Bounty Hunter, page 15
“I didn’t know that, sir,” Langford said. He consulted his notebook, flipping up pages until he came to the one he wanted. “The dead woman was a whore by profession, and her name was Elizabeth Jones, but she was known on the street by the alias Jonesy.
“After Mr. Tone saw the body, he ascertained that she was the same woman who had solicited him outside her residence the night before by pulling up her skirt and acting in a lewd and offensive manner.”
“Why were you in Pisser’s Alley the night before, Tone?” Muldoon asked.
“Mr. Tone was—”
“Let the man answer for himself, Sergeant.”
Tone helped himself to a cigar. Outside, the morning was growing brighter and birds were singing in the elm tree in the front yard of Langford’s house. He lit the cigar, willing himself to stay awake. He hoped that Muldoon would cut his visit short.
“After the first murder, a witness said he saw a small, slight man run into Pisser’s Alley. Sergeant Langford asked me to investigate and I did, but saw nothing.”
“That’s when you were solicited by the recently deceased?” This from Langford.
“Yes.”
“And naturally, you turned her down?” Muldoon asked.
Tone nodded. “She was a fifty-cent whore with a child clinging to her skirt. What would you have done, Inspector?”
Muldoon was lost for words for a moment, then he said finally, “I have no doubt that Elizabeth What’s-her-name is the second Ripper victim.”
Tone saw Langford wince. “Yes, she was murdered by the same . . . perpetrator,” he said.
“It’s a bad business, Sergeant,” Muldoon said. “The newspapers are already jumping on the story. Did you see the Morning Chronicle’s front-page headline? ‘The Ripper Strikes Again.’ We have to catch this lunatic, Sergeant Langford, and soon. The mayor and more than a few aldermen have commercial interests along the waterfront and a mad ripper on the loose could be bad for business.”
“I am pursuing several leads and will continue with my inquiries,” Langford lied easily. “I am confident I will have the perpetrator in custody very soon.”
“I trust so, Sergeant. As I said, this is bad for business—very bad.” He looked at Tone. “Now, to the other matter at hand, the shooting of ”—it was Muldoon’s turn to consult his notebook—“Silas Pickett, by one John Tone, age thirty-seven, of no fixed abode. Occupation, laborer.” There was not a great deal of friendliness in the inspector’s eyes. “Enlighten me, especially since the killing was done while said John Tone was in the company of a San Francisco sergeant of police.”
“What did you find out about Pickett, Inspector?” Langford asked.
Muldoon consulted his notebook again. “He was a seafaring man, but for the past few years has worked as a runner, shanghaiing sailors for the New York and Boston ships. He was twenty-nine years of age, unmarried, and was named as a suspect in several murders but never prosecuted. He was reputed to have been a crack shot with the revolver and . . . well, that’s all I have on him at the moment.”
Langford nodded. “After I posted an officer at the murder scene, I proceeded—”
“I want to hear it from Mr. Tone,” Muldoon said.
“As Sergeant Langford was about to say, we returned to Pacific Street and proceeded to the Jolly Jack tavern to consult with an informant,” he said. He was smiling inwardly at his use of the word “proceeded.” It seemed that coppers never walk, they always proceed. And he recalled Langford’s caution about telling senior officers as little as possible, so he played his cards close to his chest.
“The informant was not present and we returned to Pisser’s Alley. We were proceeding along the alley in a southerly direction when we came under fire.”
“At whom was this fire directed?” Muldoon asked.
“I believe it was directed at me,” Tone said.
“Aha! Now, please go on.”
“I ascertained that my assailant was hiding in the shadows at the corner of a nearby dwelling and I proceeded to return fire. I saw the man stagger and fall and when we examined him we ascertained that he was already dead.”
Tone sat back in his chair, looking at Muldoon. It seemed that all his “proceeding” and “ascertaining” had pleased the inspector greatly, because the man was smiling.
“A clear case of self-defense, wouldn’t you say, Sergeant Langford?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, indeed. But Mr. Tone somewhat understates his role in the fight. He stood in the open to engage Pickett, and I have never seen anyone draw and work revolvers with such exquisite accuracy and rapidity. It was splendid work, and Mr. Tone’s behavior was exemplary.”
