Chapter Two
Woman is at best a contradiction still.
—Alexander Pope (1688-1744), English poet and critic
Aware that late morning was the time when society paid visits, the agents took themselves to a nearby restaurant for a midday meal before hiring a cab to transport them to Powell Street. All the houses in this elevated neighborhood, with views overlooking the city and the bay, were large and ornate. Although not all in the range of the mansions constructed by the so-called robber barons, most were very exceptional residences indeed, with grand landscaping surrounding each one. Some apparently had large side and back yards where entertainment might be done on fine days, i.e., when the fog left early enough to warm the temperatures.
The Carothers, formerly Metcalf, home was not as large as some others, Artie observed as he climbed out and stood back while Jim paid the driver, asking him to wait for them. Nonetheless, it was indeed a top quality house, freshly painted, with formal landscaping all around. He judged that the house contained four to six bedrooms, along with the requisite parlors, dining room, breakfast room, and all the various spaces people with money appeared to believe they needed in order to live a civilized existence.
The building was two-story, with turrets on the front corners, more than enough "gingerbread" on the windows, eaves, and broad porch. "Much too busy," he murmured.
"What?" Jim glanced at him as they started up the stone walkway from the street to the house; a walk that took them a good fifty feet from the street.
"The house. I prefer something much simpler."
"Yes, but Artie, you have no need to display your wealth."
"Sad but true," Artie sighed.
A slightly plump and rosy-cheeked maid, attired in dark gray with white collar and cuffs, a snowy starched hat perched on her auburn hair, opened the door, which surprised Artie a little. Most of these houses had a butler to do this chore. She stared at them, her gaze lingering overlong on Jim West, before she spoke.
"Yes?"
"We would like to speak to Mrs. Carothers," Jim said.
"I'm afraid she's not in," the maid replied dutifully.
Jim extended the leather folder displaying his official credentials. "It's very important."
"Oh!" Now the blue eyes widened as she stepped back, allowing them into a broad foyer with marble tiling on the floor. "Wait here!"
Whirling so violently that her skirts and petticoats rustled, the maid hastened down the hall, where she tapped on a door and entered. Moments later she emerged and nodded to them. Artie knew from experience that they were being invited to a "second" parlor, not the finest room, but after studying the art hanging on the walls of the hallway, along with crystal and porcelain displayed on small tables and etageres, he was prepared to see that this second parlor would be much finer than the first parlor in many homes.
It was not overly large, but French doors looked out onto a lovely garden with a small patio and extensive rosebushes, along with other flowers affording an airy, bright atmosphere. A Mexican man was out there tending the plants. The room contained very lovely but comfortable furnishings. A woman, who had been seated on a small sofa apparently reading, came to her feet.
"Gentlemen? Doreen tells me you are from the government. How may I help you?"
She was as lovely a woman as either man had ever observed, certainly in her forties, but age had served her well. Tall and slender, her eyes were pale blue and her face perfectly formed, if a bit on the long side. She's going to be beautiful for a long while yet, Jim decided. Her figure, under a stylish afternoon gown in a pale aqua, displayed well. Her waist had not yet begun to thicken.
"My name is Artemus Gordon, and this is my partner, James West. We are sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Carothers, but we need to ask you about a man you may be acquainted with."
"Of course. Let me ring for some refreshments. What is the man's name?" She crossed to a velvet rope suspended near the door and tugged on it. "Please sit down."
They did so, taking a larger divan directly across from hers. Jim answered her question. "We know him as Mouse Naiman."
Her brows lifted slightly. "Well, yes, I recognize the name. I hired him to do some work on the recommendation of my butler. Is he in trouble? I haven't seen him in… oh three or four weeks now."
The door opened before either could reply to her questions. The maid did a small curtsy. "Yes'm?"
"Doreen, bring some tea and cakes. And tell Roche I wish to speak to him."
Doreen's rosy cheeks suddenly became rosier. "Oh, ma'am!"
Mrs. Carothers looked at her. "Yes? Is there a problem?"
Plainly the young woman was nonplussed, her hands coming together tightly at her waist. "Oh, ma'am," she said again. "Mr. Roche ain't… isn't here."
