The Wicked Affair of the Golden Emperor

A Charles Goodfoote Mystery in Old San Francisco

Chapter 38

John Fong and Charles exchange intelligence

It was afternoon when I stepped from my cab on Dupont Street in Chinatown. The street teemed with people, mostly men, going about their business.

I had decided to let John Fong find me, kind of like the mountain going to a Mohammad- on-the-move. Even though familiar with John’s vast clandestine system of agents, I was surprised when I heard my name after walking only a few feet. Wang the Soothsayer was sitting at a table in front of a teashop and, as I passed, I heard a quiet “Charles”. I stopped and looked around, but could see no one I recognized. The narrow alley next to the teashop was empty, and I was about to resume my stroll when the voice again said, “Charles.” I approached Wang who seemed completely absorbed with his yarrow sticks. Then he looked up at me and I smiled. It was John Fong.

“Please sit,” Wang/Fong said. I pulled up the stool for customers use. “If you put a coin on the table, it will appear I’m telling your fortune.”

I did as requested and John began to divide his bundle of sticks into two piles. “You have many questions, Charles.” A large book bound in red leather with Chinese writing in gold on its cover took up much of the table top. I recognized it as the Book of Changes Doc Thorp had pointed out.

I watched as he placed the pile of sticks from his right hand onto the table. The second pile he kept in his left hand.

“I have a barge-full of questions, and you are a hard man to run down.”

“My sincerest apologies for my absence. There were issues that required my presence elsewhere. Please be assured I was informed of your every move.”

“I don’t doubt that. John, we need to start trusting each other. I have the nagging notion you haven’t been forthcoming with all of your information.”

“And you perhaps have things to tell me.”

Familiar as I was with horse trading, I hesitated only a moment before I showed him the note from Madam Gina Vitti. “This note was given to a friend of mine by a Celestial. It was intended for Captain Bullump of the China Squad.”

“Ah yes,” John said as he read it. “‘The Golden Emperor rides the Jade Dragon through the moonless sky’. It is a central theme, is it not?”

I ignored his question. “Now your turn. Is Lo Ping General Yee?”

“Yes, Charles, General Yee and Lo Ping are the same person. How is this information important to you?”

“I sat down with a man I thought was merely a wealthy rice merchant. You now confirm he is both dangerous and brilliant. I would have liked to have known that. If what I hear of him is accurate, he could have been involved in the murder of Administrator Michael Dillman.” I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “Many of the clues to the politician’s murder point to Chinatown. Administrator Dillman was killed with a Dao, in a manner that suggests a Chinese assassin. It appears one of the Yi Hu Hui killed Administrator Dillman, possibly on the order of Lo Ping”

John began counting his sticks, four at a time.

“While you spoke with the man you call Lo Ping, agents of the Six Companies were keeping watch. They reported you had your own man on the wall of the compound. I did not leave you to face the Triads alone, my friend.”

“I still would have liked to have known more about a man who may have been involved with murder.”

“The Righteous Tigers are controlled by Lo Ping, that is true. But he would not authorize such a murder. It would bring unwanted attention to Chinatown. You will need to look elsewhere for the assassin of Administrator Dillman.”

Fong’s reasoning was not to be ignored, and it was in line with my own inclination. I don’t like clues that are too many and too plain. The clear path to the Chinese smelled like an ambush. And I have a vehement dislike to being set-up.

“The poster you brought me,” John said, “was a warning to the reporter. An agent of Lo Ping was seen putting it up moments before your client saw it.”

I had nearly forgotten about Sam Clemens’ poster. “What could Clemens possibly be involved in that would warrant a threat from Lo Ping?”

“Perhaps you can answer that. Newspaper reporting is Mr. Clemens’ business. Did he write something offensive to Lo Ping?”

“No,” I replied. “His articles are friendly toward the Chinese.”

“Has he been reporting on matters that are close to Lo Ping’s interests?”

As I sat back on my stool, my mind turned to a detailed perusal of Sam’s articles in the Morning Observer.

“Clemens did write about gold being stolen from either the mines or the trains. He seemed to suspect one of the railroad owners.”

John bowed his head over his yarrow sticks. “Lo Ping has been buying gold and smuggling it to the rebels in China,” he said softly. Again, he was confirming part of what I already knew.

John’s eyes shifted to two men idling in front of a building across the street, smoking cigarettes and watching the crowds pass. “Bu hao dui,” he warned. He continued to count out his sticks, again four at a time.

I glanced at the two men who seemed in earnest discussion, their heads close together. Then they started up the street away from us.

“They will report your presence to Lo Ping,” he warned.

I tried to keep the hatchetmen in sight as they sauntered up the street. My presence in Chinatown was no secret. But I worried I may have compromised John’s Wang disguise.

“Who’s supplying him with gold?” I asked. This was the sticking point. Knowing who was involved with the theft and smuggling would go a long way in solving the murders. I knew Lo Ping was shipping bamboo rods filled with gold aboard his junks, but where that gold came from was the critical information I needed.

John picked up his writing brush and inspected the tip. “There exist only a few men who could steal enough gold to sell to Lo Ping,” he said.

I nodded. “Two names keep coming up. William Darrigan and Stanley Walker.”

“Yes,” he said. “Those names are also known to me.”

