Chapter Four
Man in society is like a flow'r,
Blown in its native bed. 'Tis there alone
His faculties expanded in full bloom
Shine out, there only reach their proper use.
—William Cowper (1731-1800), English poet
Artemus regretted having to miss the operatic performance; nevertheless, he knew he would enjoy himself at the Bohemian Club. Although not members, both he and Jim had spent time there as guests of friends who were members. The club recently had been founded by a group of newspapermen, but had expanded to include businessmen, professionals, even some scholars as well as entrepreneurs. The primary rule was "no women."
The building on Taylor Street was aglow with lights when he arrived, and he found quite a few friends and acquaintances already in attendance. When he inquired, Artie learned that the emperor was on the second floor in one of the game rooms. That Emperor Norton was welcome in the club, although not a dues paying member, was no surprise. He was welcome wherever he went in San Francisco, and rarely had to pay a cent for his meals, or even clothing. Perhaps the only expense he had was his daily rent at the flophouse where he kept a room, and that he managed with "donations" from friends as well as peddling his "bonds" and scrip.
Norton had the board all set up and ready to play. He greeted Artemus warmly and asked about Mr. West. "Jim had an unexpected invitation to attend the opera, something he felt he could not turn down."
"Ah, yes! I was at the performance Saturday evening. Excellent. Truly excellent. You should make a point to attend, Mr. Gordon."
Artie smiled. "I will." No need to tell him that if it wasn't for this date, I'd be there tonight!
The first game concluded rather rapidly, and Artie realized that his opponent's attention was not completely on the match. "Is something bothering you, sir?" he asked as the board was being reset.
Norton did not answer for a moment; then he fastened a steely gaze on Artie's face. "I have heard a rumor that you have become acquainted with Mrs. Ivy Carothers."
The mention of the name surprised Artie. They had not told the emperor any of the details regarding the recovery of his walking stick. "Yes, sir," he replied slowly. "We met her in connection to a case we are working on."
"I see. I was introduced to Mrs. Caruthers soon after she arrived in town. I considered her in my quest for a bride."
Artie's eyes widened. "A bride, sir?"
"Indeed. I am the Emperor of these United States and protector of Mexico, but I will not live forever. It would be a tragedy if I left this mortal plane without leaving an heir behind. Don't you agree, Mr. Gordon?"
"I do, your highness. You said you 'considered' Mrs. Caruthers?"
"Yes, but once I gazed upon her, I changed my mind." Norton leaned forward slightly and lowered his voice, even though they were currently the only ones in the room. "Take care, Mr. Gordon. She is an evil woman. I am certain she was part of the cabal that ruined me."
"I see." Artie murmured. Plainly he was confusing Ivy Caruthers with someone else. The "ruin" he spoke of happened twenty years earlier when he lost his fortune due to possible fraud in the rice market. That catastrophe may have led to the breakdown of his mental facilities, or else a plot to defraud San Francisco with his guise as the emperor.
"Do not let her know I told you," the emperor went on. "I have no doubt she looks upon me as her protector, as do all citizens of this fair city."
Artie cocked his head. "Have you met Mrs. Carothers more than that one time?"
"No. Nor do I wish to. I know about her and her brother. Pure evil. One only need look at her."
"I see," Artemus said again. "We will keep your warning in mind, I assure you." He did not want to ask about the "brother," certain that Norton had Ivy Carothers mixed up with another woman from his past. The conversation would likely go far afield!
Artemus returned to the hotel long before Jim did, but he reclined on his bed, reading, waiting until he heard the sound of the next room's door opening and closing. Sliding off the bed he went to the connecting door, tapped on it and then opened it.
"How was the opera?"
"Superb. If we finish this business before it closes, you really should see it, Artie. I wouldn't mind going again."
Artie smiled. Jim liked opera well enough, but for him to want to see any performance a second time was rare. "That's a good reason to work hard and solve this mess." He then told Jim of Emperor Norton's comments. "He has to be confused, but I asked him more about it before we parted for the evening, and he knows her correct address and the fact that she has been in San Francisco for only a few months."
