Bounty Hunter, page 14
“No, we didn’t,” Melody said, stepping forward aggressively. “Now put it to rest, Sergeant Langford. These men have been at sea for three years and they have plenty of uses for whores, but a ripping is not one of them.”
The woman waited until the roars of ribald laughter receded, then she said, “Now leave my place, Tom Langford, or I’ll play my bagpipes and drive you out.” She turned to the girl on the bar. “Fannie, my pipes, girl. I’ll give these gentlemen a skirl they’ll never forget.”
“Such drastic measures won’t be necessary, Miss Cord. Sergeant Langford has been circumspect and has accused no one.”
Langford and Tone’s eyes met. A small, slight man dressed like a gent had stepped into the middle of the tavern floor.
He was Luther Penman.
Chapter 25
“Before you make any wild accusations, Sergeant Langford, I have not left the tavern since late afternoon,” Penman said. “Is that not so, Miss Cord?”
“You’ve been sitting in the nook over there all night,” the woman said. “Aye, I can vouch for that, Mr. Penman.”
“I do enjoy the Jolly Jack,” the lawyer said. “It’s a quieter spot than most and I can sit and drink tea and pore over my lawbooks without being unduly disturbed.”
His eyes moved to Tone, who had expected to read hostility in them. Instead the man’s gaze was mild, without judgment. “How pleasant it is to see you again, Mr. Tone. We’ve all been quite worried about you.”
“I no longer work for Sprague,” Tone said.
“Yes, so I heard. What a pity.”
Tone struggled to get a read on that last sentence. He decided Penman hadn’t spoken out of sympathy. It had been an implied threat.
Langford had been studying the little lawyer closely, his probing eyes ranging over the man’s clothes from his shoes to his shirt collar.
Penman had noticed and was smiling almost imperceptibly. “Can I interest you gentlemen in a dish of tea?” he asked.
Tone was about to refuse, but Langford said, “Yes. I’d like to talk with you.”
“About this evening?”
“And other things.”
Penman gave a little bow. “I’m at your service, Sergeant. And I have some news to impart that might be of interest to you.”
The lawyer led the way to a dark inglenook to one side of the fireplace. The space had been enlarged to accept a small table and bench seats and was enclosed by high timber panels on three sides, providing a measure of privacy.
A candle burned on the table, beside a mutton roast, a dish of boiled potatoes and a gravy boat.
After Langford and Tone were settled, Penman beckoned to Melody Cord. “Tea for three, Miss Cord, if you please.”
He smiled at Tone and the cop in turn. “Now, if you will excuse me, I’ll finish my dinner as we talk.” The smile grew into a death’s head grin. “I assure you, gentlemen, I don’t speak with my mouth full.”
The lawyer picked up a knife and deftly carved slices of greasy mutton, handling the gleaming blade with practiced assurance.
Both Tone and Langford watched with fascinated attention, their eyes fixed on the fat-smeared knife.
Then Tone noticed something that would trouble him later.
Penman was a fastidious little man who was always immaculately groomed, yet the fingernails of his right hand were rimmed with half-moons of what looked like dirt.
For a moment Tone puzzled over that, but Langford’s voice pushed it from his mind.
“What time did you arrive at the Jolly Jack, Penman?” he asked.
The lawyer chewed on mutton, swallowed, then answered, “Around four this afternoon, and I’ve been here ever since.”
“Poring over lawbooks and drinking tea?”
“Yes, just that, Sergeant.”
“I don’t see any books on the table.”
“No, you don’t.” Penman reached beside him and held up a thick tome. “I moved them when dinner arrived. This volume is Mr. Thomas M. Cooley’s The General Principles of Constitutional Law in the United States. Would you like to quiz me on it, Sergeant Langford?”
The big cop drew back and tried a different tack. “Are you still working for Lambert Sprague?”
“I am still retained by Mr. Sprague as his attorney and business manager, yes.”