Lo Ping, Darrigan, Walker. Did these three prominent men figure in the death of Dillman? Was Big Willy their hired thug? Bullump a puppet? My list of players was growing, and I needed more hard evidence to sort them out.

John used his ink brush to make a note on a piece of paper laying on the table. It was simply a horizontal line, broken in the middle. I waited quietly as he went back to counting out his sticks.

“Next question, I said, “ you warned me Miss O’Rourke was in danger. Then the Mission House was bombed.”

“It was the poem. It contained a warning from someone who knew of Miss O’Rourke peril. That is why I asked you again to watch over her.”

“So, the poem must have been written by his servant. It was he who warned us?”

John glanced at me. “Yes. The servant’s name is Ming, and I am very interested in what transpired at your meeting with Lo Ping. I’m going to ask you some questions now that may seem of no value. Please answer as best you can, Charles. Did you enjoy the tea with Lo Ping?”

“Yes, I did. The same servant, Ming, served it.”

“Picture in your mind the tea table. What did the teapot look like?” He again divided his sticks into two piles and repeated his counting as before.

“Green floral pattern.”

Fong placed several coins on the table. “Now, the best you can, use these coins to show me how the pot and cups were arranged on the tea table.”

I paused before picking up the first coin. “This is where the tea pot stood. The cups were arranged like this,” I said, as I moved the other coins into place.

Again, John smiled. He had made several more marks on his paper, lines, some whole, some broken, all in a column.

“The green floral pattern is one used by the old League of Righteous Tigers.”

“Then Lo Ping must have specifically used it to see if I would react to it. He was taken aback when I commented on it.”

“You distressed him momentarily, I’m sure. He then had to find out how much you knew of the Triad.”

“And the arrangement of cups and such on the tea table are another way Triad members recognize each other?”

“Yes, Charles. He thought you may have knowledge of the League, and he wanted to know how deeply your knowledge ran. Did you comment also on the cups?”

“No, the arrangement meant nothing to me. Lo Ping ended the conversation abruptly after I asked him what he exports, rather than what he imports.”

“ He must have decided you had little knowledge of the Triad. When you left the table, you entered a room in a second courtyard.”

“Yes. We went to his writing studio and he gave me the poem for Emily. Is writing a poem for a young lady a normal act for a Chinese merchant?”

Fong sat for a long moment. “ Yes, as a poet, he was honoring Miss O’Rourke. I find Ming’s switching of the poems under the very nose of Lo Ping of great interest.”

“If Ming switched the poems, why would he be warning us of the danger to Emily?” I shifted on my stool. “Who is this nearly invisible man who stands behind Lo Ping? How did he know the Mission House was to be bombed, if that, was, in fact, what the warning in the poem meant? Could he know only as much as his master, or does he have sources of information beyond Lo Ping and his web?”

“There is much I must learn before I can fully answer your questions. All I can say at this time is that Ming is extremely clever and daring.”

I wondered if Ming was one of John Fong’s agents. Fong had indicated he was aware of Ming’s identity, but if Ming was an agent, Fong wouldn’t tell that to me, a non-Chinese.

“One other point regarding the poster of Mr. Clemens,” he said, while he fiddled with his yarrow sticks. “It was difficult to read, for the script is old. But it is nearly a true copy of a page from The Golden Emperor’s Canon of Medicine. Most of the poster was written in the calligraphy of Lo Ping whose brush stokes I have long studied. And it appears the reporter’s name is in the same hand.”

“How does knowing Lo Ping wrote the poster help solve any of these conundrums I’m finding at every turn?”

“As I’ve said, it’s a nearly true copy, Charles. There is one line inserted in modern Chinese in a different hand. The line reads, ‘The Golden Emperor rides the jade dragon through the moonless sky.’” Fong counted out more sticks, and re-examined the lines he had drawn on the paper.

This jingle was showing up in the damnest places, and although my upbringing as a Blackfoot has taught me to keep my face immobile, John Fong picked up on my surprise.

He put his sticks aside. “That line is in an entirely different brushstroke than Lo Ping’s. It is in the same hand of the man who wrote the poem that warned us of Miss O’Rourke’s danger. Ming.”

“That riddle has been written in Chinese and English” I said. “So it occurs to me someone wants you to have it.”

“And the poem you gave me as a warning for Miss O’Rourke was also in Chinese.”

I shook my head, “This case is an enigma wrapped in a mystery. Samuel Clemens received the first message on a poster written in Chinese. The second to Gina written in English. And Emily the third, again in Chinese.”

“Yes, and now all three messages are in my possession. What other interesting gifts do you have for me, Charles?” Fong opened his book, and began to page through it as if reading.

“Lo Ping offered me a small fortune to recover a book. It was an obvious bribe. Why resort to a bribe since murder seems to be the order of business with this gang? Why make me an exception?”

John said, “The murder of the Pinkerton agent two years ago released a flood of detectives from your agency. Even your President sent men to overturn every leaf in an effort to find the killers. For many weeks, Lo Ping’s work was interrupted. This time, he brought out the rice bowl, rather than the dagger.”

I nodded. “Then the dagger is next. Mark Twain was offered a job writing about paradise, all expenses paid. That was the carrot. Then he was shown the stick, the poster on Murderer’s Wall with his name on it.”

“It is a dark dichotomy,” John said, “Do you suspect Administrator Dillman of receiving a bribe?”