"That's interesting," Jim nodded. "I guess we'd better see what Washington has to say about Ivy."
W*W*W*W*W
[Confucius said] To know that we know what we know, and that we do not know what we do not know, that is true knowledge.
—Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862), American author and naturalist
In the morning, they went to the train waiting in the rail yards. Artie sat down at the telegraph key and transmitted the message asking whether any information had been gleaned on Mrs. Ivy Carothers. Within minutes, the reply came. Artie wrote it down then looked up at his partner. "Well?"
Jim shook his head. "She sounds perfectly normal to me. She married a wealthy man in Cincinnati, was widowed, sold everything, and moved to San Francisco. Nothing 'evil' there."
"I agree," Artie sighed. "Most of the time Norton carries on a logical conversation. He was also discussing financial matters with the president of a bank tonight. But sometimes…"
"Sometimes he goes off the track. Still, how would he know Mrs. Carothers? Even know of her? Dozens of higher society ladies live in this city, get their parties and dinners mentioned in the papers. Why would he single her out?"
Both were silent a long minute, then Artie pulled the key toward him again. "I'm going to ask them to do a little more digging. Find out who she was before she married Carothers in Cincinnati."
"Good idea. Although I can imagine Bosley and Ned might grumble a little."
Artie laughed. "Why do they think they're earning the big bucks sitting at those desks?"
W*W*W*W*W
Annoyance is man's leaven; the element of movement, without which we would grow mouldy.
—Baron Ernst Von Feuchtersleben (1806-1849), Austrian poet, philosopher, and physician
In the afternoon, the agents returned to the Barbary Coast, together this time. One of their first stops was the Golden Eagle where Muff was on his regular chair. The bodyguard glared at them as they stood at the bar; he then rose and went through the door behind him. Moments later, Rance Ricks emerged and strode toward them.
"What are you doing here?" the owner demanded.
Jim gazed at him blandly, glanced down at the glass he was holding. "Drinking our beer. Why?"
"You're not welcome here."
Now Artie evinced surprise. "Why? What's wrong with our money, Ricks?"
Nearby patrons had noticed the exchange and were watching and listening. The flush on Ricks' cheeks indicated he realized he might have acted hastily. "As long as you pay for it," he snarled, whirling and stomping back into his office, slamming the door behind him. A few seconds later, the door opened again and although the order was not heard, apparently Muff was summoned inside.
"Rance appears a bit distraught," Jim observed, putting his glass on the bar. "Or perhaps worried."
"I noticed. You don't suppose he has something to do with the counterfeiting."
"The thought crossed my mind. Well, our work is done here, Artemus. Shall we move on?"
Before entering the Golden Eagle, neither had voiced thoughts about upsetting the owner, who might view the return of the federal men as worrisome. Of all the denizens of the sinkhole known as the Barbary Coast, both knew that Rance Ricks was one of the most likely to be involved in the distribution, if not the printing, of counterfeit bills. Ricks was ambitious and greedy. He had been suspected of involvement in other crimes including the theft of some jewelry from a hotel where a wealthy woman visiting the city had deposited her valuables. Nothing had been proven, however. So a visit to the saloon, if only to annoy the owner, was a given.
They stopped at four more saloons, not bothering to buy refreshments but merely talking to the bartender or owner about the possibility of bogus money passing through their cash drawers. One actually looked into the till and allowed them to inspect the tens and twenties he had accumulated. All appeared to be genuine.
"Should we continue?" Artie asked as they exited the fourth establishment. "I have a feeling it'll be futile."
Jim sighed. "Yeah. Unfortunately, even if a bad bill came through, they might not have kept it. These places don't want the law hanging around… for some reason." He flashed a grin at his partner.
"What next?"
"Well, we could see what these two fellows who have been dogging us want."
"Good idea." Artie had also spotted the pair who had appeared when they exited the first bar after the Golden Eagle visit. A couple of plug-uglies, one of whom he had noticed lounging in the Golden Eagle.