“Yes, yes, no doubt,” Muldoon said. “But one must wonder why he was targeted in the first place.”
“He was with me,” Langford said. “That was cause enough.”
Muldoon nodded. “Policing the waterfront is a hazardous business.” He drained his cup, rose to his feet and collected his cap, swagger stick and gloves. “One more thing, before I leave, Sergeant. A little bird told me that following the bombing of Joseph Carpenter’s saloon, the various rogues who between them control eighty percent of the Barbary Coast are planning a peace conference. Have you heard anything to that effect?”
“I have heard that same rumor, yes, and my inquiries are proceeding as to time and location,” Langford said, his face straight.
“Good. We can’t have more bombings, Sergeant. Bad for business. Peace along the waterfront is desired, both by the mayor and his aldermen. I don’t have to tell you that the mayor is nothing if not a generous man. It wouldn’t surprise me at all to see promotions all round if the peace talks succeed.”
“I’ll bear that in mind, sir,” Langford said. He stood. “Let me show you to the door, Inspector.”
Before he turned to leave, Muldoon said, “Good work, Mr. Tone. Keep it up and you’ll be in uniform in no time.”
“Thank you,” Tone said. Like Langford, he did not even crack a smile.
Chapter 28
The next two nights passed without a Ripper murder and there were no more attempts made on Tone’s life. But there was a strange tension along the waterfront, as though it were holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
On the afternoon of the third day, Tone was wakened by the murmur of voices in Langford’s kitchen. He rose, slipped into his pants and shirt and padded to his bedroom door, listening.
Someone, a man, was talking earnestly to the sergeant, but Tone couldn’t make out the words. For a moment he thought about returning to bed for another hour’s sleep. It was Langford’s house and he was entitled to entertain visitors in privacy.
But he decided against it. Some instinct told him that this was no ordinary visitor. Perhaps he was a man with information to impart.
Tone walked to the kitchen and Langford turned when he stepped inside. “Take a seat, Tone,” the cop said. “Now you’re awake, you should hear this.”
After Tone pulled up a chair to the table, Langford waved a hand at the tiny, shabby man sitting opposite him. “This unprepossessing character is Willie Sullivan, alias Wee Willie Winkie, for a reason that will soon become apparent to you.”
The sergeant sat back in his chair and glared at Sullivan. “Now speak, thou apparition.”
Willie winked. “Is there money in it, Mr. Langford?” He winked again. “I’m getting married, y’see.”
“Willie,” Langford said, “you’ve got maybe three teeth, no hair and you smell like a sewer. What woman in her right mind would marry a nasty little rodent like you?”
A wink. Then, “You’ll never guess.”
“No, I would never guess.”
“Dago May.”
“Willie, she’s a whore, and a looker. Hell, man, she won’t marry you.”
“Yes, she’s a whore, and yes, she’s a looker, and yes, she’s agreed to marry me. Well, as soon as I’ve got a hundred dollars.” Willie winked, winked again, the second slower and more meaningful. “Dago May knows bed stuff, Mr. Langford, if you catch my drift. There ain’t nothing she won’t do to make me feel reeeal good.”
The man winked. “She says after we get hitched, she’ll only charge me half price for every item on the menu an’ for some I ain’t even sampled yet.”
“A hundred dollars is a lot of money to pay for information, Willie.”
“I don’t need the whole hundred, Mr. Langford.”
“How much have you got?”
The man dug into the pocket of his ragged coat and spread some crumpled bills and a few coins on the table. He winked. “I’ll count it.”
It took some time, and Tone and Langford exchanged amused glances as Willie poked at his coins and muttered.
“There, it’s done,” he said finally. “Eight dollars and fourteen cents.”
“You’ve got a long ways to go, Willie,” the sergeant said.
Willie closed a muddy brown eye and tapped the side of his nose with an unwashed finger. “I’ve got two pieces of information, Mr. Langford. It’s valuable stuff.”
