The Dangerous Ladies Affair

4 Sabina

The task facing her was daunting. On the surface it seemed unlikely that either Fenton or Prudence Egan had sufficient cause to threaten and then attempt to take Amity Wellman’s life, yet Sabina knew from experience that some people possessed hidden demons that caused them to act irrationally and violently. One of the Egans could be so afflicted. So could Nathaniel Dobbs or a member of the Liquor Dealers League or any other virulent opponent of woman suffrage. So could another individual Amity had offended in some way connected or unconnected to her work, perhaps without even knowing it. And it did not have to be the person who hated her enough to want her dead who had fired the shot last night; it could have been the botched work of a hired assassin.

Despite the difficulty, there were steps Sabina could take to try to identify the culprit. And to see that Amity was protected from harm in the process. The first of these, early on Monday morning, was a visit to the Hyde Street home of Elizabeth Petrie.

The one condition Sabina had placed on her willingness to investigate was that her friend agree to the company of an unobtrusive bodyguard. Amity had reluctantly done so. If Sabina was fortunate, Elizabeth would become that bodyguard.

The former police matron, a graying widow in her middle forties with a deceptively placid exterior that concealed a sharp wit and a tough-minded, uncompromising nature, was home and pleased to see her. Elizabeth’s primary profession was quilting, which she had undertaken after her police inspector husband, Oliver, was implicated in a corruption scandal and sent to prison; not long after his release, he had resumed his heavy-drinking ways and died of acute alcoholism. The scandal had cost her her matron’s job, but police work was in her blood and she eagerly supplemented her income by working with the city’s various private investigative agencies whenever a woman operative was needed. She particularly admired Sabina, the only member of her sex to forge a successful career in a business dominated by men; they had become friends as well as occasional professional associates.

As always — except when she was otherwise engaged, which she wasn’t at present — Elizabeth readily agreed to undertake the new assignment. She was even more enthusiastic in this case because of the subject’s identity. “I know Mrs. Wellman by reputation,” she said. “An admirable lady, to be working as hard as she does for the rights of women. I’ll do everything in my power to keep her safe.”

Amity had insisted that no public mention be made of her being in the care of a bodyguard; she and Sabina agreed that the operative was to adopt the guise of an old friend and contributor of time and money to the suffrage movement, who had recently moved to San Francisco and been invited as a temporary houseguest. Elizabeth had no problem with this. She would contact Amity right away at the Parrot Street headquarters of Voting Rights for Women and arrange with her to move into the Wellmans’ home this evening.

After leaving Elizabeth, Sabina considered paying a call on her cousin, Callie French, at the Van Ness Avenue residence she shared with her husband, Hugh, president of the Miners Bank. Callie was an active member of the social elite and as such knew or knew of everyone else of prominence in the city. Often she was Sabina’s first choice when information about the activities and foibles of influential citizens was required, for she was an eager gatherer and dispenser of gossip. If there was anything about the Egans, or Nathaniel Dobbs and others of his Anti ilk, that could be helpful, she might well know of it.

But in a case as sensitive as this one, Sabina’s cousin was likely to be more of a liability than an asset. For one thing, although Callie always promised never to reveal a confidence, she wasn’t always as discreet as she should be; Sabina wouldn’t dare admit to her that Amity Wellman was her client or the reason why, for fear of news of her friend’s unfortunate affair with Fenton Egan leaking out. For another, Callie was greatly interested in, if not always approving of, Sabina’s profession and was bound to ask too many probing questions despite Sabina having made it clear to her that professional ethics forbade her from discussing her cases.

No, she wouldn’t risk questioning Callie. There were other sources of information available to her. Including another, more discreet, even more well-informed source of gossip about well-to-do San Franciscans.

It was nearly ten o’clock when Sabina arrived at Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services. The door was locked, and when she entered with her key she found no indication that John had yet put in an appearance. This was typical of him; he seldom arrived mornings before she did. His excuses included business matters, transportation difficulties, and late-night activities that resulted in oversleeping, but she suspected that an indolent tendency and abhorrence for the mundane tasks of running a detective agency were equally responsible.

Whenever bills, accounts receivable, and the like piled up, as they always did at the end of the month, he made himself scarce for long periods. Usually, if she wasn’t busy, she dealt with the paperwork herself to make sure it was all done properly instead of in his sometime haphazard fashion. But today she was busy. And since John had told her on Friday that he had no pressing business, she made sure before she left that there would be no shirking of his share of this month’s paperwork once he finally showed up.

She spent the rest of the morning calling on the two most trustworthy informants she relied upon. The first was the Market Street newsstand operator known as Slewfoot. The fact that he was blind, or claimed to be, was more of a useful tool than a handicap; all sorts of people told him things or said things in front of him. Both he and the second information seller, Madame Louella, who ran a Gypsy fortune-telling dodge from a storefront on Kearny Street, had a coterie of contacts that extended into the bowels of the Barbary Coast, among other parts of the city. If a hired assassin had made the attempt on the life of “a prominent woman on Telegraph Hill” last evening, one or the other would eventually ferret out the fact and put a name to the gunman.

