Chapter Five

Things are seldom what they seem,

Skim milk masquerades as cream.

—H.M.S. Pinafore, Sir William Schwenk Gilbert (1836-1911), English comedic and satirical writer, dramatist and librettist

The remainder of that day was spent in the Barbary Coast. Instead of canvassing one seedy bar after another, they visited the ones frequented by the informers they were aware of, men and women who would pass on information they picked up in exchange for a few dollars. At the end of the day, the foray had been only partially successful.

One woman claimed she had been paid for her services with a spurious twenty-dollar bill, but she had spent that bill herself. She was certain the fellow who had passed it to her had nothing to do with the counterfeiting. "He's more likely to be out slittin' throats rather than printing bad bucks!" she chortled. A bartender had heard of some money-printing going on, but had no further information about it. "Just made me start watching the bigger bills that get handed to me!'

Others heard rumors but none could name names. Almost all were sure that the money was not being printed close by. The clank of a printing press would likely stand out amidst the regular din of tinny pianos, laughter, and shrieks of anger. Twice Jim asked directly if the name Rance Ricks or Ivy Carothers had ever been heard in connection with the money production. In both cases, heads were shaken. The persons never heard of Ivy Carothers, but also felt that Ricks would not have a hand in counterfeiting. "Not his speed," Harv, the bartender said.

"I'm beginning to believe those counterfeit bills were a figment of our imaginations," Artie grumbled as the hack headed back toward their hotel.

"It certainly is a crazy situation," Jim agreed. "Not like any I can remember we dealt with. Usually we can get a more solid lead. I can't really say that Ricks or Mrs. Carothers is a solid lead."

"Not yet anyway. Despite what Harv said, I can see Ricks getting into the bogus money business. Just because he has not previously doesn't mean he wouldn't see the profitable possibilities. If poor Mouse hadn't died, we might have learned a great deal from him."

"Which brings us back to why Roche—if it was him—stole Norton's stick in the first place."

"And gave it to Mouse."

"With the two of them dead, we may never know the answer to that one."

When they climbed out of the cab, Artie waited while Jim paid the driver, then motioned down the street. "The pharmacy down there is still open. I need some shaving soap. Can I get you anything?"

Jim shook his head. "Thanks, but no. I'll see you upstairs and then we can get a good meal." With a wave, he strode toward the hotel door and entered the lobby. The desk clerk saw him enter, turned to withdraw something from one of the boxes behind him, and extended it toward Jim.

Jim took the envelope and gazed at it a moment. He recognized expensive stationary, as well as the fact that the writing on the outside was likely a feminine hand. "Mr. James West," is all it said. He slid his finger under the lightly adhering flap, and withdrew a folded card, with an embossed ivy design on the front.

"Mr. West," read the same handwriting inside the card, "A reminder that you and Mr. Gordon are expected tomorrow at 4 p.m. I would be honored with your presence. Mrs. Ivy Carothers."

"Must be something nice by your smile," Galvin, the middle-aged night clerk commented.

"Nice indeed," Jim replied, slipping the card into an inside pocket. Galvin handed him his room key and he headed for the stairs.

"Mr. West? Mr. West!"

The feminine voice was unfamiliar. Jim turned to see an attractive well-dressed woman hurrying across the lobby toward him. She was garbed in a deep green two-piece outfit with ivory piping, ivory lace at the collar of her under-blouse and trimming the matching green hat replete with feathers and flowers. She was probably in her late twenties or early thirties, he judged.

"Yes? Can I help you?" As she came nearer, Jim could see the rouge on her cheeks and lips, the kohl that lined her dark blue eyes.

She paused a few feet away, seemed to catch her breath, eyes wide with apparent alarm. "Oh, Mr. West. You must help me. Help us! You must!"

"If I can," he replied quietly. "Why don't we go sit down?" he motioned to a sofa at the far side of the lobby.

Now she grasped at his coat sleeve. "No. No. My husband… he is waiting in the carriage behind the hotel… waiting for you. Please! We must go!"

"Who are you and who is your husband?"

The hand released his sleeve, and gloved fingers laced together at her midriff. "I am Clara Naughton. My husband… my husband is John Naughton. He's a lawyer. He's in such trouble. Only you can help him!"

For a long moment, Jim gazed at her, and her eyes dropped away. "Just a moment," he said, turning back toward the hotel desk. "Galvin, do you mind if we use one of the smaller meeting rooms for a few minutes?"