"Where did he go?"
"Well, I don't know, ma'am. I just—I mean we…"
"Doreen!"
"Yes'm. Mr. Roche didn't come down for breakfast. Cook sent Jasper up to call him, and when Jasper came down, he said Mr. Roche wasn't in his room, and all his stuff was gone."
"Gone? What do you mean?"
"Well, Jasper said it looked like he just packed up all his belongings and left."
For a long moment, the maid's employer stared at her with a very unrefined open mouth. "Why didn't someone tell me?"
The servant was even more disconcerted. "Well, you see, Cook said it wasn't her place. Then Jasper said it wasn't his. And me…"
Ivy Carothers sighed. "All right, all right. Please fetch the tea." The girl disappeared, closing the door, and her mistress turned to the agents. "I'm sorry. I realized I did not see Roche earlier, but I did not think that much of it. I'm having a dinner for some friends tonight and I suppose I thought he was busy preparing for it. I cannot imagine why he would have walked out on me like that!"
"How long have you known him?" Jim asked.
"I hired him about three and a half months ago when I took residence here. I had moved to San Francisco to escape sad memories, a new start. I hired a completely new staff."
"What did you know about Roche?"
She looked at Artemus. "Not very much, I'm afraid. He had one letter of reference from a previous employer in Seattle. I have to admit that I did not have many applying for the position, and the majority of them were patently unsuitable. Roche at least gave the appearance of a trained butler. And he has been a good one… until now. This is so confusing. You asked about this Mr. Naiman, who was Roche's friend. Why are you asking about Mr. Naiman?"
"Because he's dead," Jim replied. "He was killed in an accident, but possessed some illegal goods that we are now investigating."
"Oh dear." A delicate hand lifted to her throat. "Do you mean that Roche's friends are criminals?"
"We don't know," Artie said. "Mrs. Carothers, can you give us a description of Roche? What is his first name?"
"Oh. Let me think. I am afraid I addressed him as Roche all this time… oh, Bradley I believe. Yes, Bradley Roche. I thought it was a dignified sounding name at least. A description? He is tall and slender. He looked very fine in a butler's regalia. His hair is rather a light brown, and he was always well groomed. Does that help?"
Artie prevented himself from looking at his partner. The description sounded exactly like the one Norton gave for the man who swiped his walking stick! The door opened then after a light tap, and Doreen entered with a teacart, resplendent with bone china pot and cups, and plates of several kinds of cookies and small cakes.
To be polite, they remained to enjoy the refreshments, asking Mrs. Carothers further questions. She did not know any of her butler's friends or acquaintances, aside from Mouse, nor how long he had been in the city. He had answered an advertisement she placed in one of the city newspapers. That was the same way she had hired all her staff.
As they were preparing to depart, she suddenly seemed to realize that her dinner that evening was going to be short a servant. "Oh, dear," she sighed. "I suppose we'll manage. Jasper has filled in to help previously."
"Jasper is another servant?" Jim inquired.
"I suppose he's a jack-of-all-trades," she smiled. "He does handy work and cleaning in the house, helps the cook when necessary and serves when I have guests, if it is—was—a little too much for Roche and Doreen. I have just the four—cook, maid, butler,… and Jasper. Oh, that reminds me. I would like to extend an invitation for the two of you to come to dinner this evening. I know it is short notice, but I believe you would enjoy it."
"Thank you," Jim replied with a slight smile, "but I'm afraid we're going to be too busy."
She put a hand on his coat sleeve. "I'm so sorry. Perhaps another time. Please don't hesitate to visit if you are in the neighborhood."
"That was interesting," Artemus murmured as they settled into the coach and it began its journey back to the hotel. "She didn't seem the least bit interested in having us find this Roche, nor bothered enough to check to see whether he might have pilfered anything before departing."
"I noticed. Artie, did she seem familiar to you?"
"I have to admit she did. When we first entered the parlor, I had this distinct sensation that we were meeting an old acquaintance. But after a moment or two, I realized that was not the case."
"She must resemble someone we met previously."
"I guess." Artie glanced out the window at the passing scenery. "I wonder if Roche's sudden departure had anything to do with Mouse dying and being found with counterfeit bills in his pocket."
