The Wicked Affair of the Golden Emperor
A Charles Goodfoote Mystery in Old San Francisco
Chapter 57
Goodfoote resolves a nagging feeling of unease
After Meghan returned to Chicago with William Pinkerton, Jubal T. Bedford planned to follow her and work out of the Home Office. Between bouts of trying to catch up with mountains of paperwork, I spent a few days ensconced in long meetings with William Darrigan and Seth Mahoney discussing the ins and outs of this wicked affair.
But something about this case still bothered me. The murders had been solved, the gold smuggling stopped, and the culprits, the worst of them, dealt with. As I expected, the cases against the remaining crooked tycoons of The Collective had gone nowhere. Even unmasking Hoople’s killer hadn’t ridden me of a nagging feeling that an important part of the mystery was still lurking, and I wouldn’t be able to share in the elation of a job well done until it was laid to rest.
Long ago, Keeps-the-Lodge had told me to seek the high places when feeling confused. “Fog lives in the valleys. Go to the high places to see clearly,” he had said.
So one morning, just as the sun peeked over the Bay, I saddled up a rented pinto mare and rode into the hills where, weeks earlier, I had been given so many answers. After a couple of hours of leisurely riding, I found a spot up high where I could sit on a rock outcropping that overlooked a wooded valley. I dismounted and tied my horse to a pinion sapling. After loosening her cinch, I found a comfortable seat, took off my hat, and leaned back against a slab of rock. The warmth of the rock on my back, and the pale September sun overhead, told me I had come to the right place.
My mind drifted, in turn, to the different actors in this drama. From Sam Clemens to Emily, Dillman to Doc Thorp, Walker, Darrigan, Grues, Bullump. Then I considered John Fong, Lo Ping, and the wily servant, Ming. That was it. Something about Ming, the agent/servant /spy.
First, Sam’s poster, with Ming’s hidden message for Fong. It went from Sam, to me, to Fong. Then a note from Ming to Gina, which came to me and I gave to Fong. Here was the greatest mystery. Ming would have needed to know the dislike Gina had for Bullump, and her independent nature, for his note was addressed to the policeman. But he would also have needed to understand the close friendship between Gina and me to know she would pass me the note. How could he possibly have known so much about Gina’s character, her likes, dislikes, her very nature? Only with a spy inside her own house. The idea of Mr. Bask working for the Chinese agent was absurd, and that left Mrs. Kan, the ever-discrete handmaiden of Madam Gina. A spy in the very house in which I received my Italian art lessons. Another puppet show.
Emily’s poem and the warning it contained, along with its Golden Emperor line, I mused, had gone directly from me to Fong. To perform that switch, right under Lo Ping’s nose, was an incredible act of bravery.
I sat forward as the inevitable conclusion washed over me. Sam’s poster, Gina’s note, Emily’s poem. All sent from Ming the spy, to John Fong, the official.
“I’ll be damned,” I said out loud. I shook my head in wonder at my dullness and realized that rascal had been using me, throughout this whole case, as his delivery boy. I had, in fact, acted unwittingly as an agent of the Chinese government!
And that’s what had been bothering me. Not knowing I had been used as the puppet.
The Wicked Affair of the Golden Emperor
A Charles Goodfoote Mystery in Old San Francisco
Chapter 58
Mark Twain returns to San Francisco and gives his first lecture
Emily tells Goodfoote goodbye
One morning a couple of weeks later, the first damp chill of autumn was in the air when I arrived at the office. The aroma of toasted bread and fresh brewed coffee told me a client was already onboard and had been properly attended to by Henry.
Samuel Clemens rose from the visitor’s chair to greet me, brushing crumbs from his vest. “I’m grateful this agency has seen fit to continue Henry’s employment,” he said as he shook my hand. “From what I’ve been told by unnamed journalistic sources, you’ve had a sudden reduction in personnel.”
I poured myself a cup of Henry’s best and slumped into my swivel chair. “Your sources, unnamed or otherwise, are correct. We do have a vacancy or two.”
“The Police Department is also undermanned by one” said Clemens. “A police captain killed in the line of duty made news as far west as Honolulu.” He shook his head. “This City must be a dangerous place when not even a policeman can be sure of his safety.”
“So it seems. There have been deaths aplenty since your departure, and other sensational news you may have missed. Some of it’s even fit to print.”
“As always, this city provides fertile ground for those of the journalistic persuasion.”
“Yes, it does.”
“ Have you made progress on unmasking the rogue who stuck my name on that poster in Ross Court?”
“Yes, we have. It was none other than Captain Bullump,” I lied. “It seems he had taken umbrage with something you wrote when you were with the Morning Observer. The rest of the poster was nothing more than a lot of Chinese verbiage. Nothing a highbinder would, or even could, read.”
