"ARE YOU ALL RIGHT, A.J.?" A voice drifted in the dark room.
"I believe I indicated my preference for a hotel," Riot returned, navigating the darkness. Avoiding the greater shadows, he twined his way through the clutter towards the windows while Tim fiddled with the gas lamps.
"The house has been scrubbed from top to bottom and back up again. You'll find nothing but life."
"And plenty of memory."
A soft light suffused the circular room, illuminating its ghostly contents. Riot turned from the brightness, avoiding the two chairs by the cold hearth, nudging a curtain aside to gaze at the fitful fog instead.
Tim eyed the detective. The years had weathered Riot's exuberance, worn away the rough edges and left him hard. Veins of steel ran through his short beard and a mark of wisdom slashed across his temple.
Tim rocked back on his heels and returned to his toes. "Plenty of time left to make new ones."
"Leave it, Tim," Riot warned. A shadow stirred the fog. The disturbance strode through the gardens with a confident swagger. "I see our resident lady of the night entertains her clients in Ravenwood's old consultation room."
"How'd you guess?"
"I should think the French doors make an ideal room for liaisons."
"Annie is real respectable," Tim defended.
"How I've missed San Francisco and her society," Riot mused, letting the curtain fall back in place. "One of the few places where you'll hear 'respectable' applied to a prostitute."
"Oldest profession there is," Tim shrugged. "Never understood all the fuss. Scarce as women were in forty-nine, the ground was sacred where a woman walked—any woman."
"Straight forward as always." The edge of Riot's lip quirked. "I do believe I have missed you."
"It happens," Tim sniffed, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "Not the same since you left."
Riot glanced at the two pieces of draped furniture by the fireplace. He knew those worn chairs by heart, could see them in his mind's eye along with every book that used to fill the barren shelves. Despite his weariness, he could not bring himself to sit in his old chair and stare at the emptiness across. Instead, he walked over to something resembling a hat stand, pulled off the drape, and hung his fedora and coat on the hook. "Did you bring your case notes?"
"Don't you want to eat or—" Tim gestured vaguely around the room. "Settle in?"
"I would like to retire," Riot said, sitting on the edge of a crate near the window. "The sooner this case is complete, the sooner I may do so." Deep brown eyes that were nearly black in the subdued light settled on Tim expectantly.
In answer, Tim patted his coat, trousers, and waistcoat, muttering under his breath until he pulled a tattered notepad from beneath his belt. The spry older man situated himself in front of the fireplace. He held the notepad aloft, at arm's length, and cleared his throat as if preparing to deliver an oration. Squinting appeared to help him decipher the scrawl.
"On Tuesday, December 26th, shortly after her husband left for Oakland, Isobel Kingston told the staff that she intended to visit her family in Sausalito. She took a hack from her home on Nob Hill. The fare was paid to Market, but the hackman said she exited just short of the ferry building. The intersection was jammed by an accident. The hackman thought she was in a hurry.
"Of all the travelers, ferry crew, ticket counters, and dockhands we questioned, Smith managed to find two witnesses, a mother and daughter, who placed her on the 9:00 ferry. None of the other passengers could confirm or deny this. Mrs. Kingston never arrived at her family's home. And no one realized she was missing until the next morning when her father, Marcus Amsel, received a ransom demand."
"Her family wasn't aware she was visiting?" Riot asked, crossing his arms.
"They were not," Tim replied. "She had intended to spend Christmas with her family, but canceled due to her husband's plans. The morning she was abducted, Mr. Kingston left at 6:45 on an urgent matter. One of his warehouses was targeted by an arsonist. According to the household staff, Mrs. Kingston left very shortly after her husband, without sending word ahead to the family."
"Are we speaking of the Alex Kingston? Attorney to San Francisco's elite?"
"The very one," Tim nodded. "Property investor and lawyer. He's a wealthy man in his own right."
"And what of Mrs. Kingston's father?"
"Marcus Amsel is a wine merchant and his wife hails from a family of boat builders. After Mrs. Amsel's parents died, she inherited the family business. Her husband runs the enterprise along with three of his eight remaining sons."
Riot arched a brow. "How many daughters?"
"Just one on this side of the pale," replied Tim. "Seems the boatbuilding business has taken some hard knocks in the last year. Lost the family a lot of money."
"Odd then, that the ransom demand would be sent to the father and not the wealthy husband," Riot mused. "What were the demands?"