The sergeant got to his feet. “Stay there, Willie.” He looked at Tone. “There’s coffee in the pot.”
“What about him?” Tone asked, nodding to Willie.
“Hell, no, he’s not drinking from one of my cups. You want to catch a disease?”
Tone poured himself coffee and sat at the table again.
“Mr. Langford likes me,” Willie said. “I tell him stuff.” He winked. “Last year, I was the cove who told him it was Fat Freddie Ferguson who stuck a chiv in that Swedish preacher gal and robbed her. Fat Freddie got topped a month later.”
Tone smiled. “Very commendable of you, Willie.”
The man winked. “Me, I know a lot of good stuff that happens along the waterfront. I’ve got all kinds of stories to tell.”
Langford returned carrying a small tin box. He opened it with a key hanging from his watch chain, lifted the lid and took out a double eagle.
Placing the coin on the table in front of him, the sergeant said, “This for your information, Willie. If I think it’s worth it.”
“For half, Mr. Langford, beggin’ your pardon,” Willie said. He winked. “I have two stories to tell.”
The big cop shook his head. “You really are a disagreeable little shit, Willie. I’m only a police sergeant and you know I don’t make much money.”
“Times are hard all over, Mr. Langford. Information doesn’t come cheap no more along the Barbary Coast.”
Langford sighed. “Let’s hear it, Willie.”
The little man winked. “I know where the peace meeting is to be held, the big one, atween them as runs the waterfront. And I know the time.” Willie looked at the gleaming gold coin and touched his top lip with the tip of his tongue. “Six men, Mr. Langford, one of them Captain High-and-Mighty Lambert Sprague, who never gave a poor cove like me a nickel in his life.”
“How do you know about the meeting, Willie?” Tone asked.
“Dago May is one of the whores Captain Sprague has hired to provide the entertainment after the business is done.” He winked. “A baker’s dozen whores for six men. That’s a lot of ass.”
“Where and when, Willie?” Langford asked.
“Not tonight at seven. The night after that. At Captain Sprague’s house.”
Langford put a forefinger on the double eagle and pushed it toward Willie. When the little man reached for it, he pulled it back. “Now, your other information.”
“Cost you one more o’ them eagles.”
“This is all you get, Willie. I’m a poor man.”
Willie Sullivan rubbed his scaly mouth, then said, “Have you a bait o’ whiskey? To wet me voice pipe, like.”
Langford looked hard at the man, then rose to his feet. He opened a cupboard door and found an unopened pint of bourbon.
Tone smiled as the sergeant looked around frantically, sick with the notion that he’d have to give Willie a glass. Finally he set the bottle in front of the man and said, “Keep it.”
“And a cigar. I’m partial to a good cigar.” He winked. “An’ I know you only smoke the best.”
“Willie,” the big cop said, his strained patience thinning his voice, “I don’t think you’re going to walk out of here with your balls intact. You’ll be no good to Dago May then.”
“Ah, Mr. Langford, you’re a hard man, an unbending, stark officer of the law, an’ no mistake.” Willie winked. “The cigar?”
Grinning, Tone played peacekeeper and gave him a cigar.
“Light?” the little man asked.
Langford growled as he watched Tone thumb match into flame. Willie sat back, luxuriously wreathed in smoke, and opened the bottle. He drank deep, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, burped loudly, then said, “It’s sailor talk.”
“Let’s hear it,” the sergeant grunted.
“Push the coin closer to me, Mr. Langford, if you please.”
Cursing under his breath, the cop did as he was told.
“There’s been talk among the seafaring men in the grog shops that Captain Sprague and his pirate rogues sank a ship with all hands off the Golden Gate. I heard that the good cap’n gave her a broadside, then boarded an’ cut the throat of every jack on board.”
Tone couldn’t remember seeing cannons on Sprague’s steam yacht, unless they were covered up somehow. He looked at Langford, but the big cop was sitting forward on his chair, interested.
“There were no survivors, Willie,” he said.