“Yes, I do. We’ve been looking into his financial dealings and have found he was getting a lot of money from some outside source.”

“Then his death,” Fong said, “was also a warning to others in this deadly web. The bribe was the Yin. The sword the Yang.”

“A grave warning to Willy Roylott and his thugs to do as they were told,” I agreed. “I reckon Dillman’s head was taken in order to be delivered to Willie. But since the place was crawling with police, the assassin tossed the head down the chimney to distract them.”

“And now you have received a bribe from Lo Ping. From now on, Charles, you will be riding the dragon. You must hang on tightly or the dragon will devour you.”

I smiled thinking of me astride a fire-breathing monster. “The bribe was subtle. The book he wanted me to recover may not even be in this city.”

“Or Lo Ping may already possess it. I believe he had the book next to him when he wrote the poster. It was written in the old bird-track language, and I believe he copied each character, then added the reporter’s name in English.”

We sat with our own thoughts for a time while John continued to page through his book. He made two more brushstrokes, put down his writing tool, and closed the large volume before breaking the silence.

“When Lo Ping finds his bribe didn’t work, you will be in great danger, Charles. But for now, he will wait and watch.”

“Bedford and I were ambushed by hired gunhands last night.”

“That is not the way of Lo Ping. You have other enemies. Lo Ping’s way will be more subtle. And more deadly.”

“Well,” I said, “I’ll continue scratching around until something pops up. ”

Fong smiled. “Be careful, Charles. Lo Ping is the most dangerous man in Chinatown.”

I picked up my hat. “I’ll keep an eye on the skyline, my friend. And a full load in my revolver. What’s that sign you’ve been drawing there, John? Anything I should know about?”

“This is the hexagram, Charles,” he said, showing me the brush strokes he had made. “It represents all possible outcomes to a question I asked before you sat down. Would you like to hear what the Yi Jing tells us?”

“If it will blow away some of the fog in my brain so I can see my way clear, I’ll welcome it.”

“The question I asked had to do with the death of the Administrator. ‘How do we progress to a favorable conclusion in this case?’ ”

“And what answer did your book reveal?”

John didn’t look at his book. Instead, he glanced at his figure before saying, “This hexagram is called Chien, known as the obstructive figure. The top three lines represent an abyss, the bottom three, a mountain. It warns we are between a bottomless abyss and an unclimbable mountain.”

“That’s pretty much the way I’ve felt for some time now. Does your book tell us how to find a trail out of his mess?”

John looked around the street which had become uncommonly empty. “The solution to Chien is well known.

When you face a bottomless pit in front,

and an unattainable mountain behind,

Build a small fire to cook your food.

Sleep warmly and awaken refreshed.

The pit will not appear bottomless,

Nor the mountain unclimbable,

in the light of the morning.”

I rose to go. “Good advice, my friend. But first I need to trace where the Mission House bomb came from. I’ll gather the wood for my fire later.”

“Please understand,” John said, “this is valuable advice used for thousands of years, and is not to be dismissed lightly. It was written by the man who forms the very center of our mystery, Charles.”

I paused. “And who would that be, John?”

“ The Golden Emperor himself.”

The Wicked Affair of the Golden Emperor

A Charles Goodfoote Mystery in Old San Francisco

Chapter 39

Kaya prepares for battle with those who threaten Goodfoote

Kaya watched as the crescent moon sat on top of the high hills to the east. Coyote was chewing on the moon, just as Kaya chewed on her last piece of dried deer meat. Tomorrow would be the dark moon, Saantsase. It was on such a night, the elders said, that Coyote stole fire from Sun and brought light to the world of darkness. But the trickster also took away the heat from the world so nights were cold, especially Saantsase.

Briefly, as a ground mist formed at the base of the rocks, she thought of a small fire to warm her, but quickly dismissed the idea. The enemies could be scouting the place of ambush she saw in her vision. It was what an Apache would do. Her poncho would be enough.

Kaya froze at the sound of an owl hooting softly nearby. To her people, the owl is a harbinger of death, but not always to the person who hears it. Death will come, she thought, but it will be visited on those who attack Goodfoote, as he was called by the White-Eyes. She had begun to use his White-Eyes name, rather than the Apaches’ ‘Travels-Far’, the name by which she had first known him.

From where she sat among the rocks, she could watch the road. She would be sleeping lightly and depending on her heightened senses to warn her of danger. A feeling that the time when she must act was growing stronger. Tomorrow, she would paint herself in war colors.

As before every battle, the warrior-woman began a series of prayers to first Usen, the Life-Giver, then to her Power, represented on Earth by the Red-Tailed Hawk. The communications were not for her physical safety, only for the welfare of the people she had sworn to protect.

Goodfoote was one of those people.

As she gazed into the depths of the starlit say, her lips murmuring silent entreaties for the safety of her friend, the owl called again, this time closer.

Death would visit this place tomorrow. Who would die was never known, but Kaya would do all she could to save the man she had grown to love.

And then, the Apache woman waited.

The Wicked Affair of the Golden Emperor

A Charles Goodfoote Mystery in Old San Francisco

Chapter 40

Charles and Emily attend a social soiree.

