Rebecca Hagan Lee (12 page)

Will had ordered the congee prepared thicker than the way it was normally eaten in China. There the porridge was little more than watery gruel, but Will had grown up eating porridge made from oatmeal and preferred it to the rice version. Unfortunately, oatmeal prepared the British way was almost unheard-of in Chinatown, and entirely unheard-of in Mr. Ming’s kitchen, where he and Jack ordered most of their meals. Thick rice congee, sweetened with honey and goat’s milk, was as close as he could come to the traditional Irish oatmeal on short notice and with a Chinese cook. He smiled down at Tsin, then grinned when the other six offered their bowls for refills in the Chinese girls’ version of Charles Dickens’s story of
Oliver Twist, or The Parish Boy’s Progess
that was music to his ears: “More, please.”

Chapter Thirteen

“If you want to be found, stand where the seeker seeks.”

—SIDNEY LANIER, 1842–1881

T
hey’re here,” Jack announced late that afternoon as he opened the door to Will’s private office.

Will looked up from his paperwork. “The Pinkertons or the players?”

“The players,” Jack replied. “They came to the back door in an Empress gin delivery wagon.”

Will shook his head in awed admiration. “You have to love the old man’s ingenuity.”

Jack agreed. “We’ll have to order some Empress gin labels and distill a few bottles in the event any of our regular customers ask for some.”

“Knowing the old man, he distilled a few bottles of his own and brought them to us,” Will said.

Jack grinned. “I’ll be sure and ask him.”

“You do that.” Will’s grin matched his friend’s. “Where are they?”

Jack delivered his status report: “I took the players up the back stairs. The ladies are in five of the rooms and the gents are guarding them. Our seven girls are in your sitting room. The old man is having a drink at the bar.”

“What about the Pinkertons? Did you hear from them?” Will asked.

“We got a wire from the Denver office. They’re sending men, but they won’t arrive until late tomorrow afternoon.”

Will did his best not to show his uneasiness at that bit of information, but couldn’t bite back his groan or fool Jack.

“We could try the San Francisco office,” Jack suggested. “It’s a risk, but . . .”

Will shook his head. “It’s a bigger risk than I’m willing to take. If corruption permeates the city government and police, how do we know it hasn’t pervaded the Pinkerton agency in San Francisco?” He looked at Jack. “Were there any names on your brother’s list from the local office?”

“No,” Jack replied. “None of the agents Murphy knew to be absolutely trustworthy were assigned the San Francisco office.”

“Then the risk is too great,” Will decided. “We’ll move forward with what we have tonight. If the old man’s finished his drink, ask him to come in so we can finalize the plans.”

Jack nodded. “I’ll send him in.”

“Has any of your bar help arrived?”

“Luis and Ben.”

“Leave one of them to work the bar. I want you here when I meet with the old man so we can go over the final details,” Will told him.

“You’ve got it.” Jack turned to the door. “I’ll go get him.”

Jack returned a few minutes later with an elderly gentleman blessed with the visage, stature, and charm of a leprechaun, and with enough cunning and talent to dwarf a colossus. Born Humphrey Osborne, the old man had celebrated seven decades of life. He was a colleague of Father Francis Paul, the priest at St. Mary’s Catholic Church near Portsmouth Square, with whom Osborne had gone to seminary. But Osborne hadn’t remained a priest. He’d left the Church after twenty years to tread the boards as an actor. And he’d never regretted his decision. The Church had been his family’s choice for him. Osborne loved the pageantry, but had never cared much for the religious dogma. He preferred the works of Shakespeare and Marlowe and Sheridan, of Molière and the classical Greek comedies and tragedies.

“Hello, Will, my boy.” Osborne greeted Will with a handshake and an embrace, his voice a charming Irish lilt. “It’s good to see you again.”

“It’s good to see you again, Sir Humphrey,” Will replied, using the courtesy title the former priest had adopted when he took to the stage. “Thank you for coming. I realize Saturdays are one of your busiest performance nights and that doing a favor for us is costing you box office revenue.”

“Not to worry, my boy,” Sir Humphrey assured him. “Your generosity has made it possible for our little troupe to take a Saturday busman’s holiday now and then without worrying about the finances. We are in your debt.”

“Not at all, Sir Humphrey,” Will answered. “You’ve more than paid your debt to me with your discretion, loyalty, and talent.”

Sir Humphrey scratched his grizzled head. “On that I am afraid we must agree to disagree, my boy, for you gave a poor troupe of performers a home and a place to earn our living.”

Will had met Sir Humphrey a year earlier, when the traveling troupe of the Empire Players had spent three weeks in the mining camps of the High Sierras and Coryville, performing Shakespearean comedies and tragedies in the camps and in the Coryville Town Auditorium. During the final week of the tour, James Craig had hosted the troupe in the Coryville Hotel, and while sharing dinner one evening, Sir Humphrey confided that while he loved traveling, he was old enough to crave a softer bed and a permanent home.