Since she still had little useful information about Nathaniel Dobbs and the Egans, Sabina made her next stop the Commercial Street building that housed the Morning Call. Once known as “the washerwoman’s paper,” for it had been aimed primarily at the working-class Irish, it had since evolved into one of the more responsible general-readership sheets. While not editorially in favor of woman suffrage, at least it refused to lower itself to the level of the muckraking attacks in such rags as Homer Keeps’ Evening Bulletin.

She spoke to two employees she knew, society page editor Millie Munson and old Ephraim Ballard who presided over the paper’s musty, dusty morgue. From Millie she learned that the Egans, while wealthy, were not members of the city’s social elite, neither having come from a moneyed background. Fenton Egan’s partner, William Bradford, was largely responsible for the success of their importing firm; he had put up much of the financing to start the business, and it was his knowledge of teas and spices and their suppliers in the Orient that had made it successful. Fenton’s contribution was public relations and shrewd salesmanship. If he had a penchant for extramarital affairs, Millie was unaware of it. Both he and his wife evidently kept their private lives private and had thus avoided any sort of public scandal. Ephraim, who knew a little about almost everything and everybody mentioned in the pages of the Morning Call, confirmed this.

Millie disliked Dobbs and his Solidarity Party on principle, being a suffrage supporter herself, but knew nothing about him or any of the other opponents to the movement that wasn’t public knowledge. Neither did Ephraim. According to him, bachelor Dobbs was a “backward-leaning blowhard” and his minions “a pack of blustering rabble-rousers,” and Dobbs’ entire public life had been little more than a sham. His “devotion to public service” as water commissioner was the result of nepotism — his brother had been a member of the board of supervisors at the time of his appointment — and the Solidarity Party a humbug designed to provide him with unwarranted attention and a living from donations and dubious speaking engagements instead of from honest work. No public scandal had ever been attached to him, either.

It was well past the hour for luncheon when Sabina left the Morning Call building, and her empty stomach was demanding attention. She walked to Union Square, where she bought sausage and sauerkraut in a soft roll and a bottle of soda pop from one of the food sellers. She sat on a bench, like Little Miss Muffet on her tuffet, to eat every morsel and drink every drop. A poor and not very healthy meal, one that cousin Callie would have heartily disapproved of, but Sabina had no time for leisurely dining today.

Ross Cleghorne’s Floral Delights shop, on Geary Street a short distance from Union Square, was her next stop. Mr. Cleghorne was more than just a “florist to the wealthy and influential.” In many respects San Francisco was a small town as well as a growing city; many secrets were not long or easily kept, particularly those involving immoral and/or quasi-legal behavior among those in the upper strata of society. Gossip was rife, and gossip was Mr. Cleghorne’s passion — to an even greater degree than it was to Callie. He collected a vast storehouse of what he called tidbits and large juicy bites, and was not above discreetly sharing it with professionals such as Sabina if he deemed doing so harmless to his business and his reputation. But he demanded a price for it, firmly if delicately: it was necessary whenever she called upon him to place an order for an expensive corsage or nosegay or one of his unique floral arrangements.

He greeted her with his usual effusive charm. No more than five feet tall and rather pear-shaped, he made up for his lack of stature by dressing in finely tailored clothing, wearing patent-leather shoes with large lifts, and combing his full head of white hair in an upswept pompadour. It was impossible, at least for Sabina, not to like the man despite his gossipmongering and his quid pro quo method of doing business.

“Ah, my dear Mrs. Carpenter,” he said. “As always you brighten my day with your comely presence. It has been much too long since your last visit.”

The flattery, typically overdone, was nonetheless sincere and therefore appealing. “And how have you been, Mr. Cleghorne?”

“Splendid. Business, if you’ll excuse the vulgar phrase, is booming. How may I serve you? A bouquet of red and yellow roses, perhaps?”

“A small corsage would be more appropriate.”

He pretended to pout, then brightened. “Ah! I have just the thing — a pair of lovely lavender-and-white cattleya orchids.”

“How much are they?”

“For you, dear lady, half price. A mere ten dollars.”

Sabina managed not to wince. “I’d like the answers to a few questions before I decide.” This was another part of their little ritual. If he had no answers or did and refused to divulge them, she would make this known and not be held to the orchid purchase. In his own mildly corrupt way, Ross Cleghorne was an honorable man.

A bell over the door tinkled as a well-dressed woman came in. Mr. Cleghorne signaled to a clerk to attend to the customer, then said to Sabina, “Naturally. Shall we step into my office?”

His office was small, neat, and filled with potted ferns and flowering plants. Once inside with the door closed, Sabina said, “To begin with, do you know of anyone who bears a serious grudge against any of the leaders of the woman suffrage movement?”

“By ‘serious,’ you mean—?”

“Serious enough to attempt to inflict harm.”

“Ah. Which leader did you have in mind?”

“I would rather not say. Do you know of any such grudge holder?”