“Last night Tone here saw him throw a bomb through the window of Joe Carpenter’s saloon. What does your client say about that?”
Penman deftly cut a few more slices of mutton, spooned potatoes onto his plate, then covered everything with steaming gravy that pooled thickly on the meat.
“Mr. Tone is mistaken. Mr. Sprague was at home all night, entertaining a young lady. A dozen witnesses who were in his house at the time will testify to that fact.”
“Tone is willing to testify that he watched Sprague toss the bomb.”
For a moment Penman chewed thoughtfully, his jaw muscles bunching. Finally he looked at Tone and said, “Be circumspect, Mr. Tone. The accusations you hurl at my client could come back to haunt you in the witness stand. The jury would soon realize that you possess neither honesty nor integrity. How can a man who makes his living as a bounty hunter, a frontier gunman and murderous thug convince eight stalwart citizens of his honesty?
“As for integrity, well, we all know by now that you tried to convince Mr. Sprague to bomb a rival’s place of business. As a result, he threw you out on the street. Enraged, filled with an insane desire for vengeance, you bombed Mr. Carpenter’s saloon, then tried to pin the blame on your former employer. Where is the integrity in that? I wonder.
“Mr. Tone, if I got you on the stand I would chop you up into little pieces and feed you to the wolves.”
Penman beamed. “Ah, here is Miss Cord with the tea at last.”
Melody set the tray on the table, moving aside the mutton roast platter to make room.
“Miss Cord, do you still say I was in this fine establishment the whole evening?” Penman asked.
“Aye, I do,” the woman answered. “You spend so much time here, I’m thinking of calling you Jolly Jack.”
“Ah, Jack. Yes, Miss Cord, it would be an honor. For some reason, it’s a name I’ve always liked.” He looked at Tone. “Milk and sugar? No? Then I’ll just pour tea for you and you can make a trial of it. Sergeant Langford?”
“As it comes.”
Tone glanced at his steaming cup, fighting down the urge to reach across and wring Penman’s scrawny neck. But he admitted to himself the man was right. A jury would never convict Sprague on his testimony.
He decided to take a small measure of revenge by needling the man. “Penman, you hate women, all women, don’t you? Especially whores.”
The lawyer shrugged. “ ‘Hate’ is a strong word, Mr. Tone. Please be circumspect of speech. I don’t like women very much, that is true. I consider them dirty. Any creature that bleeds once a month is an unclean thing.”
“Did you know Annie Forbes?” Tone asked.
“No, I never met the lady.”
Langford said, “She was the whore who was murdered tonight.”
“Yes, I know. Hasn’t Miss Cord already alluded to the state of the young lady’s health? She had the pox. Such a woman would not be allowed to frequent the Jolly Jack.”
The cop pushed away his untouched tea. “You said you had news for us, Penman.” He sounded tired, the candlelight casting blue shadows under his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks.
“Good news, if I may say so.” He wiped grease off his lips with a napkin. “Ah, that was an excellent loin of mutton.”
“Let’s hear your news,” Tone said impatiently.
“Sergeant Langford,” Penman said, pointedly ignoring Tone, “there will be no war along the Barbary Coast, if such was ever seriously contemplated.” He paused dramatically, then added, “Mr. Sprague is extending the hand of friendship to his fellow businessmen and hopes that they will accept it most warmly.”
“And what brought this miracle about?” the cop said with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.
“Miracle indeed, sir!” Penman exclaimed. “My client is an intelligent man and he realizes just how destructive a trade war would be for the waterfront. After the bomb blast at Mr. Carpenter’s establishment where so many were killed and injured, Mr. Sprague decided that rather than imperil more lives, he would seek a peace with his five competitors.”
The lawyer smiled. “After all, on any given night you just have to look around Pacific Street and realize that there’s plenty of business for all. As he said to me only this morning, ‘One doesn’t have to resort to violence to extract money from another man’s pocket.’ ”
“How does he figure to pull this off, Penman?”