Will had offered the leader of the Empire Players a vacant San Francisco coffee warehouse he had purchased as an investment and financed the renovations needed to turn the vast warehouse into a theater and apartments for the actors. He had originally intended to rent the space to the players for a nominal fee, but he’d reconsidered and decided to give the theater to Sir Humphrey when he’d built the Silken Angel Saloon and realized the thespians could be of help with his special project.

And Sir Humphrey had never failed him. An abolitionist to the core, he and his players had come during the two previous missions, and the members of the troupe hadn’t breathed a word about their performances at the Silken Angel Saloon.

Will knew that he and Jack wouldn’t have been able to accomplish everything they had if it hadn’t been for the help of the Empire Players. And he was grateful.

“What do you need us to do, my boy?” Sir Humphrey asked.

Will gestured for Jack and the elder gentleman to take a seat while he detailed the plan for the evening. “First, we need men who look like Pinkerton detectives. . . .”

When Will finished explaining the plan, Sir Humphrey rubbed his hands together in delight. There was nothing he loved more than a good theatrical. “With or without real weapons?”

Will was taken aback by the question. Surprised that a former priest would think to ask about weapons—real or otherwise.

“Real,” Jack replied before Will could. “We’ve got a safe full of cash, a small fortune in liquor, and a canvas for a front wall.”

Sir Humphrey nodded. “Set decoration, my boy,” the wizened little man said to set Will’s mind at ease. “Weapons on make-believe Pinkerton men create the illusion of force. I couldn’t help but notice your storefront met with another unfortunate accident.”

Will gave him a wry smile. “One we affectionately call Typhoon Julia.”

“So . . .” Sir Humphrey grasped the situation. “The little missionary went back on her word.”

Will was genuinely taken aback. “You heard?”

“Of course,” Sir Humphrey told him. “San Francisco may be a city, but it gossips like a small town.” He stood up and wiped his hands down the front of his trousers. “I’d better start unloading the costumes and props.” He glanced at Jack. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to borrow one of your men. We don’t want the customers to see the Pinkertons unloading a liquor wagon in work clothes.”

Jack stood up and headed for the door. “I’ll get Luis to help.”

“Good,” Sir Humphrey pronounced. “Good. Start with the case of Empress gin I brought for the bar.” He looked at Will. “We’ll be wanting a nip of gin to quench our thirst after the manual labor. . . .”

Chapter Fourteen

“Audacity augments courage.”

—PUBLILIUS SYRUS, 1ST CENTURY B.C.

R
eturning to the Russ House Hotel after an afternoon spent meeting donors to the Salvationist mission work at the Christian Ladies’ Benevolent Society tea, Julie couldn’t shake the feeling of being followed.

Glancing over her shoulder once again at the city policeman down the street, Julie ducked inside a store with the sign,
EVANGELINE DUMOND, DRESSMAKER AND MILLINER,
two doors up from the Russ House Hotel. Pretending to browse the latest selection of Parisian fashions, Julie did her best to convince herself that if the person following her was male, he would avoid the inside of a dressmaker’s shop like the plague.

Selecting a ready-made jade-green serge walking dress and a matching green bonnet with a netted brim from a display near a willow dress form, Julie slipped into one of the two curtained alcoves the shop owner used as dressing rooms and tried the dress and the deep half bonnet on for size. The dress was an inch too long, so Julie added another stiff starched petticoat and a pair of high-heeled boots to compensate for the length. She accessorized her new frock with a matching short cape, gloves, and a brown false fringe and curls for her hair. Affixing the hairpieces to her dark auburn hair, Julie stared into the mirror mounted on the wall and debated her color choice of jade green.

She wanted to blend in instead of standing out, and she decided that the man following her wouldn’t be looking for a missionary in a fashionable and expensive Parisian-style walking costume. Although there was no rule against it, no one expected Salvationist missionaries to be people of independent means. The idea that missionaries were poor was an erroneous but pervasive myth, and the Salvationists contributed to the myth by insisting their female missionaries wear ugly gray dresses and black boots that bore no resemblance to anything stylish or fashionable.

After deciding to wear her new purchase of the green dress and carry her other purchases of a brown-and-camel-striped silk day dress with all the necessary accessories—including a black wig with a straight-cut fringe and hair that hung down her back that she thought would work with her laundry girl disguise. After quickly plaiting the wig into a long queue, Julie had her Salvationist dress wrapped in brown paper along with her new day dress and accessories, then placed her new green bonnet on her head and her old gray bonnet and black wig in a hatbox. She glanced out the front window and saw the San Francisco city constable leaning against the post of a gas street lamp surveying the boardwalk up and down and across the street, watching the late-afternoon shoppers. With her heart racing, Julie gathered her belongings and hurried into the nearest hansom cab.

