

Of course we would see her safely home. But while I began sputtering this was no damned cotillion, the lady, for her part, returned the gentleman’s gesture with a pretty blush and graceful curtsey. “Charmed, Mr. Bedford. If you are willing, we could walk the few blocks to Pacific Street where I’m sure we’ll be able to find suitable transportation. My, you are fast with that Colt.”

And charmed she was, for she took Jubal’s proffered arm and started down the alley, leaving me trailing behind, still steaming, with Jubal’s horse. When we reached the street, we walked next to each other and stayed in the middle of the roadway.

I found it interesting to note the young lady, completely nonplussed by her experience and my obvious displeasure, had recognized the brand of Jubal’s revolver at a glance. Again, I ruminated, this woman would bear watching.

“This missing girl,” I inquired, returning to equanimity, “Was Fay Chin able to help?”

“I’m afraid not,” Meghan said. “Sometimes these girls do leave us, but Hing Fa was simply out on an errand and never returned. She gave no sign she was dissatisfied with us.”

The first conveyance that came along on Pacific Street was a surrey with two front seats and two back. The teamster was apparently on his way home after a long and arduous day, for his whole face and body drooped as much as his mustache. When I told him our destination, he gave a sigh that would have made a poet proud. Bedford tied Triumph’s lead to the rear of the rig and joined Miss O’Shannahan in the back. I shared the front seat with the driver and overheard their conversation. It began with Miss O’Shannahan politely asking Bedford questions about his service in the Confederate Cavalry, which battles he had fought in, and where he had lived when the war started. Jubal was more talkative than I had seen him in a long time, as he recounted his adventures at Shiloh and Gettysburg with the 15th Alabama. He seemed to enjoy being the center of this attractive woman’s attention. For my part, I kept the driver awake each time he slumped against me, his corncob pipe threatening to drop from his lips at any moment.

At a break in the conversation, I turned and asked, “Who were the Chinese men who fought your attackers, Miss O’Shannahan? Did you know them?”

“Why, no, Mr. Goodfoote. I thought they were with you.” She took her eyes from me and looked at Bedford from under her lashes. “If you hadn’t come along, Mr. Bedford, those hooligans would have had the better of me. I’m ever so grateful.”

“Please call me Jubal T, Miss O’Shannahan. ‘Mr. Bedford’ sounds like I’m a lawyer.”

“And, if I’m not being too forward, my Christian name is Meghan.”

Fortunately, we pulled in front of the Mission House before the driver started snoring and the couple in the back started singing music hall ballads. I was first out of the surrey and stood sentry duty while Jubal walked Miss O’Shannahan to her door.

Jubal T. had a spring in his step when he returned, and, by God, if he didn’t start humming as he climbed aboard Triumph and jingled his way toward home. My weary teamster and his equally weary nag carried me back to my hotel just as false dawn began to lighten the sky.

The Wicked Affair of the Golden Emperor

A Charles Goodfoote Mystery in Old San Francisco

Chapter 33

Kaya waits.

To the people of the desert, dawn arrives in three phases. First comes Hayuaka-aii, the purplish dusky color, when the shape of a man is outlined. Next, Hayuaka-gu, the yellow light which reveals a man’s breath, and finally, Hayuuka, the red sunrise glow in which a person is revealed in the fullness of their Creation. Since the first Creation of Man, each day’s dawn and the dawn of each season is endlessly repeated in these phases. And will continue long after Man has left this world. All this, the Warrior-Woman knew.

Kaya watched the three phases, moving her lips in a silent prayer to Usen, Giver of Life, and to her power, Bringer of Truth. She pulled her Mexican poncho closer around her. The morning breeze whispered amongst the golden flowers on the slope near the road leading to the rock gateway. As she finished her prayers, a Sun Hawk screeched its hunting call, and Kaya heard the snap of her deadfall trap.

Moving quickly to the fallen log, she found her prey. An unwary woodrat had been killed. Her supply of pemmican was running low, so hunting small animals was necessary.

Knowing a fire would give away her presence, she cleaned the animal and ate it raw, something she had done many times before on a war trail. Reading the landscape, the woman warrior located a small seep of fresh water, soaked her shirt tails, and sucked the water from the cloth.

Kaya moved to her spot where she could watch the road.

And there, the Apache woman waited.