"Not at all, Mr. West," the clerk replied, reaching under the desk to come up with a key to extend to him. "Use number 3 over there, next to the stairs."

Jim took the key and turned back to Clara Naughton. She was staring at him in horror, her complexion several shades paler under the rouge. "No!" she cried. "We have to go help Charles!"

He grasped her arm firmly and started steering her toward the door near the bottom of the stairs. "I thought your husband's name was John."

"Oh. Oh, I mean… it's John Charles… we…I sometimes…"

Still keeping a strong hold on her arm, Jim used the key on the door, opened it, pulled her inside, then locked the door behind him. The room was long and narrow with a table that extended almost the full length, three buffets on one side. At the far end was a large window. Jim walked to it quickly but found he did not get a clear view of the rear grounds of the hotel. He could see a shadow with movements indicating at least one horse was standing there just out of sight.

"All right, Clara," he said, coming back toward the woman, who was now wringing her gloved hands frantically. "Tell me about your husband's trouble." He pulled out one of the chairs and guided her into it, remaining on his feet.

"Well I… well…"

"I can't help unless I know." Jim made his tone gentler now.

She still did not look at him, and while her hands still fretted with the gloves, she was a bit calmer as well. "A man… some men… they want to hurt him."

"What men?"

Now her glance flashed up toward him. "I don't know."

"Did he go to the police?"

"I… I don't know."

Jim pulled out a chair and sat down, folding his arms. "Clara, due to the nature of our work, my partner and I know at least the names of most of the lawyers in this city. I've never heard of John Charles Naughton."

"He's… he's…"

Before she could form the reply, a sharp rap sounded on the locked door. Clara started visibly, terror on her countenance as Jim stood up. "Who is it?"

"Me."

Jim turned the key and opened the door to admit his partner. "What's going on?" Artie asked, eyeing the woman. "Galvin told me you were in here."

Closing the door but not locking it again, Jim responded. "Mrs. Naughton, this is my partner, Mr. Gordon. Artie, Clara says that her husband is in very bad trouble. He's in a coach out back waiting for me to come help him."

Artie's dark brows lifted. "Indeed? Then perhaps I should go assure him all is well and invite him in." He reached for the doorknob.

"No!" Clara cried, leaping to her feet and grabbing Artie's arm. "No, no! Don't!"

Artie smiled as he carefully removed her hand. "Don't worry. I'm armed." He slipped out the door.

Clara sank into the chair again, and tears began to roll down her cheek, bringing black to mix with the rosy hue. Jim was about to offer his handkerchief but she opened her reticule and procured one. Jim reached over to take the purse from her lap as she began to dab and smear her makeup even more. She did not try to stop him.

He reached inside and pulled out the wad of bills, leafing through them quickly. "Do you always carry this much money with you? Looks like around five hundred dollars."

Clara burst into sobs then, her shoulders shaking as she held the hanky to her face. Jim sat quietly and waited. Just as her convulsions started to subside, Artemus returned. His expression was grim.

"A coach was waiting back there. One man was up on the box and three waiting below. I had my gun out as I opened the door. When they saw me, the three jumped inside and the driver whipped up the horses. No chance to stop them."

"Clara?" Jim's voice was quiet.

She took a deep breath and lowered the handkerchief. "You knew right away, didn't you?"

"I suspected. Your attire indicates a young society matron, but no woman of that status would wear such makeup on a trip downtown, and rarely ever at home."

"Oh." She appeared chagrined. "I didn't think. I just… always…"

"Tell us the whole story, Clara," Artie urged, taking another chair. "Someone hired you. Why? Who was it?"

She looked at each of them. "Are you going to arrest me?"

Artie shook his head. "So far we have no reason to do so."

Clara took a deep breath, studied her hands for a long moment, before looking up. "I work at the Lucky Lady Club on Montgomery Street. As a dealer," she added quickly. "Men come in all the time, and I got to know a few. One, Giff, came in often because he's sweet on Elsie, one of the… entertainers. When she was busy, he'd spend time at my table. We talked a lot on slower nights.

"Yesterday he came in, and I think he knew it was my off time. I was eating my supper at a back table and he sat down with me. I didn't think a lot of it, even though he never did that before. First thing, he's asking me if I want to help him and earn five hundred dollars. I said, 'How?' and he said that two men owed him and another fellow a lot of money. They were slippery, he said, and they were having trouble getting hold of the pair to demand the debt be paid.