“The Russ House Hotel, please,” she directed.

“Miss, the Russ House Hotel is two doors down,” the driver told her. “It’s hardly worth a fare when you can walk it.”

“I have purchases,” Julie answered. “I prefer to ride. And I’ll double your fare.”

The driver heaved a put-upon sigh. “It’s your dollar.”

Clucking to his horse, the driver pulled out into traffic and drove Julie ten or so feet to the front door of the hotel. He parked his cab in line behind three or four others and waited for the hotel doorman to open the door for his passenger.

Scooping her packages into her arms, Julie leaned forward in order to exit the cab. Through the window in the door she saw the doorman conversing with the city policeman who had followed her from Mission Street, and quickly called out to the driver, “Driver, I just remembered I’ve other errands to run.”

“Where to?”

Julie had to stop and think. She didn’t minister to the affluent citizens of San Francisco and knew only a few places in town where ladies shopped or dined with regularity. She needed to come up with someplace she would be safe. Oddly enough, her first thought was the Silken Angel Saloon and Will Keegan, despite the fact that she had done her best to destroy it only hours ago. It was the one place in all of San Francisco where she felt safe, and Julie suspected the only reason for that was Will Keegan. Her second thought was Wu’s Gum Saan Laundry, but it lay in the heart of Chinatown, and Chinatown had become more dangerous than ever for her. And her presence at the laundry could be hazardous for Zhing and Mr. Wu. She couldn’t go back to the mission dressed as she was; nor did she want to. The mission offered basic shelter and necessities, but she doubted the Salvationists could keep her safe, even if they could bring themselves to raise a hand against another human being in order to protect her. The most Julie thought they might do was send for the police, and the police might be her greatest enemy. Julie bit her bottom lip as she considered her options. She couldn’t go to the Silken Angel. She couldn’t go to Wu’s. She wouldn’t go to the mission. “Ghirardelli Chocolate Company.”

The cabbie laughed. The chocolate shop was a favorite of San Franciscans, especially young ladies. It was one of the few places in town where they could go unescorted and enjoy chocolate confections and pastries and the most delicious cup of hot chocolate in the city. “Corner of Greenwich and Powell. Right away, miss.”

Julie hazarded a nervous glance toward the front entrance of the Russ House as the cabdriver announced her destination, but the policeman didn’t appear interested in the cab and was pointing toward the dressmaker’s shop.

She said a heartfelt prayer of thanks as the cab merged smoothly into the late-afternoon traffic and headed for Ghirardelli’s without incident. Sitting back against the seat cushions, Julie forced herself to breathe normally as she tried to calculate how far it was from the hotel to the chocolate shop. As long as she was alone in the cab, she was safe.

But the ride didn’t last very long, and before she knew it the cab had pulled up to the front of Ghirardelli’s. Julie waited for the cabbie to open the door and lower the steps before alighting from the vehicle. He helped her down and gathered her packages for her while she got out money.

Julie met his gaze as she handed him his fare and a generous tip. “Would you consider returning for me in half an hour?” she asked.

“I’ll wait for you, miss, if you’re willing to pay the half-hour fare,” he told her.

Julie stuck out her hand. “It’s a bargain, Mr. . . .”

“Winston.” He took her hand in his and shook it. “Miss?”

“Burke.” Not willing to give her real name, Julie said the first name that popped into her head, then remembered where she’d heard it.
William Burke Keegan. My friends call me Will.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Winston.”

“The pleasure is mine, Miss Burke.” He doffed his hat to her. “You may leave your packages in the cab. I won’t be accepting any other fares until I see you safely home.”

“Thank you, Mr. Winston.” She smiled at him, then shivered as the wind coming off the bay seemed to cut right through her. “Shall I have them bring you a hot chocolate while you wait?”

“That would be most kind of you, miss, and greatly appreciated.”

“Consider it done,” she assured him. “I shall return in one half hour.”

“Take your time, miss. There’s no rush. I’ll be here when you’re ready to leave.”

The cabbie was as good as his word. He was waiting when Julie emerged from the chocolate shop exactly one half hour later with a box of chocolate pastries and three tins of chocolates. The pastries were for Julie’s breakfast, but the tins of the exquisite chocolates were meant as gifts. Mr. Winston jumped down from his vehicle to pull out the steps and open the door to hand her into the coach.

“Thank you for the hot chocolate, Miss Burke,” he said. “It was most welcome, and took the edge off the chill of the evening.”

Julie was gracious. “These are for you as well.” She handed him a tin of chocolates. “With my gratitude.”

“Thank you, miss.” The cabbie was genuinely touched by her thoughtfulness. “Where would you like to go?”

