Crucifixion River

forward.

A gent in a frock coat was bent over, his silk hat having fallen to the sidewalk. As he straightened, his face frozen in a grimace of pain, he reached inside his coat. Sudden anger replaced pain and he shouted: “Stop, thief!”

But no one was fleeing. The crowd murmured, heads swiveling, faces curious and alarmed. The man again shouted: “My watch! I’ve been robbed!”

Sabina moved forward. “What happened?”

The man stared at her, open-mouthed.

She hurriedly removed one of her cards from her reticule and gave it to him. “I am investigating a series of thefts. Please tell me what happened.”

He examined the card. “Will you find the person who took my watch? It is very old and rare…”

“Was it you who cried out earlier?”

“Yes. I suffered a sharp pain in my side. Here.” He indicated his lower left rib cage. “I have had such discomfort before, and I’ve just come from the Bank Exchange where, I’m afraid, I consumed an overlarge quantity of oysters on the half shell. I suppose the thief took advantage of my distress.”

“Did you not notice anyone close to you? A woman, perhaps?”

The gent shook his head. “I saw no one.”

Sabina turned to the ring of people surrounding them, asked the same question of them, and received the same answer.

The woman she’d followed from the amusement park had found her mark, struck, and swiftly vanished.

It was nearly 7:00 p.m., an inconvenient time to go calling, but over the course of her years as a Pinkerton operative and a self-employed detective, Sabina had become accustomed to calling on people at incon venient times.

At her flat on Russian Hill, she changed into a heavy black skirt and shirtwaist and a long cape in deference to the foggy San Francisco eve ning. Once again she left in a hansom cab, one she’d hired to wait for her at her stops along the way. She had studied the list of names of the pickpocket’s victims that Lester Sweeney had given her, and mapped out a convenient and easy route.

Her first destination was the home of Mr. William Buchanan on Green Street near Van Ness Avenue. Mr. Buchanan was not at home, the maid who answered the door told her. He and Mrs. Buchanan had gone to their country house on the Peninsula for two weeks.

In the cab again, Sabina crossed Mr. Buchanan’s name off the list, and instructed the driver to take her to an address on Webster Street in the Western Addition.

The house there was large and elegant, and Mr. John Greenway resembled many of the well-attired gentlemen Sabina had earlier seen parading on the Cocktail Route. He greeted her cordially, taking her into the front parlor and introducing her to his attractive wife, who looked to be expecting a child.

“A note from Mister Sweeney at the Chutes was delivered this afternoon,” he told Sabina. “It said you wish to speak with me concerning the theft of my diamond stickpin. I hope I can help you.”

“As do I. What were the circumstances of the theft?”

Greenway glanced at his auburn-haired wife, who smiled encouragingly. “We had ridden the water slide and stopped at the refeshment stand for a glass of lemonade,” he said. “The ride had made me feel unwell, so we decided to come home. There was a large crowd watching a juggler near the gates, and we were separated in it. I felt a sharp pain in my side…the result of the ride, I suppose…and momentarily became disoriented. When I recovered, and my wife rejoined me, she saw that my stickpin was missing.”

Men in distress, Sabina thought. A clever pickpocket noting this and taking advantage of their momentary confusion.

She thanked the Greenways and took her leave.

No one came to the door at either of the next two victims’ residences, but at a small Eastlake-style Victorian near Lafayette Square, Sabina was greeted by the plump young daughter of Mr. George Anderson. Her parents, the daughter said, were at the Orpheum, a vaudeville house on O’Farrell Street. Could she reveal anything about the distressing incident at the amusement park? Sabina asked. Certainly, the daughter said, she had witnessed it.

In the small front parlor, Ellen Anderson rang for the house keeper and ordered tea. It came quickly, accompanied by a plate of ginger cookies. Sabina took one as Miss Anderson poured and prattled on about her excitement about meeting a lady detective. Then she proceeded with her questioning.

“You were with your father at the amusement park when his purse was stolen?”

“My mother, my brother, and I.”

“Tell me what you saw, please.”

“We were near the merry-go-round. It was very crowded, children waiting to board and parents watching their children on the ride. Allen, my brother, was trying to persuade me to ride with him. He’s only ten years old, so a merry-go-round is a thrill for him, but I’m sixteen, and it seems so very childish…”

“Did you ride anyway?”

“No. But Allen did. We were watching him when suddenly my father groaned. He took hold of his side, slued around, and staggered a few paces. Mother and I caught him before he could fall. When we’d righted him, he found all his money was gone.”

“What caused this sudden pain?”

“A gastric distress, apparently.”

“Does your father normally suffer from digestive problems?”

“No, but earlier we’d had hot sausages at the refreshment stand. We assumed they were what affected him and then a thief had taken advantage of the moment.”

Every thief has his or her own method, Sabina thought, and evidently this one’s was to seek out people who had fallen ill and were therefore vulnerable.

“Did your father talk about the incident afterwards?”

Ellen Anderson shook her dark-curled head. “He seemed ashamed of being robbed. In fact, Mother had to insist he report the theft to the park manager.”

“Did his distress continue afterwards?”

“I don’t think so, but he’s never been one to talk about his ailments.”

Two more fruitless stops left her with a final name on the list: Henry Holbrooke, on South Park. The oval- shaped park, an exact copy of London’s Berkeley Square, had once been home to the reigning society of San Francisco, but now its grandeur, and that of neighboring Rincon Hill, was fading. Most of the powerful millionaires and their families who had resided there had moved to more fashionable venues such as Nob Hill, and many of the elegant homes looked somewhat shopworn. Henry Holbrooke’s was one of the latter, its paint peeling and small front garden unkempt, a grand old lady slipping into genteel poverty.

A light was burning behind heavy velvet curtains in a bay window, but when Sabina knocked, no one answered. She knocked again, and after a moment the door opened. The inner hallway was so dark that she could scarcely make out the person standing there. Then she saw it was a woman dressed entirely in black. She said: “Missus Holbrooke?”

“Yes.” The woman’s voice cracked, as if rusty from disuse.

Sabina gave her name and explained her mission. The woman made no move to take the card she extended.

“May I speak with your husband?” Sabina asked.

“My husband is dead.”

“…My condolences. May I ask when he passed on?”

“Two weeks ago.”

That would have been a week after he was robbed of his money belt at the Chutes.

“May I come in?” Sabina asked.

“I’d rather you didn’t. I’ve been…tearful. I don’t wish for anyone to see me after I’ve been weeping.”

“I understand. What was the cause of your husband’s death?”

“An infection and internal bleeding.”

“Had he been ill long?”

“He had never been ill. Not a day in his life.”