"I asked what I'd have to do and he said I would just have to convince one or both to go to the back of the hotel with me. Nothing was going to happen, he said. Just they were going to scare these deadbeats into paying up. I didn't know Giff all that well, you understand, just from him coming in and playing at my table. Anyway, it sounded reasonable to me, and it was sure good money. I said okay. He gave me some money to buy these clothes in addition to the five hundred. He said I had to look like a respectable lady."

Clara paused and looked down the room toward the window for a long moment. Both agents remained silent. After a few seconds, she resumed. "They picked me up in the coach earlier this afternoon, and parked it down the street from here. When they talked, I came to realize the story was bogus. They figured on doing more than scaring the 'deadbeats.' They mentioned names, and I recognized them. I read the newspapers and I know you are federal agents. You just finished testifying at that trial.

"I told Giff I didn't want to do it and tried to give them the money back. They wouldn't let me back out. Said I'd get hurt if I didn't go through with it. So I…. I didn't have a choice. When the hack let you off in front of the hotel, and Mr. Gordon went down the street alone, they argued for a minute about whether they should grab him first. But then they decided they'd just go after you, Mr. West. Giff said they could get Mr. Gordon later."

"So you came in and acted your part," Jim said with a smile.

She sighed. "If I hadn't put on the face, would you have believed me?"

"That's a good question, but moot right now. What do you know about Giff? What's his last name?

Clara shook her head. "I don't know. I never heard it. I know he works for someone on the Coast, but I don't know that either. You know, we talked, but we never asked those kinds of questions."

"What about Elsie?" Artie asked. "Would she know?"

"Maybe. That's another thing, though. She quit yesterday. Quit and left the Lucky Lady. I didn't know until after she was gone and another employee told me. I have no idea where she went."

"Covering all bases," Artie murmured, glancing at his partner.

Clara sighed noisily. "What am I going to do now? They'll know I squealed right off!"

"Have you family somewhere?"

She looked at Jim, eyes brightening. "My older sister lives in Ohio. That's where I'm from. She was widowed two years ago and keeps asking me to come live with her. She has four kids, and it hasn't been easy for her. But…"

"Clara," Artie spoke softly. "You have five hundred dollars. That will get you to Ohio easily. You don't even need to go back to your place of residence. You can buy what you need in Ohio, or on the way."

She looked at the wad of bills Jim was still holding. He extended them to her, and she accepted them with a smile that faded quickly. "They might be watching for me to leave the hotel!"

"Don't worry about that," Jim assured her with a smile. "We'll escort you to the railroad station and see you safely on your way."

"First, however," Artie said, "if you like, you could come up to my room and wash your face. You don't want to arrive in Ohio looking like a circus clown."

W*W*W*W*W

It was not until they were returning to the hotel, after making sure Clara Naughton—which was her real name they learned—was safely on a train heading east, that Artie told Jim more about the men he saw behind the hotel. "I am positive one was among the jolly bunch that ambushed us yesterday. The one who was going to rearrange my face—I'll never forget his."

"We still don't know who sent them," Jim muttered. "I've got to think it was Ricks, but my opinion alone doesn't necessarily count in a court of law. Oh, by the way, I had this waiting for me at the desk." He pulled out the envelope and handed it to Artie.

The light was rapidly fading, but Artie was able to lean near the cab's window and read the note. "How thoughtful of Mrs. Carothers. Nice to be wanted."

"Yeah, that's what I thought. It would also be nice to know why we are so wanted. As a novelty among her regular high society guests? Or because she wants to pick our brains to see what we know about the counterfeiting?"

"Good questions. Lloyd will be on duty tomorrow. I think we should visit him on the way to the festivities, bring him up to date on what we have learned—or not learned—and tell him where we will be."

Jim cocked his head. "Why Artemus, you sound as though you are nervous about visiting Ivy."

"Did you ever hear of poison ivy, James?"

W*W*W*W*W

The following morning, after breakfast in the hotel, the agents decided to spend some time visiting various merchants in the downtown area, especially those who had received the bogus bills. Although the police had questioned them, it was always possible that the persons involved might have remembered something later, or that the weight of the federal government might cause them to remember some fact they had neglected to mention to the city police.