“Back to the Russ House Hotel.”

“As you wish.” Mr. Winston climbed up to his seat, clucked to his horse, and began the short trip back to the hotel.

Julie let out a sigh of relief when the coach rolled to stop and the hotel doorman opened the coach door. The policeman who had followed her from Mission Street was gone. She directed the doorman to collect her packages and have them delivered to her room while she paid and thanked the cabdriver once more.

“Anytime you need a cab, miss, you have Turner there”—he pointed at the hotel doorman—“send for me.”

“I’d be pleased to, Mr. Winston,” she promised.

He waved good-bye and doffed his top hat to her. Julie waved back, then turned and entered the hotel.

She walked through the lobby and stopped at the front desk to collect her room key from the desk clerk. Hotels in the West routinely collected keys from guests when they left their rooms, returning the keys for the night upon request. “I would like the key to my room, please.”

The desk clerk stared at her. “I’m sorry, miss, but are you registered here?”

Remembering that she was wearing dark brown hairpieces and the deep half bonnet to hide her red hair, Julie quickly rephrased her request. She was getting good at lying, perhaps too good. Julia Jane Parham prided herself on always telling the truth, no matter what the consequences, but now . . . The fact that her fabrications were growing more elaborate and easier to concoct was cause for concern. She promised herself she would do something about it. But not as long as her safety depended upon her quick wits. “Forgive me,” she told the desk clerk. “I’m Jane Burke. I’ve come to join my cousin, Miss Parham. She wired me with instructions to come here and ask for the key to her room.”

“That’s quite all right, Miss Burke. You may share a room with your cousin, but you must sign the hotel register in order to do so.”

“Of course,” Julie agreed. “But I should like a room of my own, if that is possible.” She knew the room next to hers was vacant. “Perhaps one that connects to Miss Parham’s . . .” She dropped the suggestion hoping the desk clerk would pick up on it.

“As it happens,” the desk clerk began, “the room next to Miss Parham’s is available. It doesn’t connect, but it’s right next door.” He collected the key from the eighth box in the row of open cubicles mounted behind the desk and held it out to her. “Room eight. Up the stairs to the right.”

Julie took the key he offered. “Thank you.”

“Thank
you
, Miss Burke, and welcome to the Russ House Hotel.”

“I left packages with the doorman,” Julie remembered.

“We’ll have them sent up to your room.”

“Thank you again.” She turned toward the stairs.

The desk clerk stopped her. “Miss Burke?”

Julie turned back to the front desk. “Yes?”

“The girl from Wu’s Gum Saan Laundry delivered Miss Parham’s laundry this afternoon.” He lifted a package wrapped in thick brown paper from behind the front desk. “Would you please tell her it’s here?”

“Why don’t you give it to me?” Julie suggested, reaching for the package. “I’ll see that she gets it.”

“That’s most considerate of you, Miss Burke, and just so you know, we have a ‘no Celestials’ policy at the Russ House. If you would be kind enough to remind Miss Parham to ask one of our employees to collect her laundry from Wu’s, rather than have the China girl come to the hotel to deliver it. We have a reputation to maintain. We cannot have Celestials running about the hotel. It upsets our guests.”

“I see.” Her words were clipped and precise as Julie struggled to mask her anger. “My apologies, sir. I’m quite certain Miss Parham was not aware of your hotel policy. She would never purposely upset your guests—or upset the Chinese laundry girl by asking her to trespass where she isn’t allowed.” She took the package out of the clerk’s hands and carried it upstairs.

Her packages arrived shortly after Julie entered her room. After accepting them and tipping the bellman, Julie closed and locked the door behind her, then collapsed on the bed. What was she going to do now? She’d become three people—Julie Parham, Jane Burke, and Jie Li, the laundry girl. She was paying for two hotel rooms, and she couldn’t leave either one of them dressed as Jie Li. And Zhing Wu couldn’t come to the hotel and act as a lady’s maid to transform her into Jie Li or back into Julie. How was she going to get back to Chinatown to search for Su Mi? Or to the Silken Angel Saloon to rescue the seven girls trapped there? How was she supposed to accomplish what she’d come to San Francisco to accomplish?

Julie wanted to pound the mattress in frustration and scream into the pillows, but what was the use of a temper tantrum if there was no one around to witness it? She needed to think, needed to find a way to return to the Silken Angel. . . .

Getting up from the bed, Julie changed out of her green dress and bonnet and removed her brown hairpieces. Opening her packages, she took out her Salvationist uniform and reluctantly put it on. She had to make an appearance sometime, and she might as well use it to retrieve her room key.

Dressed as a Salvationist missionary, Julie left room number eight and went out the back exit, walked around the hotel, and entered through the front doors before approaching the desk to request her room key.