They stopped on the porch of a pawnshop, another ubiquitous business in the area. The two trailing men hesitated, exchanged a couple of words, then continued towards the agents. Jim and Artemus watched them, somewhat curious. I thought they'd duck into the nearest door until we moved on, Artie mused.
Jim heard the slight sound behind him and spun. Two more men had appeared, quite possibly from the alley between the pawnshop and the next building. Both were holding weapons. "Artie," he said softly.
Artemus looked around. "Uh-oh. Afternoon, gents. Something we can do for you?"
One of the men, with a face that looked as though a hundred fists had battered it, motioned with his weapon. "Into the alley, boys."
Jim looked behind him again. As he expected, the original two men were striding up rapidly, weapons in their hands as well. Four. We can probably handle that.
However, upon entering the indicated alley—which was long and dim—his viewpoint was changed. Two armed men waited there. The agents were disarmed and ordered to move deeper into the alley. Piles of trash and some discarded crates littered the ground, and for a moment, Jim thought about using some of that to cause a distraction, perhaps kicking a crate at someone. The opportunity did not arise. The two in front kept their glances sharp over their shoulders as they led the way, while the four behind were equally alert.
"What's this about?" Jim asked quietly, when they were ordered to halt.
"We just want to let you know you ain't welcome here."
The pudding-faced man jerked his head. One man grabbed Artemus's arm and pulled him back while a second man followed. Artie was shoved toward the brick wall of the next building, in between a smelly stack of food refuse and a pile of broken boxes and crates. The second man, a rather skinny fellow stepped up to grab Artie's right arm, suddenly twisting it painfully behind the agent's back, pulling him toward the wall.
The man facing Artie was much more muscular. However, Artie realized that the one holding his arm had a strength that was unexpected; the grip on his arm was firm. He knew what was going to happen. He was going to be pummeled by the one at his front.
I'm not Jim, but I know a few tricks!
The one thing he had noticed was a somewhat large piece of lumber leaning against the stack of crates a few inches to his left. A broken section of a two-by-four, about five feet long. As the man facing him wound up to launch a blow, Artie willed himself to ignore the pain in his twisted right arm, grabbed the heavy stick firmly in his left hand then swung it, pretty much in one motion.
The big man took the blow on the side of the head. For one long moment, he stood as a statue, shock registering on his muddled face. The man behind Artie was frozen in surprise as well, and his grip on the arm loosened slightly. Artie jerked himself loose just as the bigger man abruptly collapsed into a pile on the alley floor. Whirling around, he brought the two-by-four up and forward. Once again, it struck bone at the temple. The thinner man sank immediately.
Artie transferred the lumber to his right hand, and grabbed his own pistol from the lean man's belt. He could hear voices and commotion beyond the stack of garbage, including a grunt of pain. Stepping out, he quickly took the scene in and moved forward.
Jim was being held so that the large man who had ordered them into the alley could administer blows. Three men secured him, one on either side holding his arms, the third behind with his own arm around Jim's neck. A bloody lip on that man suggested Jim had got in at least a couple of licks before being overpowered.
Artie's first thought was to lift his gun and yell for them to halt. Just as quickly he realized that chances were Jim would be used as a shield. Thus, he stuck the gun in his pocket then stepped forward and swung his club again. Apparently, the bulk of the big fellow had blocked him from the view of the men holding Jim. The surprise was complete. The struck man staggered a little, then his knees buckled.
For an instant, the other three men did not move, staring in disbelief. Artie could see that Jim was gasping for breath, having probably been struck in the midriff more than once. The man to the left of Jim moved then, letting go of Jim's arm, stepping aside, and starting to pull the gun poked under his belt.
Artie coordinated his swing with the man's movements, and the stick slammed into the hand holding the gun just as it started to rise. Accompanied by a scream of pain, the weapon flew across the alley. "You broke my hand! You broke my hand!" The former possessor of the weapon held his wrist and bent over in agony.