“Through intermediaries, he is sending invitations to his colleagues, asking that they meet at his house on a given date. The exact whereabouts of the five men are not known to Mr. Sprague at this time, but his ambassadors will find them.”
“When will this meeting take place?” Langford asked.
“Well, of course, I can’t give you an exact date, but it will be soon. Within a few days, I would say.”
“Keep me informed, Penman. I’ll have a police presence at Sprague’s house.”
“Not necessary, Sergeant. This is a peace conference. I assure you, there will be no violence.”
“Still, I’d like to keep an eye on things.”
“As you wish, Sergeant. Your officers will be most welcome.”
Langford slid out of the booth and got to his feet. Tone did the same and stood beside him.
Penman’s dead eyes lifted to the cop. “The bombing of the Bucket of Blood was a great tragedy.” His eyes shifted to Tone, then back to Langford. “I hope you deal with the person responsible very soon.”
“I plan to,” Langford said. “Very soon.”
He said no more, letting that statement lie between him and the lawyer like a duelist’s glove.
As they turned to leave, Tone stopped and turned back to the table. “Women aren’t unclean, Penman,” he said. “It’s men who think of them the way you do who are dirty.”
He didn’t stop to hear the lawyer’s response but followed Langford to the door and out into the foggy street.
Chapter 26
Sergeant Langford was waiting for Tone outside. “I want to go talk to the detectives,” he said. “See if they’ve learned anything, though somehow I doubt it.”
Then Tone remembered.
“Penman had dirt under the fingernails of his right hand,” he said. “He’s a fastidious little man and a thing like that is out of character for him.”
“Is he left- or right-handed, do you know?”
“Right, I think. He carved his meat with his right hand.”
“Penman was rooting around in mutton gravy,” Langford said. “It would be easy to get some under his nails.”
Tone made no answer, and the cop said, “Still, it’s something to think about. It could have been blood, huh?”
“Yes, it could have been,” Tone said.
The detective in charge of the murder investigation was an earnest young man who looked hot and uncomfortable in a high celluloid collar and tie.
“Find anything?” Langford asked.
The detective shook his head. “Not a thing. This will go into the records as just another routine prostitute murder. My investigation begins and ends right here.”
“I wonder if Annie Forbes thought her death was routine?” Tone asked, irritated.
The young cop looked at him. “Who the hell are you?”
“A friend of mine,” Langford said, a hard edge in his voice that warned, “Lay off.”
“I can tell you one thing, Sergeant,” the detective said, now seemingly anxious to please. “She was strangled before she was cut. She has severe bruises on her neck.”
“Would that explain the lack of blood?” Langford asked.
The detective nodded. “Sure. When the heart stops, the blood quits pumping.”
“You’ll tell me if you come up with anything else,” Langford said.
“Of course. But right now I’m investigating a dozen cases, and this one isn’t high on my list.”
After he and Langford left the alley, Tone said, “That detective feller really burned me.”
The sergeant smiled. “Don’t blame him. There’s too much crime in San Francisco and too few cops. That young man is underpaid and overworked and he’s doing the best he can. And he’s right. A murdered whore doesn’t keep the chief of police awake o’ nights.”
“Why didn’t you mention Penman to him?”
“No point in that. The man has a cast-iron alibi. He was in the Jolly Jack drinking tea when Annie Forbes was murdered. Melody Cord and a bunch of others will swear to that.”
“I think Penman did it,” Tone said. “He’s a sodomite who hates all women with a passion.”
“So tell me, how the hell did he leave the tavern without anyone seeing him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, when you do know, we’ll talk of this again,” Langford snapped.
The big cop was clearly on edge, so Tone closed his mouth, letting him be.
The rest of the evening was taken up by what passed for routine police work on the Barbary Coast.
At the Eureka dance hall two whores, the Galloping Cow and Little Josie Dupree, got into it over the affections of an inebriated whaler. Her talking done, the Galloping Cow, just as drunk as the whaler, summed matters up when she produced a .22-caliber pepperpot and cut loose at Little Josie, missing her with all six shots.