Emily O’Rourke was dressed in a stunning pink gown with a full skirt trimmed in white lace when I picked her up for our dinner at Walker’s home. Abuzz with women all talking at once, the foyer of the Mission House quieted as I entered, tipped my top hat, and placed Emily’s white gloved hand on my arm. A few moments later, our driver, dressed in red livery, held the carriage door and snapped it closed after we were aboard. With tiny jewels sparkling in her dark hair, Miss O’Rourke made the stars in the night sky seem dim by comparison. My Irish blood waxed poetical, as it often does unbidden.

Of course, my own ensemble was simple black evening wear, white four-in-hand tie, no tails, and a top hat I had bought that morning. I know how to put on the genteels when called for, and had given little thought to the blow to Pinkerton’s pocketbook for my necessary wardrobe. The matched pair of black geldings clipped along at a steady pace as I opened polite conversation with the lady.

“How splendid you look, Miss O’Rourke,” I said, as we began the pull up California Street. “You’ll be the most beautiful woman at the soiree.” Unusual for me, my voice sounded strained and I stammered just a bit.

“ I will be the envy of all the women present with such a handsome gentleman companion,” she smiled. “And Charles, please call me Emily.”

“Thank you, Emily…”

“I have never met Mrs. Walker, but I hear she’s several years junior to the Governor.”

“I’m sure they’re a charming couple…”

“Yes. I understand she’s quite a beauty.”

“Then she’ll be the second most beautiful lady at the party tonight.” I’m noted for my charm with the ladies, even though I don’t often get a chance to practice. Like skill in tracking, charm is a natural gift that is enhanced with use.

Although I had a few serious questions for Emily, I didn’t want to spoil the evening before it even got started, so I made small talk during our ride.

The men who had made their fortunes in gold, mercantile goods, and railroad transportation, had constructed palatial homes on Nob Hill. Each house we passed was more luxurious than the last, but the villa known among the rabble as “Walker’s Castle,” was the most baronial, and sat on the very peak of the Hill.

Our carriage carried us along the gravel parkway lined with gas lights among sycamore trees to a circular drive where men clad in wigs, silk knee-britches and waistcoats from the Colonial period opened carriage doors and escorted couples to the entranceway.

“Not an intimate dinner,” I said, as we were led to the carved wooden double doors. “Half of San Francisco must be here.”

“The half known as ‘better’, Charles?”

“ ‘Better’, indeed,” I responded skeptically as we entered the foyer.

We followed the throngs into the ballroom, a colossal expanse which sported large paintings of the French and Italian Masters. Gaslight crystal chandeliers hung from a lacunae ceiling, encircled by thick molding into which naked cherubs blowing into trumpets were carved. A gang of bored-looking attendants, in elegantly cut suits that didn’t quite hide the bulges of their revolvers, were positioned around the room.

Black servants in white tailcoats carrying silver trays of champagne swept across the polished tiled floor, and two men who looked like ex-prizefighters tended a fire in the walk-in fireplace. Suits of armor and statues of men and women of a nature that would not have been out of place in Madam Gina’s studio completed the picture of gaudy opulence.

“For a man the voters tossed from office, Walker knows how to throw a party,” I said softly to Emily. We had moved into a side room and were standing next to a buffet table loaded with various fruits, vegetables, and small cakes. “Now, Charles. You be nice to Governor Walker. He and Mr. Darrigan paid the full amount for repairing the damage to the Mission.”

This was news to me. “Why would they do that?” I inquired as we picked up two small plates, and proceeded to select some delicacies with the tongs provided.

Emily took a tiny bite of a chocolate coated strawberry before answering. “I love chocolate,” she said, smiling. We moved down the length of the table examining the variety of colorful food. “Most of our funding is from the Governor and his friends. He strongly supports the work we do.”

We paused before a display of small marzipan-iced cakes.

“I’m sure one won’t spoil my appetite,” she said.

The news of the extent of Walker’s involvement with the Mission House prompted me to risk putting a pall on the outing. “Emily, before we go into dinner, I’d like to ask you some questions. ”

“Oh. Then please do, for we will probably be separated at the table,” she replied graciously as she took a bite of a sliver of cake.

“For starters, have you found Hing Fa?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” she frowned. “We’ve contacted the police, but they showed little interest in a missing Chinese girl.”

“Do all the girls you shelter return to China?”

“Most do decide to return to their families. Some of the older ones stay here in San Francisco and we find them positions in respectable homes.” She turned her small cake and seemed to be studying it. “Governor and Mrs. Walker have two of our younger girls engaged in this very house, although I’m sure they’re fast asleep by now.”

I hesitated, a honey-crusted swirl cake half-way to my mouth. “And Walker provides the money and passage for those who wish to go home?” I popped the waiting cake into my mouth.

“Why, yes. He, and a group of his friends. We couldn’t survive without their help. For instance, you asked about the ship that Hing Fa was on for her return trip to China. I have since discovered that most of the ships on which the girls are given passage are owned by Lo Ping.”

“So the girls are Lo Ping’s export,” I said softly.

“You could say that, I suppose. Here comes Governor Walker,” she added, as she looked across the room.

Making his way through the crowd toward us, Stanley Walker sported a red bowtie and white tuxedo with tails. A heavy gold chain stretched across his thick belly. His thinning hair was combed over his balding scalp, and his heavy sideburns were turning gray. Smiling broadly through fleshly lips, he shook hands with the men and kissed the hands of the ladies all the while bearing down unerringly in our direction.