The other two men moved then, releasing Jim, who sank to his knees. Stepping further forward, Artie swung the club one more time, crashing into the head of the man who had held Jim's neck. That man fell to the ground. Artie then grabbed his pistol. Before he could order the remaining man to drop his weapon, that one turned and ran down the alley. "Injured hand" followed an instant later, although not as swiftly. He was still moaning.
Artie watched them disappear among more heaps of refuse. Satisfied they would exit on the other end of the alley, he slipped the gun back into the holster under his jacket, dropped the club, and went to his partner, helping him to his feet. "Okay?"
"Not very," Jim gasped, "but I'll manage. What happened?" he was staring the two men sprawled on the ground.
Artemus pointed to the piece of lumber he had dropped. "Excalibur and I did the job."
Jim blinked, looked at his partner, and then at the piece of wood. "What?"
Artie saw Jim's pistol protruding from the pocket of the bigger man and grabbed it, putting it into Jim's hand. "I'll tell you later. Let's get out of here." He kept hold of Jim's arm and guided him slowly to the mouth of the alley, although not out into the open yet. "You going to be able to walk? I think we'd better get you to a doctor."
Jim caught his breath as he straightened his body. "I'm fine." The words did not come out as firmly as he had hoped. He did not know how many blows had been directed into his stomach, but he was damn sore. Breathing hurt. He was still holding the gun, he realized, and carefully put it into the holster under his jacket. To his amazement, he had spotted two more men on the ground.
"Sure," Artie nodded to Jim's claim of being "fine," knowing better than to believe his partner. "Come on. We're going to have to do some walking to find a cab." He muttered something further as they stepped out onto the street.
"What did you say?" Jim asked.
"I said that ought to teach them to underestimate me."
"Artemus, were you hit on the head? You're talking in riddles."
"Jim, they put two men on me, four on you. They thought they could handle me with just two!"
Jim chuckled, and winced. "Well, as you say, that'll teach 'em. By the way, thanks."
W*W*W*W*W
The doctor who treated Jim was one they had visited before. He shook his head as he viewed the rapidly darkening skin of Jim's midsection, but after a few moments of palpation of the injured area, he announced that nothing had been cracked or broken. "Wonder of wonders," he murmured.
He gave Jim a jar of ointment as well as some powders he could mix in water and drink if the pain kept him from sleeping. He knew as well as Artie did that the powders would likely go unused. The doctor also suggested they try to get some ice from the hotel restaurant.
"If the restaurant has ice, wrap some in a towel and hold it against your bruises today and tonight. Take a hot bath tomorrow morning and try to avoid anything strenuous. I know I'm talking to the wind, but professional ethics require me to say that."
"Yeah." Jim replied, pulling on his shirt.
Behind his partner, Artie rolled his eyes at the physician. "We'll have a quiet evening, at least. Or we'll try to, doc. Sometimes it's beyond our control."
"I realize that. But I can hope, can't I?"
W*W*W*W*W
Artemus was on his second cup of coffee when Jim entered the hotel's restaurant. He watched his partner make his way through the tables toward him. Jim's hair was still damp from the hot bath he had just exited, but what interested Artie more was the ease of movement.
"How do you feel?" he asked as Jim settled into a chair across from him.
"Much better. The ice, a good night's sleep, and the hot bath, just as the doctor ordered."
Artie had been extremely surprised when he peeked into the adjoining room this morning. The paper that had held the sleeping powder was on the bedside stand and had obviously been opened. He knew better than to ask about that now. Either Jim had been in deep discomfort or he realized that he needed to get a good rest—or both. He had risen early to take advantage of the bath requested before retiring last night. They had also obtained ice from the restaurant kitchen that Jim wrapped in a towel and held against his bruised body for long periods.
The waiter came up to bring coffee to Jim, and took their orders for breakfast. Jim took a couple of swallows, savoring the hot, strong brew this hotel prepared. He had actually felt somewhat groggy when he first awakened, due no doubt to the powder. In any case, he had slept deeply, probably without moving much, which soothed his bruised abdomen, further aided by the hot bath.
"I thought of something while I was soaking," he said then.