"I imagine we might find out once we locate Mr. Roche."
W*W*W*W*W
A later visit to police headquarters was fruitless. Morris did not have any further information about Mouse Naiman nor the bundle of fake money. He also had nothing on Bradley Roche. He had put an officer to work digging through old files looking for Naiman's name, but thus far that search proved to be equally in vain. He would now ask that officer to look for a second name.
"He might have come here from elsewhere," the lieutenant concluded. "Maybe changed his name. Who knows?" He agreed to alert his officers to be on the watch for a man fitting the description the agents offered.
"We don't even know if his sudden departure had anything to do with anything," Artie complained. "Maybe he wasn't happy in Mrs. Carothers's employ. Jim, one thing we neglected to ask was whether Roche ever received any mail."
"True. If he did, he might have gotten some information that caused his abrupt exit. If so, it must have been something urgent. Chances are, he was due some salary which he apparently left behind."
Morris leaned back in his chair. "Which makes it all the more likely it could have something to do with Naiman. Somehow he got word of Mouse's death, knew about the counterfeit bills, and decided he'd best skedaddle."
"My thoughts too," Artie nodded. "But until we find Roche, we won't know. Not to mention we haven't the slightest idea of where to look for him. San Francisco is a big enough city now that people can disappear quite easily."
W*W*W*W*W
Plerumqueestnon ipsum.Situsquequaquemitterehamum; quominime credasgurgite, pisciserit.
[Chance is always powerful. Let your hook always be cast; in the pool where you least expect it, there will be a fish.]
—Ovid (Publius Ovidius Naso; 43 BC-c. 17 AD), Roman poet
However, locating Bradley Roche turned out to be not difficult at all. One might even say, Roche found them. West and Gordon spent the remainder of that day, well into the evening, visiting saloons and boarding houses in the seedier sections of the city, describing Roche to various people, all to no avail. They also admitted to each other that they noticed no indications that any of the people they spoke to were being dishonest. All seemed genuinely ignorant of such a person, by name or description.
The following morning, however, just as they finished breakfast in the hotel's dining room, a uniformed officer brought them a note from Morris: a body had been pulled out of the bay; a body that fit the description of Bradley Roche perfectly. They hurried to the headquarters, met Morris, and went with him to the morgue as Morris told them what had happened.
"Early this morning an officer on patrol at the piers heard a large splash, as though someone might have fallen or jumped into the water. He hurried to investigate, and saw the body floating just off the pier. He was able to use a gaff he found nearby to pull it in, so it hadn't been in the water long. Finding the man dead of a gunshot wound, he looked around for who might have tossed it in, but it was too late by then. Of course his original intention was to save a possibly drowning person."
Upon viewing the corpse, both agents had to admit that the dead man did indeed match the descriptions given by both the emperor and Mrs. Carothers. He had no identification on him, but his clothing also fit what Norton had described. They were not expensive, but still better than most men on the docks wore, even as their "Sunday best."
"I don't suppose we could get Mrs. Carothers to come identify him," Jim grumbled as they stepped out into the gray morning, which seemed bright and cheerful after the dank darkness of the interior.
"Not likely," Artemus concurred. "But perhaps Jasper."
"Ah! Good thought!"
Morris wanted to know who was Jasper, so Artie explained. "We didn't see him, but I got the idea he's no kid. Jim, I think we should go speak to Mrs. Carothers again right away."
"I agree. Her reaction could be interesting."
As they said goodbye to Morris and walked out to find a cab, Jim glanced at his partner. "Artie, did…?"
"Yes."
"Yes, what?"
"Roche looks familiar. I'm sure I've seen him before but I have no idea where or when."
Jim smiled. "Artie, I think we spend too much time together."
His partner chuckled. "Think so? I saw your expression when we first viewed the corpse and realized you were probably having exactly the same thoughts. Any ideas?"
"None. I wonder if it's important."
"We might know that if and when we remember where we encountered Bradley Roche."
"It's so strange," Jim mused as they climbed into the hailed cab. "We both think Mrs. Carothers is someone we've met, and now the same with a man who worked for her."
"Coincidence, perhaps."