Emily and I silently awaited his arrival.

“Miss O’Rourke,” he beamed, taking Emily’s proffered hand for a quick buss. “So happy you could attend my little get-together. I’m sorry Mrs. Walker is not here to greet you. She has one of her severe headaches this evening. An unfortunate condition.”

Emily smiled her most winning smile. “When you next speak with her, please express my concern for her well-being. And thank you for your invitation, Governor.” Turning to me, “You may already know Mr. Goodfoote.”

He grabbed my hand and squeezed it hard. “Only by reputation. Never had the pleasure.”

I matched his strong handshake. “Governor Walker,” I said with a grin. “The pleasure is all mine. Miss O’Rourke has told me of your generosity to the Mission. I’m honored to meet such an involved and dedicated benefactor.”

When it comes to buffalo chip banter, I have no equal.

“Well,” he cleared his throat. “We do what we can for the poor heathens.” Smiling broadly, and looking directly into my eyes, he added, “whatever their origin.”

I’m not a sensitive man, but I know a low insult when it’s slung at me.

“And I’m sure it’s greatly appreciated,” I responded evenly as I released my hand and looked around the room. I waved briefly, taking in the glittering trappings and bejeweled guests. “There must be over fifty people here tonight.”

“Seventy-five.”

“And not one Chinaman,” I said, as I brought my eyes back to his.

Walker’s face reddened and his smile disappeared. “No Chinamen, but one or two other heathens, Mr. Goodfoote.” With that, he bowed to Emily, turned on his heel, and was swallowed by the glittering crowd.

“Why were you disagreeable to the Governor, Charles? I told you he’s our main support.”

I was becoming fond of the honey cakes and picked up another. “He’s just a former governor, Emily, soundly tossed from office by the voters once they wised up. And a man like Walker doesn’t do anything that doesn’t benefit him directly. He has his reasons for supporting the Mission, and they have nothing to do with saving young women.”

“Why Charles. I believe you are a cynic. Too many years as a detective have made you suspicious of everyone’s motives.” But she was smiling as she said it. Taking my arm, she lead me back to the ballroom. “There’s Meghan,” she exclaimed, as she steered me toward Miss O’Shannahan. “And look who’s her escort.”

Meghan O’Shannahan, shining red hair held in place by elaborate combs, was resplendent in a short-sleeved green satin gown imprinted with white leaves. On her arm was Pike Hobbs. When she saw us approach, her smile broadened.

“Emily,” she cried. “And Mr. Goodfoote.”

“Meghan,” Miss O’Rourke acknowledged. “And this must be your Mr. Hobbs.”

Hobbs was presentable in a black tuxedo with tails. His well-oiled hair was parted in the middle, and his mustache well-trimmed. A pretty picture for a turncoat.

“Happy to see you out of your nook, Hobbs,” I said. Although it grated on me, I was affable to this man I knew to be in bed with the enemy. “Your new desk arrived just after you left. Canfield’s had one in stock.”

“A new desk for Mr. Hobbs,” Emily said. “Was the old one no longer serviceable?”

“Someone torched it,” Hobbs blurted. “Tried to burn us out.”

Emily looked from Hobbs to me, eyebrows arched. “I hadn’t heard. What happened?”

“Burglars, most likely,” I lied. “Probably after the petty cash Henry keeps locked away. They must have been searching the office when one of the fools bumped over a lamp on Hobbs’ desk, but the only damage was to his desk. That and a few files.”

“And to my budget,” Pike added, as his face reddened. “Several weeks work gone up in smoke.”

“Well,” I said, “you got a new desk out of it.”

“First the Mission House, now your office,” Emily said, shaking her head. “What is happening, Charles?”

“Just a rough patch, Emily,” I reassured her with a cheerfulness in my voice I didn’t feel. “Nobody badly hurt in either case and we’ll sort through it soon enough. Now, we’re here to enjoy this party, so I think that’s what we should be doing.” For the next fifteen minutes we made small talk. Apparently, the dresses the women guests were wearing were of prime interest to our companions.

When a brass bell chimed, we trooped into a paneled room furnished with two long tables covered with white table cloths. China and silverware glittered under the light of several candles on the table, and gaslight sconces on the walls. We dispersed to our assigned chairs. I was seated between two elderly ladies who “enthralled” me with their latest gossip about people I didn’t know. Emily was directly across from me between a man with a bristly white mustache, and William Darrigan. I lost sight of Pike, but could see Miss O’Shannahan across the table and four seats down from where I sat.

I nodded and smiled to the ladies, first to one side, then the other. I noticed William Darrigan spoke to Emily occasionally, smiling at her banter with thin, bloodless lips. The food was passable, and the conversation endurable. And the minute hand on the sunburst wall clock refused to move.

Mayor Haversack sat at the head of our table, with Chief of Police Wayne on his right. Walker anchored the second table between smiling women who looked young enough to be his daughters. But I knew the man to be childless.

After dinner a five piece ensemble provided dance music in the ballroom. Wine and champagne continued to be dispensed, and those of us not dancing, watched, glass in hand, at the whirling gentry.

A discrete cough at my elbow got me to turn to a black man holding a note on a small silver salver . “A message from Governor Walker, Sir,” the man said in a deep voice. I took the message and read it, then turned to my comrades.

“Our host requests my company in his library,” I said. This was the meeting for which I was hoping. I was interested to see what he wanted from me.