“The suffrage movement engenders strong emotions in its opponents, as I’m sure you know. Enemies abound on both sides. I myself must remain neutral on this and other political issues, of course, so as not to offend any of my customers.” A self-serving statement if Sabina had ever heard one.

“You haven’t answered my question, Mr. Cleghorne.”

“Allow me to think for a moment.” He tugged at his pendulous lower lip, his eyelids fluttering as he cudgeled his memory. At length he said, rather wistfully, “No, I’m sorry to say that I have no knowledge of anyone who might wish to harm a suffragist leader.”

He was dying to know who that leader was, but he didn’t press her. That was another of their ground rules: she told him only so much as she felt was necessary and he wasn’t to ask for more. Nor was he to include what information she gave him in his spread of gossip to others. So far as she knew, he had never broken that covenant.

“May I be of any other assistance?” he asked.

“Possibly. What can you tell me about the man who founded the Solidarity Party, Nathaniel Dobbs?”

“Very little, I’m afraid. I know who he is, of course, but he is not a customer of mine and I have never met him.”

“There’s no unsavory behavior attached to him, then, so far as you know.”

“So far as I know. A conservative political animal, I should say.” He added sagely, “Of course, there are secrets in everyone’s life, some of which are quite jealously guarded.”

Not in mine. Though every now and then I wish there were.

“Would that be the case with Fenton Egan, of Egan and Bradford, Tea and Spice Importers, and his wife, Prudence?”

Mr. Cleghorne brightened. “Not at all. They are also not customers of mine, I regret to say, but it is whispered that neither is a pillar of moral rectitude. What exactly is it you’d like to know about the Egans? Tidbits or large juicy bites?”

“Does that mean there are large juicy bites?”

“Indeed. Mr. Egan is said to possess a roving eye, a very roving eye.”

“Numerous conquests?”

“Not as numerous as some of our lustier citizens’, but yes, I should say he has stepped outside the bounds of marital fidelity on a number of occasions.”

“With married women?”

“Married, widowed, divorced. Primarily, though not solely, those of the better class. His tastes appear to be catholic.” Mr. Cleghorne chuckled. “One might say that he is a social-climbing philanderer.”

“Do you know the names of his recent conquests?”

“One, perhaps, though I wouldn’t care to provide it. The lady happens to be the wife of a prominent political figure.”

Which meant, to Sabina’s relief, that Mr. Cleghorne wasn’t aware of Egan’s affair with Amity. And what he didn’t know he wouldn’t be tempted to gossip about. “Would you say that Prudence Egan is aware of her husband’s infidelities?”

“Undoubtedly she is.”

“I understand she’s quite a jealous woman.”

“Most women in her position are, to one extent or another.”

“The sort who puts up with her husband’s affairs so long as they’re casual and non-threatening to her marriage.”

“A difficult question to answer. I know the lady only by reputation.” Mr. Cleghorne tugged his underlip into a sly little smile. “Of course, one doesn’t have to passively put up with a spouse’s casual affairs, does one.”

“Meaning?”

“It is rumored that Mrs. Egan has indulged in a certain amount of retaliatory behavior. As a matter of fact, she is alleged to have rented a pied-à-terre in which she conducts her, shall we say, counteroffensives.”

“Which implies her husband is unaware of these counteroffensives.”

“Or of the pied-à-terre.”

“Do you know where this trysting place is located?”

“Only that it is reputed to be here in the city.”

“I don’t know that it matters, but could you find out the address?”

“With a little diligent effort, perhaps. I shall try.” Mr. Cleghorne rubbed his hands together briskly. “Now then. Have you any more questions, dear lady?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Then I shall go and fetch that cattleya orchid corsage for you. A virtual steal at a mere ten dollars, as you’ll soon see. And such a perfect complement to your ensemble and your lovely eyes.”

It was too late in the day to begin interviewing the Egans and Nathaniel Dobbs. And Sabina was tired and somewhat frazzled from the long day’s activities. The questions she asked and the answers and reactions she received from the trio would give her a better idea of whether or not any of them was a viable suspect. They were better asked in the morning, when she would be much more alert after a good night’s sleep.

One last stop at the agency to check for messages. There were none waiting, nor had any been left for her with the Telephone Exchange. All was well with Amity, therefore; Elizabeth would have informed Sabina immediately of any new threats or difficulties with the bodyguard arrangement.

John had been in at some point, and — wonder of wonders — he had heeded her note and made significant inroads in the pile of paperwork she had set on his desk. She felt a wash of tenderness toward him and chided herself for it because it was out of proportion to the task he’d performed. Such feelings came over her unbidden more and more often lately, rendering the (relatively minor) flaws and faults that had always nettled her in the past insignificant and excusable. She had even had a dream about him on Saturday night, a rather spicy dream in fact, the first of its kind in years. Memory of it brought warmth to her cheeks — a schoolgirl blush, for heaven’s sake.

She quickly transferred the remaining bills, invoices, dossiers, and notes for reports to her desk and attacked them with vigor. But the memory of that naughty dream continued to linger in a corner of her mind.