“So it was just another critical statement? A prank?”
“That’s what I said in my report. You were never in any danger. No one wanted you dead.”
“Speaking of being dead, I see in the newspaper our former Governor has passed beyond the veil. Stanley Walker must have had the largest funeral on record. A ‘stagnation of the blood’ according to Doctor Thorp. Died in his own bed. All that money did him little good in the end.”
I just nodded. “His wife profited from his passing. She got his fortune, and skedaddled for parts unknown. Some of his business colleagues, the Collective, spent an uncomfortable hour in court before the judge released them.”
Sam leaned forward. “I didn’t read that in the newspaper. No mention at all. What were they doing in court?”
“Business shenanigans. Nothing came of it.” No point in feeding a storyteller like Clemens the truth about heaps of gold, Chinese assassins, and mysterious messages.
Clemens smiled. “I’m grateful to know I can walk the streets of this town freely, without fear of hatchetmen lurking in every doorway, taking exception to my continuing to occupy the land of the living . It has been a cause of some concern. But my journey to the Sandwich Islands was rewarding. My letters in the Union have been well received. So well received, in fact, I’m thinking of reciting a few of my adventures on stage.”
“Let me know where and when. I’ll be there with bells on, at the front of the line.”
After another quarter hour, Samuel Clemens and I walked down the stairs. We shook hands, and I watched Mark Twain saunter away into the autumn sunshine.
A month later, on a beautiful fall night, I collected Emily in a Landau. Although I complimented her on her gown and bonnet, she only politely smiled. She graciously inquired after Jubal and his impending trip to join Miss O’Shannahan in Chicago, but seemed distracted when I asked after Miss Hoople. Our ride was filled with awkward moments of silence.
The Academy of Music held over fifteen hundred people and it was full. At a dollar a head, Mr. Clemens would be making a nice profit. The program was less lecture than running dialogue of stories, anecdotes, and comments. And Twain was uproariously funny.
Emily and I were still chuckling as we walked up the stairs to the Mission House. “We must part here, Mr. Goodfoote,” she said. “The girls are long asleep.”
“I understand, Miss O’Rourke. It would set a bad example if they awakened and found me inside.”
She looked past me and smiled.
“Perhaps we could meet for tea sometime,” I said.
“Mr. Goodfoote. I enjoyed the performance by Mr. Clemens and I thank you for allowing me to accompany you. But I’m afraid we must keep our relationship on a professional basis.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but she raised her gloved hand, palm outward.
“My position here at the Mission House requires I conduct myself in an exemplary manner for the benefit of my staff and our young charges.”
I was about to reply, but again she halted me.
“I greatly respect your gallantry and courage, Mr. Goodfoote, and your most valuable assistance, but I must, regrettably, ask you not to call on me again.”
“Have I said or done something to cause you distress, Miss? If so…”
Emily looked me directly in the eye. “Frankly, Sir, it’s your dalliances with women of elastic virtues, the harlots of the Barbary Coast. Even a whisper of impropriety on my part would put the Mission House at risk, and, if only by association, I would be rumored to share your indiscretions. So here we must part. Good evening, Charles.”
And so I went back to my hotel, climbed the stairs to my room, and fell into a fitful sleep. Grues and his sword kept pushing into my dreams. I finally gave up and sat looking out my window into the black of the bay.
The Wicked Affair of the Golden Emperor
A Charles Goodfoote Mystery in Old San Francisco
Chapter 59
Henry brings a startling message from Pinkerton’s Home Office
It was a sunny, cold mid-morning near the start of the new year when my work was interrupted by Henry’s face peering around my office door.
“Come in, Henry,” I said, as I leaned back in my chair.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, Capt’n. A wire from Headquarters just come and I decoded ‘er.” He handed me a scrawl-filled sheet of paper.
“Operative Jubal Bedford missing, Arizona Territory. Leave immediately. Meet US Marshal. Apache Flats.”
I considered for only a moment.
“Henry,” I said, as I jumped to my feet. “I’ll need a horse.”
AFTERWORD: For the sake of clarity, I used the modern Pinyin Romanization of the Chinese to translate Mr. Goodfoote’s phonetic spelling of spoken Chinese words. However, this changes when places and proper names are mentioned in another dialect (i.e. Cantonese).
This is a work of fiction. Its characters, both real and imagined, are fictional. Historians will find the dates of events approximations, but alterations were necessary to move the story forward.
Some of the language used in the 19th Century would not be appropriate in modern America, but I retained it for literary purposes.
Ron Powers’ book, Mark Twain, A Life, is phenomenal for factual information, and I used it for background. But I then followed Mark Twain’s advice, “Get your facts first, then you can distort them as much as you please.”