"What's that?"
"That we have pretty much ceased thinking about Ivy Carothers and her murdered butler."
Artie nodded thoughtfully. "True. Very true. We have devoted the last few days to Rance Ricks. Possibly because he has devoted his attention our way."
"I don't know about you, but I still haven't figured out where I know Mrs. Carothers or Roche from. No dreams last night."
"I know." Artie paused as the platters of food were served. He picked up the small pitcher to pour maple syrup over his hotcakes. "It has to mean something that we both feel we have seen them previously. But I don't know what that something is at the moment. We probably should go out to the Wanderer and see if any new information has come in."
"I was thinking the same thing. Tomorrow is Ivy's afternoon soiree."
"Yeah. It's probably not a bad idea for us to attend. Might be fruitless, but who knows? We've obtained information through odder means."
Jim daubed strawberry jam on the biscuit he held, looked up at his partner. "It just doesn't make sense though. Ivy Carothers is a wealthy woman. As far as has been determined, she gained that wealth legitimately, inheriting it from her husband. Why would she be involved in counterfeiting?"
Artie sighed. "That's why we need more information about her, James my boy. Let's hope that Washington was able to come up with some."
When they arrived at the rail yard and entered the train, they found engineer Orrin Cobb seated at the desk, diligently transcribing an incoming message. He barely glanced at the pair as he completed the missive and tapped an acknowledgment. Then he sat back with a sigh.
"Glad to see you two. I stopped in to pick up something I'd left under my bunk, and I've been sitting here taking down incoming messages for an hour!"
Artie grinned as he picked up the stack of papers on the desk. "Timing is everything, Orrin. Thanks. Get on out of here. We'll stick around for a while to see if any more come." The crew had been released for some time off while the agents were in the city.
Cobb stood up. "I doubt it. I think I got every one of them." He grinned back.
Jim accepted half of the pages as Orrin waved and headed back to the car where he and the other crew bunked. Both agents sat down and quickly scanned what had been received. Finally, Jim looked up.
"Anything?"
"The Navy has been watching Ricks for some time now, suspecting him of smuggling. None of the fake bills have shown up anywhere other than San Francisco."
"Concentrated here," Jim murmured. "Interesting. I got the batch about our lovely society lady, Ivy Carothers. First of all, Mr. Carothers died in a fall down the stairs in Cincinnati. He was about thirty years older than Ivy. Seems before Cincinnati, she was living in Pittsburgh, and her husband—twenty years older—died in a fall down stairs. He was also very wealthy."
"Well," Artie leaned back in his chair. "Well, well, well. A black widow?"
"Maybe. Maybe a coincidence. That's as far as they've been able to trace her as of now. Her name before the Pittsburgh marriage was Pickering and the department is trying to find out if that was her maiden name."
"Or another married name," Artie added. "The problem really is, if we start worrying about Ivy Carothers' love life—or lack thereof—are we veering away from the real problem, Rance Ricks?"
"Or vice-versa. I don't know Artie. My only idea right now is to hit the Coast again. This time maybe we'd better try to find some regulars who might know what's going on around there."
"Good idea," Artie murmured extending his sheaf of papers over to be exchanged. He read the ones Jim gave him and then glanced up to notice his partner staring vacantly across the car toward a window. "What's on your mind?"
Jim pulled himself out of his reverie. "I was thinking. Cincinnati and Pittsburgh. Not cities we spend a lot of time in."
"So not likely where we would have run across Ivy," Artie nodded. "We may have to ask her pointblank if we met her somewhere."
"Then there's Roche," Jim mused. "Were they together when we met them? If so, what was his true capacity in her life?"
Artie glanced down at the papers on the desk. "I guess the department hasn't found any information on Roche. Maybe I should remind them."
"Also tell them to send us a regular wire to be delivered to the hotel if they do get anything for us, so we can come to the train to receive it." Jim grinned briefly. "Can't count on Orrin being Johnny-on-the-spot every day and we don't want to take the chance of any of this information becoming public knowledge."