"One hundred thousand cash, stuffed in a black bag, placed in a rowboat, and tied to the end of a long wharf at Mr. Amsel's shipyards. They gave him a week to gather the money. If the police are brought in, then she'll be killed, but things became a bit complicated when another demand appeared on the front pages of the Sunday Call, Chronicle, and Bulletin."
"The front page?" Riot asked in surprise, rubbing his chin.
"I know, it don't make much sense. Back in a lick." Tim darted from the room with the nimbleness of an old billy goat.
Riot pondered the ceiling for an exasperated moment before drifting slowly over to the two armchairs. He ran his fingers over the drape, gently tugging it free, revealing a stately chair that could double as a throne.
Zephaniah Ravenwood had loathed comfort. A relaxed body, he often intoned, impeded one's mental faculties.
A movement by the door caught Riot's eye. The outline of a small shadow spread over the hardwood floors.
"You may as well come in, Tobias." Riot's offer was answered by a squeak.
The boy shuffled inside, looking shame-faced and nervous.
"I hold no tolerance for eaves-dropping, young man," Riot reproved, and then softened, "Unless it's done properly. How much did you overhear?"
The boy shyly summarized the entire conversation.
"A woman's life is at stake," Riot said, firmly. "Not a word of this to anyone. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Will you swear yourself to secrecy?"
"I will, sir."
"Good, sit down, and if you have anything to add, then do so." Riot gestured towards his dead partner's chair. Tobias sat, eyes wide and roving.
Ravenwood's presence lingered in the room, settling heavily on Riot's shoulders. But as long as the boy remained in the chair, that presence was tolerable. That, and it amused Riot. His partner would have had an apoplectic fit.
Shortly, Tim returned with newspapers in hand. He blinked at Tobias, glanced at Riot, and chuckled before handing the papers over.
Riot spread three newspapers along with one handwritten note on the crate. The note was nearly illegible, riddled with poor grammar, spelling, and punctuation:
'You wil have to pay us before you git her from us, and pay us a big cent to if you put the cops hunting for her you is only defeegin yu own end.' The note continued, detailing pick up time and location, which was odd in itself. Usually, the criminals sent a second note, closer to the exchange date.
"It's a poor job," Riot murmured. Tobias appeared between the two, standing on his toes to peer at the papers. "Notice they can spell 'hunting' perfectly well, but not 'get' and 'will'. I'll wager the wharf was carefully chosen too. No nearby coves or inlets to hide in?" Tim nodded. "I thought so. I see they've picked an hour when the fog will be thick."
"Correct on all accounts," Tim confirmed.
"They're locals, no doubt about that." Riot sniffed at the crudely penned note. "Too many hands," he muttered, nonsensically, as if answering a question, "but the paper is coarser than it should be, stiffer. You'll notice the slant and unevenness to the hand and unsteadiness of the lines. This was written on rough wood, not a desk, but the unevenness isn't drastic enough for a carriage or train. And see here, the ink spread and didn't take in places."
"Salt."
"This was penned on a boat. Our abductors are definitely watermen, or working with someone who is. How was the note delivered?"
"The local gin enthusiast. She goes by the name of Old Sue. Always loitering down by the docks looking for a—" Tim glanced at Tobias and altered his choice of words, "desperate client. She was paid a total sum of two bottles to deliver the note."
"Did she remember anything?"
"After two bottles? No."
"Did you have one of your boys sober her up?"
"Old Sue hasn't been sober for twenty years," Tim grunted. "It would likely kill her. I checked back with her a few days ago. Didn't recall anything more."
Riot frowned, nudging the note aside, and turned his scrutiny on the newspapers. The headlines were bold and simple, aimed at Alex Kingston, followed by an exposé that mentioned every dime novel plot ever conceived, from Tongs to White Slavery:
TYCOON'S BRIDE ABDUCTED!
RANSOM DEMANDED
"WE HAVE YOUR WIFE KINGSTON. GATHER YOUR WEALTH FOR HER SAFE RETURN."
"The same letter was sent to all three newspapers," Tim explained. "They arrived by mail, stamped with a San Francisco mark. Course the police are all over this case now. Since it looks like some Chinaman set fire to Kingston's warehouse in Oakland, they've been tearing apart Chinatown, using the ransom as an excuse to board every junk in the bay."
"Has Kingston received a private letter detailing their demands?"