“I’ve never seen the library,” Emily said.

“After I meet with the Governor, I’ll fully describe it to you.”

“So this is a private meeting? Women not permitted?” Emily was smiling, but I detected a hint of irritation.

Miss O’Shannahan came to my rescue. “Never mind, Emily. We’ll explore this castle while the ‘men-folk’ are having their cigars and brandy.”

“Perhaps Mr. Hobbs will be kind enough to accompany you,” I said.

“What?” Hobbs looked at me with raised eyebrows. “I’m not invited, either?”

“Whatever Walker has to say, he wants to say only to me. If I need your assistance, I’ll give a holler.”

With that, I followed the messenger through a long corridor paneled in dark oak and festooned with stuffed animal heads. He opened a large carved door to the library, a green-carpeted room lined with bookshelves. Stanley Walker was leaning against a massive desk in the middle of the room, one hand wrapped around a snifter of pale liquid, the other held a corona.

“Mr. Goodfoote,” he said as I entered. “I think we got off on the wrong foot this evening. Let me offer you a cigar and brandy. We can then sit and talk together like gentlemen.”

“I’ll gladly thank you for the cigar, Mr. Walker, but pass on the liquor.”

Like a conjuror, he stepped aside and pointed to a square humidor filled with rows of fat cigars. He put down his drink long enough to hand me a clipper and indicate a desk lighter. Once I got the cigar going, we moved to comfortable wing chairs beneath the mounted head of a buffalo. With a grin that didn’t reach his eyes, he pointed at the shaggy animal with his cigar.

“I dropped that magnificent beast up in Montana Territory. Mind, I don’t hold with shooting the dumb brutes from a train like some of my colleagues, but a good clean kill is a noble thing. Don’t you agree, Mr. Goodfoote?”

Walker knew the slaughter of the buffalo was of some importance to the Blackfoot. The cigar I was smoking suddenly lost its flavor. I had been with this man only minutes and his slippery charm had already worn thin.

“There are no railroads in Montana Territory,” I said. “At least, none were there when I last visited the area.”

“Just a matter of time, Mr. Goodfoote. Just a matter of time. Timber can’t be cut and moved without railroads, just as gold can’t be mined and carried to smelters without them.”

I nodded. There was plenty of timber in the vastness of Montana Territory, but scant amount had been cut. It gave me pause. Since smallpox had decimated about three-fourths of the People, much of the territory had been taken over by Whites. Cattle ranchers had moved in, but the possibility of timber businesses establishing themselves hadn’t crossed my mind.

“And what,” I said as my voice hardened, “has that to do with me, Mr. Walker?” Walker’s smile disappeared. “This is a rich country for the right man. Are you the right man, Mr. Goodfoote? I’m offering you a share of that wealth.”

“What would I have to do to earn these riches?” My cigar had gone out and I put the butt into the glass ashtray that stood next to my chair. “Why would a man with your resources want someone like me on his payroll?”

“On the payroll at first, Goodfoote. But in line for a full partnership, if you prove you can follow orders and get results.”

I choked down my choler. This man was mistaking me for a thug and I resented it. “Orders to do what, Walker? Hire gunmen to eliminate anyone who gets in your way? Keep any inconvenient facts from coming to the attention of honest citizens?”

“Nothing of the kind. I hire Roylott for a dollar a throw for that type of work.”

“Then what?” He just admitted what I had suspected. Big Willy Roylott was in his stable. The ambush of me and Jubal by Willie’s gunhands now took on a broader perspective. It helped explain Big Willy’s outburst to us about piss-ants in a buffalo stampede. How deep was this ex-governor involved in the criminal activities in this city?

“Your job wouldn’t be any different from what you’re doing right now. Investigating criminal behavior in San Francisco. I’m offering you a chance to make enough money to bring food and blankets to your Indians. They’re going to need all the help they can get when my railroads start cutting up the land and the buffalo hunters get rolling. ”

“And?” I said, as I got to my feet.

“Keep troublemakers from going too far with their fantasies. I’m not a criminal, Mr. Goodfoote. I’m just a businessman who knows where California’s real gold is buried. The money in this state is unlimited and I’m getting my share. You could too, as part of my team. ”

Walker stood. “That Miss O’Rourke has a gleam in her eye when she looks at you. With a decent income, you could marry her and give her a house big enough to raise a herd of children. Think it over, Goodfoote. The world’s all there just waiting for you to take it.”

Using all my Blackfoot composure to keep from letting my true feelings show, I shook his proffered hand, cast another look at the mounted buffalo head, and left the room.

The Wicked Affair of the Golden Emperor

A Charles Goodfoote Mystery in Old San Francisco

Chapter 41

A trap is set for a turncoat

Not quite the gentleman, Pike Hobbs had left the party after not being included in Walkers’ invitation, thus abandoning the lady who had accompanied him. And, although the night was still young, I encouraged Emily to make her regrets and withdraw with me from the festivities. I feared my choler would overcome my genteel manners, if I stayed any longer. With barely a quizzical glance into my eyes, she pleaded a headache to her host, gathered up Meghan, and swept ahead of me out the door. So it was Miss O’Shannahan, Emily, and I who waited together under the portico for our carriage. It was a full five seconds of silence before the women’s questioning began.