Jim saw the twinkle in his partner's eyes. "Perhaps. Perhaps it might be a good idea to learn more about Mrs. Ivy Carothers."
W*W*W*W*W
Once more, they asked the hack driver to wait for them in front of the Carothers home. Mansion, rather, Artie had decided, after having viewed both the exterior and interior. Perhaps not as large as those others built by the likes of Stanford and Crocker, but certainly lavish. This time, although Doreen was surprised to see them, she invited them into the foyer at once then hurried to find her mistress.
Ivy Carothers had been upstairs, and she descended slowly, smiling. However, her eyes revealed she was puzzled. This morning she wore a simple gown in mauve, the only decoration an amethyst brooch at her throat.
"Good morning, gentlemen. I honestly did not expect to see you so soon, but I am pleased. Let's go into the parlor. Doreen, coffee, please." She did not bother to ask her visitors if they wanted the refreshments, similar to the previous day. She led them into a larger parlor, the primary room for entertaining, more richly decorated than the smaller room. A beautiful grand piano was situated in one corner.
When they were seated, Artemus tersely told her of the discovery of the dead man in the bay, and watched her reaction closely. The shock appeared genuine, as her blue eyes widened and she placed both palms against either side of her face.
"Dead? Shot? Oh my heavens. Oh, dear. Poor Roche. Was it a robbery?"
"We're not even positive it is your butler, Mrs. Carothers. He will need to be identified." Jim also watched her intently.
"Oh… oh, I couldn't!" The horror that shone in her eyes also seemed real.
"We wouldn't ask it of you," Artie said gently. "We hoped that perhaps your other manservant, Jasper, could help."
The request obviously surprised her. "Jasper? Yes. Yes, I suppose he could. I will—I'll ask him." She rose to go to the bell rope, but the door opened before she could. This time Darleen bore a tray with a silver coffee pot, similar fragile cups as previously, a pitcher of cream, and a bowl of sugar. Darleen seemed startled when her mistress told her to send Jasper in, but she nodded and hurried away.
"Was Roche… or the man… whoever he was… robbed?" she asked again as she poured the coffee.
"That would seem to be the case," Jim replied. "He had nothing on him."
"Oh dear. He had a lovely pocket watch that he said was handed down for two or three generations. How sad. He never had an opportunity to pass it to his son. If indeed it is poor Roche."
Artie cocked his head. "Was he married?"
"Oh, no. Not to my knowledge. However, he certainly wasn't an old man. Thirty-five at most, I'd say." She handed them the cups of steaming coffee and smiled when they refused additives. "Good. I prefer it strong and plain myself."
"How did your dinner progress last night, Mrs. Carothers?" Artie inquired. "If you don't mind me asking."
"A little hectic, but on the whole, it went off quite well. All of my guests have suffered servant problems of one kind or another. I do wish you could have been here."
"I'm sorry we had to miss it," Jim smiled. "Working men, you know."
The rap on the door halted whatever she was going to say next. The door opened to admit a man in work clothes. He was probably around fifty, with a scarred face, and graying hair that had not been cut in a while. I'll bet her guests were more than startled to be served by this fellow, no matter how well he was dressed last night, Artie mused.
He was introduced to them as Jasper Parrott, and when Mrs. Carothers informed him of the agents' request, Parrott immediately agreed. Both men could not help but notice that the man evinced no surprise, grief, or anything else. He was ready to accompany them to the morgue. "Just let me get my hat, gents."
Ivy Carothers was on her feet, as were they. "I hope Jasper helps. I really don't want the poor dead man to be Roche, but I have a dreadful feeling it is. Will you find out what happened?"
"We plan to try," Artie assured her.
"Good. Please keep me informed. Roche was a good employee, a valued member of this household. Oh, before I forget, I am holding a garden party Saturday afternoon—if the weather cooperates. I want to invite both of you to attend. I do hope you don't work on Saturday!"
"I'm afraid we never know," Jim said with a smile. "But if we are free, we will do our best to attend. Thank you."
She took Jim's arm as they left the room and went to the front door. Jasper was waiting on the porch. Mrs. Carothers repeated the invitation and urged them to attend. "Many pretty young ladies will be here," she teased, her blue eyes on Jim.