That proved to be a fact at the closeout sale where a counterfeit bill had been received. The clerk suddenly recalled that a rather nervous man had paid for a shirt with a twenty-dollar bill. "He was so uneasy he did not want to wait for me to wrap it," the clerk recalled. He described the man, and although the description meant nothing to the agents, Artie recorded it carefully.

They were walking the couple of blocks toward the next establishment when they noticed a young woman carrying some rather large and bulky boxes from a bakery to waiting hack. "That's Doreen from Ivy Caruthers' house," Jim commented.

Striding up to her, Jim quickly relieved her of the cartons she was attempting to put inside the coach—while the driver sat on the box ignoring her. "What's this, Doreen?" he asked.

She sighed heavily. "Cook quit last night. I don't know how to cook these pastries, and neither does Jasper, so Mrs. Caruthers sent me here to purchase some for the party this afternoon."

"Cook quit?" Artie echoed. "On short notice?"

Doreen grimaced. "It was coming. I gotta say, Mrs. Caruthers isn't the easiest to work for. Emma was the second cook since I've been working there. I know two other maids were there before me."

"And they all quit?" Jim asked. Ivy had said she lived in the mansion only a few months.

"Yeah. You see, Mrs. Caruthers forbids anyone to go down into the basement. It's locked most of the time. Cook always said her kitchen and pantry were too crowded on account of she couldn't put things like potatoes and other stuff down in the basement. Yesterday she was getting madder and madder 'cause she didn't have room to make the stuff Mrs. Caruthers wanted for the party. Finally, she just yanks off her apron, picks up her handbag and leaves. I gotta say Emma ain't gonna have any trouble finding another job. She's a good cook and folks know it. I can't do that as easy."

"What about the maids?" Artie glanced at Jim, knowing his partner was having the same thoughts he was about the "forbidden" basement. "Why did they quit?"

"Oh, that's easy. There's too much work for one person! We oughta have another maid, maybe two, but Mrs. Caruthers won't hire one. Don't ask me why." Doreen shrugged.

Perhaps because she doesn't want too many people with opportunities to snoop, Jim mused. Aloud, he asked, "Will you have someone available to help you get these into the house?"

"Oh sure. Jasper is still there. Don't reckon he'll ever leave. Him 'n' Roche, they was real loyal to Mrs. Caruthers. I reckon on account of they come with her from… wherever she was before. Roche, he was the only one who lived in the house. The rest of us go home at night." Doreen sighed noisily. "She pays good, I'll say that. Otherwise I wouldn't be able to afford a room in the boardin' house."

The two agents shared a glance again. That was not what Ivy had told them about either man. They helped the maid into the carriage and waved the driver on, stepping back to watch it head down the street.

"Seems whatever Ivy Caruthers has in that basement is more important than keeping good servants," Artie murmured. "What do you suppose it is?"

"Could be worthwhile finding out."

"Perhaps this garden party will give us an opportunity to inspect the layout of the grounds. What do you think?"

"I think you are absolutely right, Mr. Gordon. It certainly gives us added incentive to attend a type of fete that we usually avoid."

Artie laughed as they started walking again. Both enjoyed evening soirees and balls where dancing and champagne were the focus. An afternoon garden party meant standing or sitting around making conversation, often with people whom one did not know or that one had nothing in common with. Usually when people learned their line of work, or perhaps knew their reputations, they were plied with unanswerable questions, often making it difficult to remain sociable.

Catching a streetcar, the agents made their way to police headquarters where they checked with Lieutenant Morris. He had nothing new to tell them. No further counterfeit bills had shown up. "Which might mean that the distributors are aware we are onto them."

Jim nodded. "You are probably right. I'm sure Colonel Richmond has put out the word to other localities to be on the watch as well."

Artie stretched out his legs from his chair and folded his arms across his chest. "It really is looking more and more as though Ivy Caruthers is involved." He briefly told the policeman what they had learned from the maid. "While that's not absolute proof that something is going on at the Caruthers house, under the circumstances, we feel it is something to look into."

"How are you going to do that? No judge is going to give you a warrant to search the place on the basis of such 'gossip.'"

Artie just smiled. "We'll figure out a way."

Morris knew better than to ask for details, not only from his own experience in working with these two Secret Service men, but also from a long conversation he once had with Colonel James Richmond. "Believe me, Lieutenant," the colonel had said, all but rolling his eyes, "you really do not want to know!"