Langford gave the Cow a stern warning and hinted darkly of three days in the calaboose if the offense was ever repeated.
Over at the Last Chance Saloon, a female gambler name Darkie Rose accused fellow cardsharp Banjo Billy Bates of cheating, whereupon the incensed Billy tried to brain her with a whiskey bottle, empty, of course. He swung, missed, and smashed the bottle over the head of a rube who was sitting at the gaming table. However, the rube was a big farm boy who proceeded to pound Billy into a pulp.
Sergeant Langford ended the fracas when he buffaloed the large and enraged lad with his revolver. But the farm boy had a hard head and quickly regained consciousness. After a stern warning from the sergeant, the relieved rube ordered rum punches all round and everyone sang “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” including Langford and the battered and groggy Banjo Billy.
A person or persons unknown took a potshot at a streetlamp, but no damage was done, and a ferocious dog was reported in an alley off Pacific Street. Tone and Langford investigated, but the aggressive canine was not found.
Two cabs collided in the fog and the drivers argued about whose fault it was and then decided to settle the dispute with fisticuffs. Langford intervened and sent them on their way.
A total of six persons were rolled and robbed. There were eight assaults, one a razor cutting that was serious enough to require hospitalization for the victim and jail for the assailant. Someone stole a walnut ladder-backed chair from in front of Solomon Levy’s used clothing store, but despite a thorough investigation by Langford and Tone, neither the chair nor the thief was located.
As dawn broke and Tone and Langford wearily made their way home, the cop declared that apart from the ripping, it had been a quiet sort of night.
Chapter 27
Events escalated the following evening after the Ripper claimed his second victim and Tone was forced to kill a man.
“How it came up, Tone and myself were on routine patrol along the waterfront when the second whore was murdered, then an attempt was made on Mr. Tone’s life,” Langford told his superior, an inspector named Muldoon.
“Why was a civilian on patrol with an officer of the San Francisco Police Department?” Muldoon asked suspiciously. He looked at the sergeant. “Good coffee, by the way.”
“Thank you, sir,” Langford said. “Mr. Tone is seriously thinking of joining the department out of a burning desire to reduce crime along the waterfront and I was showing him the ropes.”
“What? Is he nuts?”
“No, sir, he wants to dedicate his life to law enforcement.”
It was a small lie, or at least a gross exaggeration, but it got him over the hump because Muldoon nodded, squirmed to get more comfortable in Langford’s kitchen chair, then said, “Go on.”
“Just after eleven o’clock last night, Tone and me were proceeding down Pacific Street when I ascertained that there was a disturbance in an alley between the Dew Drop Inn and Lo San’s Chinese laundry.
“Upon arriving at the alley we were informed that a woman had been murdered in her residence. She lived in a shack in a backstreet running parallel to Pacific Street that the locals call Pisser’s Alley.”
“I know Pisser’s Alley,” Muldoon said. “I investigated a murder there when I was a young officer, oh, about a hundred years ago.” He smiled. “Please continue, Sergeant.”
Langford poured more coffee for Tone and the inspector, then said, “The murder was reported by the dead woman’s friend, a sometime whore who goes by the name of Peggy French. She led us to the residence and we proceeded inside.
“The woman had given her child into the care of French while she entertained a gentleman caller, so she was alone in the one-roomed shack. She was lying in bed near the stove and was partially naked. As in the previous case, her throat had been severed by two cuts and her abdomen had been slashed open by a long, jagged wound.
“A message had been left in red chalk on the wall over the bed. I wrote it down in my notebook just as it appeared.”
Langford pushed the open book across the table. He had neatly copied the words:
The coppers are the boys who won’t buckle me
Muldoon pushed the notebook back to Langford and said, “Before I left the precinct to come here, I was told that the victim’s left kidney and part of her uterus had been removed.”