Artemus was not surprised. Despite she was ten or perhaps even fifteen years older than Jim, that usually did not stop women from admiring him. Jim had told him how Emma Valentine behaved when she had him as her prisoner. Not only older men sought younger women; older women often had eyes for younger men. He also remembered what Moira said, that Mrs. Carothers would be likely to welcome Jim with more than normal cordiality.
Thinking of that as the hack started back toward town, he had to wonder about Mrs. Carothers and her butler. The man they had seen at the morgue had been a handsome man in life. Although she did not seem overly distressed either by his flight from her house, or his death, who knew what their relationship had been?
With Jasper Parrott in the coach, they could not discuss their thoughts, but they did question the man. He had been hired shortly after Roche came to the house, he said, and recommended by Roche. They had been friends. Where was that? Oh, here and there, Parrott replied evasively. Parrott said he worked as a handyman around the city, but had not had a permanent position for a long time. He had some experience as household staff as well. "When I was younger and more presentable," he chuckled.
Still he did not mind helping when the Mrs. gave a party. "She don't like to keep a big staff, I reckon. Not that she don't have the money. You seen that place. All the money she put into it? There's plenty left over, no doubt."
"Do you know where Mrs. Carothers lived before coming to San Francisco?" Jim asked.
Parrott shrugged. "Never asked. Ain't my business. She pays well. That's all I care about."
At the morgue, Parrott started nodding as soon as the attendant pulled the shroud back. "Yep, that's ol' Roche. Too bad. Nice fellow."
They gave him money for cab fare back to the Carothers' house, but did not miss that he strolled past several waiting hacks in the vicinity, no doubt heading for the nearest purveyor of alcohol. He was going to take advantage of his time off and the jingle in his pocket.
Jim and Artemus walked to the police building and were soon with Lloyd Morris, telling him of the latest revelations. "Not that it gets us much further," Jim complained. "We have no idea if Roche had anything to do with the counterfeit money Naiman had on him."
"Well, I can tell you that at least sixty more dollars were passed. All of it was deposited at one bank, but it came from two different merchants." Morris picked up a piece of paper on his desk and read from it, naming a busy restaurant that served workers on a construction project and another store going out of business that was crowded with bargain-seeking customers.
"Someone is very clever," Jim observed. "In and out before being noticed, and definitely before the money is recognized as fake."
"Most merchants don't know how to identify counterfeit money anyway," Artie said. "That's why it's the banks that are reporting."
"The chief is having a paper printed up to distribute to the merchants to have them watch for these particular bills," Morris told them. "But in a busy store, I'm not sure it's going to do any good."
"Where was Naiman taking the money?" Jim wondered. "I'm speculating it had been sold to someone and he was delivering it."
"I agree," his partner nodded. "Then there's the other question. Why the devil did Roche steal Emperor Norton's stick, and how did Naiman happen to have it?"
"They were friends," Jim pondered. "But that still doesn't answer the question. Mrs. Carothers indicated that Roche was relatively new in town. Perhaps he hadn't really learned about Norton's status in this city. Even so, while that walking stick has great sentimental value to Norton, no one in San Francisco would pay a cent for it. At least none who recognized it."
"We didn't find anyone to whom it had been offered."
"But it led you to the counterfeiting," Lloyd noted.
"True enough," Artie nodded. "Pure happenstance. I'm guessing that whoever gave those bogus bills to Mouse to deliver is not happy about that. Oh, say, Lloyd. We have another name for you to check. Jasper Parrott. He also works for Mrs. Carothers."
The policeman shook his head doubtfully. "You can't think that a woman like Mrs. Carothers would be involved in bogus money!"
"It is hard to believe," Jim agreed. "We're certainly not going to charge in and arrest her unless we come up with more information."
"I think you can find quite a few better suspects down on the Coast," Morris smiled.
"I think you are right." Artemus looked at his partner. "Maybe it's time we did a little hunting and hinting, Jim?"
"Sounds good to me."
"I'll see what I can find on this Parrott," Morris said. "You two take it easy on the Barbary Coast. You're known down there."
Jim grinned. "Always nice to see old friends."