W*W*W*W*W

Society is a masked ball, where every one hides his real character, and reveals it by hiding.

—"Worship," The Conduct of Life, Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882), American essayist and poet

Mayor Thomas Selby and several other city political dignitaries were present at Ivy Caruthers' afternoon garden party. She laughed as she guided Jim and Artie through the house toward the French doors that opened off the main parlor. "I'm sure Mayor Selby ordered this fabulous weather for us!" She was garbed in a pale yellow organza that was perfect for such a summer day in San Francisco, with yellow silk roses twined in her hair, altogether very lovely.

As they stepped out into the sunshine of the extensive garden, they saw the other local luminaries in attendance, including Chief of Police Patrick Crowley, the man who had ordered all his men to salute Emperor Norton when encountering the celebrity on the street. Crowley nodded to them as he continued his conversation with two apparent businessmen that the agents did not recognize.

"I understand you had something of a crisis," Artie said as they paused at one of the refreshment tables. "We encountered Doreen this morning procuring the supplies for this gathering."

Ivy sighed and shook her head. "What is it about these California servants? I never had this problem in Wisconsin. Doreen is a gem. She's sticking with me through thick and thin." They followed Mrs. Caruthers' gaze to where the young maid was carrying a tray bearing glasses of lemonade around to the guests. She was already perspiring under the sun. Jasper was bringing out a fresh tray of sandwiches; he did not appear quite so worn out.

"I have no doubt you are the type of employer to reward such faithfulness and industry," Jim smiled.

She seemed startled for a moment then smiled. "Yes. Oh yes! Of course. Will you excuse me a moment? I believe new guests are arriving." She hurried away as James and Artemus exchanged a bemused glance.

Neither agent was perturbed as the afternoon wore on to notice that Ivy Caruthers was too busy making sure her guests were properly served to pay much attention to them. If she had had a cook in the kitchen preparing the trays, as she no doubt thought she would, the afternoon would not have been so hectic. As it was, Doreen was doing that duty, preparing coffee and tea, putting pastries on trays, etc., along with serving. Ivy must have said something to Jasper later because he started hustling more.

The agents, however, wandered about the garden, speaking to people they knew, being introduced to those they did not, admiring flowerbeds and the surrounding landscape. In particular, they got a decent look at the back of the house, noticing the slanted outer doors that apparently led down to the cellar. That a padlock was securing those doors was of little import.

"It's not necessarily unusual that the outer doors would be locked like that," Jim commented as they admired a bed of pansies, "but one has to wonder about the inner door and the command that servants are not allowed down there."

"In my experience, especially the cook would have use of a basement, as Doreen said, to store vegetables and other supplies. I imagine the pantry is crowded if the potatoes, beets, carrots, and other such items have to be kept there along with the usual food preparation amenities."

"Artie, I've been looking at the house directly behind this property. I think it's vacant and would be an excellent entrance point."

Artie took a quick glance toward the house in question and noticed that the windows were shuttered and that a climbing rose badly needed pruning. "I think you are right. Question is, how do we get into the cellar without being noticed?"

"No, the question is how do I get into the cellar. The second question is, how do you create a situation whereby no one notices I'm inspecting the cellar."

"Ah. I see. I will have to think on that, James." Artie grinned.

They stayed at the party for a little better than an hour, then found Ivy Caruthers to tell her they had business to take care of and must leave. She was with Mayor Selby at the moment, but she expressed her disappointment. "However, on Tuesday evening, I'm having a little do in honor of Mayor Selby's goddaughter. She has just completed a term at a prestigious musical institution and she'll be entertaining us on my piano. You will come, won't you?" Her smile was bright.

Too bright, Artie decided. She is not that thrilled to be the hostess of this event. Aloud he said, "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Caruthers, but we have another engagement Tuesday evening. One that cannot be broken. Perhaps another time."

"Did you notice," Jim asked when they were settled into the cab they hailed on a nearby street, "that Ivy is not that happy to be honoring the mayor's goddaughter?"

"I did notice. I wonder why. Most women in her position would be thrilled beyond compare. Perhaps it interferes with something else she had planned. However, it occurs to me that Tuesday evening's fete might be a perfect time for you to investigate the cellar. I have an idea about how I can create a diversion."