“Ah, so you say. But maybe there was. Could it be that a certain whaling barque found a man floating in the water on a spar, more dead than alive? Could it be that the barque then lost the wind and was becalmed for three days and the jacks wanted to throw the man back into the sea for a Jonah?”
Willie drank again. “But could it be that the wind finally picked up and they brought the matelot into the port o’ San Francisco and that he now lies at death’s door in St. Mary’s Hospital, raving about pirates and”—Willie hurriedly crossed himself—“being tended day and night by the holy Sisters of Mercy?”
Langford shoved the double eagle toward Willie and he quickly scooped it up.
“I know his name,” Willie said slyly, winking. “Cost you, though.”
“Willie, you’re stinking up my kitchen, drinking my whiskey and smoking my cigars and I’m seriously thinking of killing you.” Langford smiled. “If I were you, I’d give me his name.”
“Bandy Evans, Mr. Langford, and be damned to ye fer a hard case.”
The sergeant rose to his feet. “Get out of here, Willie.” The little man shuffled to the door in his laceless shoes, the dirty old army greatcoat he wore trailing on the floor as he walked.
“Give my regards to the future Mrs. Sullivan,” Tone said after him.
Willie winked and nodded. “Thank’ee kindly, sir.” He glared at Langford. “It’s nice to know that at least somebody in this house is a proper gent.”
“Get dressed, Tone,” Langford said after Willie was gone. “We have to get to the hospital right away.”
“The whaler has been in port for days,” Tone said. “Strange we didn’t hear about the survivor until now.”
“No, it’s not strange. The only law that isn’t broken along the waterfront is don’t tell the coppers anything. I’m surprised a known snoop like Willie Sullivan has lived this long.”
He looked at Tone, a worried expression in his eyes. “If Willie’s right, and there’s been sailor talk, then Sprague might already know about Bandy Evans, unless he’s been too busy setting up his peace meeting. Let’s hope that’s the case and we’re not too late.”
Chapter 29
St. Mary’s Hospital was a grim five-story building perched at the top of Rincon Hill. Around the hospital sprawled a quiet residential area, now deteriorating into lower-middle-class shabby gentility. The new cable cars had helped make swanky but steep Nob Hill the city’s most desirable address for the rich and famous, including tycoons like James Flood, the silver Bonanza King, and the railroad robber baron Leland Stanford.
But St. Mary’s, despite its increasingly blighted surroundings, still shone as a beacon of hope for the destitute and dispossessed, and the sisters never turned away anyone in need.
As the day shaded into evening, Tone and Langford took a cab to the bottom of Rincon Hill and walked the rest of the way up its abrupt slope. Above them a broken sky promised rain and the trees that lined the street were alive with wind.
A reception desk stood at the center of a large lobby, manned by a nun who pushed her glasses to the tip of her nose and studied Langford over them as he entered. She was obviously interested at a visit from a police sergeant, less so by Tone, who was dressed like the sailors she admitted for medical treatment of one kind or another just about every night.
Langford stood at the desk and looked down at the nun. “Good evening, Sergeant,” she said sweetly. “Is this official business?”
Langford was brusque. “I’m afraid so, ma’am. There’s villainy afoot and I hope I’m in time to put a stop to it.”
“Oh dear,” the nun said. “I must confess, I don’t like the sound of that.”
“We’re here to visit a seafaring man named Bandy Evans, Sister,” Tone said. “He was brought here a few days ago.”
The nun was old, wrinkled, with the glowing yellow cast to her skin possessed by the saintly who have spent much time around smoking candles.
“We have many seafaring men brought to St. Mary’s,” she said. “Let me take a look in the ledger.”
The sister pulled a thick canvas-bound book in front of her and began to flip through the pages, starting at the most recent admittance, then working back.
“Ah yes, here he is, poor soul. Mr. Evans was brought in by Captain Saul Tanner of the whaling barque Derwent Hunter. The patient was suffering from exposure, dehydration and a fractured left tibia.”
“What’s that?” Langford asked. Impatience was clearly gnawing at the man.
“Shinbone,” Tone said.
“Then why couldn’t she just say that, for God’s sake?”