“For what did Governor Walker summon you? Did he say anything about the Mission? Is Pinkerton’s to be involved? What did his library look like?”

“He did offer me a job,” I said. “And he made it sound lucrative. But it involves skills I may not possess.”

“I can’t imagine any skills you don’t possess,” Emily smiled. “What kind of position would you be taking on?”

“A sort of overseer,” I said, as I gazed down the drive. “But I’d rather hear what you did while I was with Walker.”

“Well,” Meghan O’Shannahan began. “We explored that whole castle and have news that may be of some interest to you.”

I turned my attention from the carriage drive and looked into her bright blue eyes. “Yes?”

“Once your Mr. Hobbs had his fit of piqué and stomped out, we headed up to the top of the house and thought we’d work our way back down. We imagined the fourth floor was for storage. Did you even know there is a fourth floor? Fully furnished. Carpeted hallways. Dead things on the walls. Swords and spears all over the place.”

“Yes?” I repeated, a bit impatiently.

“We heard a woman weeping. Crying her eyes out, really. So we found the room where the crying was coming from and were about to knock when the door banged open and a young woman charged into the hallway nearly running us down.”

When she again stopped, I raised my eyebrows. “And?”

“Well, it was Mrs. Walker. She was drunk as a lord and exploded at us for being on the fourth floor, ‘invading her privacy like common sneak thieves,’ she said. Her language was really quite robust until Emily had a chance to introduce us. That calmed her down immediately when she found herself in the presence of the Supervisor of the Catholic Mission House. She waved us into her suite of rooms where we had a most interesting chat.” Miss O’Shannahan paused for breath.

“Until she fell asleep mid-sentence,” Emily added.

“Her husband had forbidden her to come to the party,” Meghan continued. “He said it was for business only and she must stay in her rooms. Don’t you think that’s strange? I mean, Mrs. Walker, her Christian name is Fidelia by the way, is a beautiful woman. And she looks young enough to be his daughter.”

Emily spoke up. “She is an unfortunate inebriate, and in the condition in which we found her, her presence would have been a social disaster. I don’t wish to speak against her, but I saw a half-empty bottle of laudanum on a table. I’m sure it’s for her headaches.

“Something she said did give me cause for concern, however. When I thanked her for accepting two of our girls, she looked at me as if she didn’t know what I was talking about.”

“In fact,” Meghan said, with a glance at our approaching coach. “She said she wouldn’t have those yellow…well, I won’t repeat her exact words, but they were fit more for the Barbary Coast than Nob Hill.”

“I’m sure Mr. Walker took two of our girls several months ago,” Emily said. “I remember him saying his wife would like to have the girls as domestics. I’ll check our records to see if the girls were transferred to someone else and speak to the Governor about it.”

Could there be innocent explanations for two Chinese girls going missing, I wondered? Would Walker have passed them on to some other wealthy family, or simply put them on a boat back to China without telling Emily? Other uglier ideas were gathering around the former Governor and I feared for the young girls safety. How much of the rumor Pottle told me was true? I said nothing to the ladies, but determined to keep informed of Emily’s investigation.

My thoughts were interrupted by a dull thud. Looking toward the city, I could see a bright red ball of light rising from the direction of the Barbary Coast. “Looks like another fire down in the heart of the Trough,” I said.

The women were craning their necks, as were the doormen and other hired help. “It sounded like a bomb,” one of the lackeys said in a deep voice.

“Yes, I heard it, also,” Miss O’Shannahan said. “But, my, it looks like a big fire. Seems something burns in this city every week.”

Our carriage pulled up, and, once onboard, I gave the driver orders to take us to the Mission House.

“Do you think it was a bomb, Mr. Goodfoote?” Emily asked, as the driver snapped his reins.

“If it is,” I replied, “it’s well away from the Mission House this time. And on the Barbary Coast, it could be anything from a drunken miner with a stick of dynamite and a lit cigar, to a rival gang getting even for some crime against it. Whatever happened, it’s nothing to cause you ladies distress.”

We continued our ride in silence, each of us alone with our own thoughts. The sky over the Barbary Coast shone a bright yellow, then the color disappeared behind buildings as we entered the downtown area.

After seeing the ladies to their repaired door of the Mission House, I took the carriage to the office. Jubal was outside, leaning against the building smoking a cheroot.

“You’re back early,” he said. “The sun hasn’t been set mor’n an hour. It must have been a short party for you and Hobbs. He’s up there now.”

“I imagine he’s pretty worked up. He stormed out of the party because Walker wanted to see me alone. The man even left his lady companion.”

Jubal crushed out his smoke. “I had tea with Meghan yesterday and she told me she was going to the party with Hobbs. Accepted his invite two weeks back.”

“I know you’ve taken a shine to that girl, JT. She must have had a good reason to go with Hobbs. He’s a complete ass. It had nothing to do with you.”

JT nodded. “But why would Hobbs get his britches in a knot because Walker wanted a private conversation with you?”

“Could be he’s worried he’s fallen off Walker’s gold wagon. When we go up there, I may just jerk his chain a little. He uses that budget as his excuse for being where he can get to Henry’s listening tube. I suspect that’s the real reason he insisted on taking over the books from Henry.”

Jubal and I climbed the stairs and found Hobbs hard at work on one of his ledgers. Stacks of Henry’s log books and financial statements were piled next to him on his new desk.