"Not yet," Tim said, scratching his bald pate. "I'm not too proud to admit that this has me stumped. My boys haven't turned up so much as a whisper and the press and police are drudging up a mess."
"It's quite a pretty little problem as the Great Detective would say."
"Don't know about pretty, but sure enough, it's a pile of horse shit."
"The style and method of the two demands differ greatly. I think we're dealing with two separate sets of criminals. Obviously, the first wants money, but again, why demand ransom from the father when the husband is wealthier? And the second—"
"Wants everyone and their mother to know that Mrs. Kingston is in jeopardy," Tim inserted.
"Precisely," Riot agreed. "I believe the second is personal. A jab at Alex Kingston."
"But which group has her?" Tim asked, scratching his nose. "And since the whole city knows, will the first have already killed her?"
"I'm sure you've been digging into both Kingston and Amsel's affairs. Have you found any obvious enemies?"
"Kingston can count half the city as an enemy. As far as Amsel is concerned, he's as honest a businessman as I can find. He and his family are well thought of in Sausalito. You can look over my notes on the interview. Since I don't exactly fit the detective image that Kingston had in mind, I've had a fellow by the name of Matthew Smith handling his questioning. Smith is an ex-patrolman. Couldn't tolerate the corruption. So you don't think this is a common gang?"
"If it weren't for the newspaper announcement, then I'd suspect the mundane, but this second demand hints at something more."
"I've been thinking that there might have been a disagreement between the abductors and a few splintered off, taking the girl."
"Most hoodlums would wait until after payment was received."
"Maybe, maybe not, but not much else makes sense."
"Did Mr. Amsel tell anyone about the first ransom demand?"
"He sent one of his sons, Curtis, to tell Mr. Kingston. And then Mr. Kingston personally contacted Ravenwood Agency—against Amsel's wishes."
"The father was going to pay the money and hope for the best?"
"That he was," Tim nodded. "Kingston refuses to budge on the ransom payment. Him and Amsel had a proper row. He's convinced they'll kill her whether or not the payment is received, so he hired us to look for her discreetly while Amsel is selling off his assets to fill a bag with cash. Course, once the newspaper headlines appeared—Kingston got his back up and hollered something fierce. Poor Smith is too terrified to talk to the man again."
"Kingston is right," Riot sighed. "In all likelihood they will kill her, especially if there was some sort of disagreement." He frowned at the newspapers. "The second demand is curious. The letters sent to the newspapers weren't handwritten, the article says that the words were cut from older editions and pasted on the paper. Not many criminals are worried about handwriting recognition, or even realize it's possible. Yet the author in the first demand wasn't overly concerned with such details. While the second demand borders on paranoia. Clearly, our newspaper letters were sent by someone who not only worried that their hand writing would be recognized but someone familiar with a detective's methods."
"Sherlock Holmes does it all the time, sir," Tobias offered.
"Excellent point, Tobias," Riot nodded to the boy. "Our letter writer could very well be a fanciful amateur with a taste for dime novels. What do we know about Mrs. Kingston besides the newspaper's flowery drivel describing her as a 'fair-haired, wilting feminine flower of San Francisco society' whose honor is in grave danger?"
"Kingston described his wife as a 'delicate' young woman of twenty."
"Delicate in constitution or build?"
Tim flipped through his notes, scowling at the offending paper. "Smith didn't ask for specifics."
"He should have."
"Well, like I said, his head is full of bricks," Tim grumbled. "It's not easy finding a good detective, but he has a face to please the gentry. Besides, I wouldn't have thought to question Kingston about his wife's bust and hip measurements either."
"Surely you have some experience as a tailor?"
"I do, but I dealt with men folk," Tim explained, primly. "Now look here." He jabbed a finger at his notes. "Mr. Amsel put her at a pinch over five feet and described his daughter as an 'outdoors enthusiast', so I reckon Kingston was referring to her height."
"Would that make you even more delicate?"
"You'd only be slightly less delicate. And I've never had no complaints about my stature," Tim returned, proudly.
"How long have the Kingston's been married? As I recall, Kingston isn't a young man."
"Two months," Tim replied. "There was a big to do in the papers. Mrs. Kingston was attending the University of California."
"How many years?" Riot inquired.
"She enrolled this last September. Was studying Law."
"And quit after two months to marry Kingston?"