Jubal went down the hall to my office.

“I see you’re back from Walker’s place early, too,” Hobbs said. “Unfortunately, I had to hurry back to work on the budget. We’re running out of time for this fiscal year. That fire set me back months. Headquarters will give us only a two weeks extension.”

“Henry keeps pretty complete records,” I said. “That should make it easier.”

“Ha! His ‘records’ are the stuff of fantasy. A wizard couldn’t make heads nor tails of his figuring. I’ve complained to you before about his so-called record keeping.”

“I’ll be in my office if you need me.” I had no interest in listening to his whining.

“At least, give me a hand with some of these files. They go back in that clerk’s cubby.” He handed me a pile of papers and led the way through the adjoining door into Henry’s room. I stopped short. It looked like the room had been ransacked.

Henry always kept his cubby in shipboard Navy order where each piece of equipment has a special place and it never varies. A life-time at sea had burned that lesson into the old sea dog’s brain. Now, however, files were tossed carelessly into loose stacks. The only neat thing in the room was Henry’s low sleeping couch, its blanket pulled tight with Navy corners.

“Just a few minutes of peace and quiet, if you please,” Hobbs said as he pushed past me.

“What the hell happened here?” I exploded. “Were you rooting around in there with a rake?”

Hobbs turned back to face me.

“His files were completely out of order. The fool has a system based on the phases of the moon, as far as I can tell. There’s no logic to it at all.”

Hobbs hustled to the safety behind his desk.

“Hobbs, you’ll straighten up this mess before you leave here tonight. That’s an order.”

Back in my office, I sat in my squeaky swivel chair, a grim smile on my face. Jubal, his eyes closed, was tilted back in my client’s chair, his feet on my desk. He opened his eyes, lit a stogie, took a long puff and gave me a wink.

“Let’s start with what we know,” I said. “Right from the beginning.” It was probably my imagination, but I felt I could hear Hobbs’s breathing at the other end of Henry’s listening tube.

“It began with Sam Clemens, and Pinkerton’s getting hired to find out who put that placard up on Murderer’s Wall.”

“Then we have Skaggs’ killing,” Jubal said.

“I’m thinking that was an accident. He stepped into a belaying pin meant for someone else.” Jubal smiled, knowing I was giving Hobbs a chance to relax a bit.

JT blew a stream of smoke at the ceiling. “Dillman wasn’t an accident,” he said.

“No, but that had to do with politics. Something about a legislative bill he was proposing.”

“So what are we investigating, Boss man?” Jubal was watching the listening tube.

“We’ve been hired to protect the church ladies, and that’s what we’re going to do.”

“Got it, Charles. Clients first. The rest of this can wait.”

“ Did I mention Stanley Walker offered me a job? Said he needed someone in the Pinkerton Agency to help him out.” I heard a thud, like a book being dropped, come from Henry’s cubby.

Jubal smiled. “What exactly did he offer you, Charles?”

“A fortune in gold, to start. Then he tossed in Emily O’Rourke to sweeten the deal.”

“Emily O’Rourke. She would make any deal attractive,” Jubal said with a grin. “It seems her name keeps coming up.”

“Yes, it does. But I’m convinced she’s not involved in any of these machinations. She’s married to her Mission House. However, Walker and Darrigan are pushing a lot of shekels her way to keep the thing on its feet. I’ll have Pike check the books at the California Bank to see how much the Collective has spent on the place. As Mr. Allan Pinkerton himself says ‘Always follow the money.’ ”

Jubal picked up his Stetson. “Well, Boss, I’m off to bed. Good luck with your money trail.”

After Jubal left, I found Hobbs staring at numbers on a financial sheet. I explained what I wanted. At first he claimed he had no time for such a fool’s errand. Then he said the bank wouldn’t allow him to see the books of such a powerful group of men. When he was done sputtering, I told him I was still the senior operative of the San Francisco office of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency and he better find a way to do as I say or I’d ship him back to Chicago and the stockyards. That brought him up short. I reminded him our contacts at the largest bank on the coast went all the way up to the founder and owner, so casting an eye on the bank’s records should present no problem. He sighed deeply, but made a note to see to the matter in the morning.

Back in my office, I scribbled out a sheet pretty much summing up the misinformation Jubal and I had been feeding Hobbs. I knew he would read it immediately after I left.

I was hoping he’d soon run off to whoever was holding his collar. He had heard enough from Jubal and me to think our investigations were off target, and, if Walker was paying Hobbs to relay Pinkerton secrets, he was probably agitated enough to think he was out of a job as a snitch. When Hobbs gets agitated, he makes mistakes and, with a little finesse, we should be able to follow him back up the ladder. My strong suspicion was we would find Walker and the Collective at the top.

Hobbs was still in his office, so I bid him goodnight, and locked the street door on my way out. I hoped his actions in the next couple of days would give us a bit more insight to the workings of this gang.

On the sidewalk, I mused on the thin moon that had worked its way across the night sky. It put me in mind of a legend among some of the tribes that Coyote the Trickster gobbled up the moon one bite at a time whenever he found it full, so by this time of the month, the moon was a tiny sliver, one bite away from being completely dark. And the moon getting eaten reminded me of the doggerel that was such a persistent part of this conundrum. ‘The Golden Emperor rides the Jade Dragon across the Moonless Sky.’