"Well, it was Law," Tim shrugged. "You know how these society ladies are—fluttering here and there, changing their minds on a whim."
"Society ladies don't generally enroll at university. Had they known each other long?"
"According to the gossips, no," Tim replied. "They met over the summer at a dinner party."
"Seems rushed to me."
"I suppose it does," Tim admitted. "Might make sense if he were a good looking fellow. Women get all airy over a pretty face, but Kingston's older than you and double the man."
"Age and girth are secondary to wealth."
"Maybe so, but he also has the disposition of a bull."
"I'm told diamonds are the primary cause of blindness in women," Riot observed.
"I suppose there's no hope of you retiring and finding a good woman?"
"Cynicism is all the comfort I require."
"Didn't used to be," Tim muttered.
"Not to worry, I'm not chalk full of stinging wind yet. There's far too much doom and gloom in me, and as such, I think we ought to poke into the Kingstons' marriage a bit more."
"I'll see what I can dig up."
"Now, let's focus on her disappearance. It was the day after Christmas, when most folks return home or visit friends, so very likely the ferry was crowded."
Tim nodded in confirmation.
"On the ferry, what drew the mother and daughter's attention to Mrs. Kingston?"
"The Worths admired the color of her hair and eyes. Like spun gold and amber they said. She was, they said, very fashionably attired in a green hat and walking dress trimmed in gold, although they thought her long coat was a poor choice."
"And what was her unfortunate choice of coats?"
"It was 'dreary', they said."
"Dreary as in the color, condition, cut, or all of the above?"
"Er—" Tim stammered, shifting from foot to foot as his ears turned pink. "Well it was dark, the color that is."
"Black, grey, blue, puce?"
"I didn't think much of it, so I didn't ask," he admitted in defeat.
"Did our unperceptive duo note anything else?"
"They thought her 'most rude' for a young woman," Tim pitched his voice to surprising heights. "She had no inclination to engage them in conversation."
"Was she carrying luggage?"
"A 'faded green and beige leafy carpet bag'."
"That's rather troubling," Riot murmured, gazing at the newspapers in thought.
"What?"
"All of it, most especially her 'dreary long coat'."
"How so?"
"That remains to be seen."
"Is that another damn quote?"
"You should read more."
"I do read. Practical things like newspapers," Tim retorted. "Not those dime novels you fill your head with."
"If you bothered to read them, then you would know that detectives never stray from the point."
Riot placed his hands on either side of the crate, and bent to examine a newspaper article bearing a photograph of Mrs. Isobel Kingston. It was hard to determine if she was handsome or not—certainly not in a classical sense, but without a doubt, she was striking. Her eyes were half averted, her lips pressed together in a hard, determined line. She reminded him of a cornered tigress, both fearful and fierce, on the verge of leaping.
"The point being?" Tim pressed.
"All action is of the mind," Riot said softly, "and the mirror of the mind is the face, its index the eyes." He abruptly straightened, gathering his coat and hat.
"Where you off to?"
"To learn what I can," Riot said, slipping on his gloves. "Is Kingston still a member of the Pacific-Union Club?"
"As is every other businessman in San Francisco," Tim grunted, handing Riot the case notes. "I'll get the hack then."
"No need, Tim. I've been trapped on a steamer for a solid month, the walk will do me good." Riot paused in the doorway. "What's the earliest ferry to Sausalito?"
"7:30."
Riot blinked, and tilted his head, as if listening to a distant noise. "When is the next departure?"
"9:00."
"You said Alex Kingston left at 6:45, and his wife left shortly after. What ferry did the Worths spot her on?"
"The 9:00."
"And no one noticed her in the ferry building?"
"Not that I can find."
"Mr. Tobias," Riot looked at the boy. "Can your brother Grimm handle the cabriolet?"
"Yes, sir."
"Can you read a watch?"
"Yes, sir."
Riot unhooked his silver chain from its eyehole, and deposited watch and chain in the boy's hand. "I'd like you both to conduct an experiment for me tomorrow. First thing in the morning, around 7:00, time how long it takes to drive from Alex Kingston's home on Nob Hill to the ferry building."
"Sure thing, Mr. Riot."
"Mind the watch." Riot squeezed the boy's shoulder and addressed Tim. "If I don't return tonight, I'll meet you on the boat."
As Riot's footsteps faded rapidly down the winding stairway, Tim grinned at Tobias, "And he thinks he's retiring."