It got me thinking of money tucked away in little rabbit holes—inside safes and pockets and hidden beneath floors.
A Visit to Ruef
Prior to the start of his criminal trial, Abe Ruef was put under house arrest. Since the temporary city jail was unfit for a man of his stature and celebrity, Ruef was confined to Mayor Schmitz’s former home, on Fillmore Street.
I walked from the gold house down the steep hill to the mayor’s, careful not to trip. Ruef’s Packard was parked at the curb, a chock block wedged under its rear wheel to keep it from rolling down the hill. There were only a few thousand automobiles in the whole of the country then. Rose and the mayor each owned two, and if you added the cars that Abe Ruef possessed—the Rolls, the Packard, and a couple of runabout Fords used to collect the payola—between the three of them, they owned nearly a dozen. Such was the cash that flowed through their respective operations, above and below the sheets, a car then never being just a car: no, a car was cash on wheels.
Two cops sat inside a Ford, also parked at the curb, and another pair guarded the front door. One of San Francisco’s finest lounged in a chair in the foyer. The officer in the hallway stood as I came in.
“Abe,” he shouted, “there’s a young lady here.”
Ruef had been having a late lunch in the kitchen. He hurried to see who it was, his napkin still tucked into his collar, his eyes showing a range of emotions, all fleeting, from contempt to surprise.
“What’s this,” he said.
“Sorry to bother you.” I spoke quickly, so I wouldn’t lose my nerve.
Ruef wiped his chops on Julia Schmitz’s linen napkin and, adjusting his bow tie, this small man in a three-piece brown suit and shined boots tossed the napkin to his guard. “Yes,” he said. “Bother me how?”
“Eugenie Schmitz asked me to come. She left behind some things in her room. She asked if I would fetch them for her. She can’t, well, you understand, she can’t come herself.”
He took notice of Lars Johnson’s valise, the one I’d carried from Francisco Street on the day of the quake.
“Of course,” Ruef said, “have at.” And he waved me on with all the impatience of a man who still had a city to run.
My foot was on the top stair when Ruef called to me.
“I remember you,” he said.
I turned back. “Yes, Mr. Ruef. I remember you too.”
“Beer and ham sandwiches,” he answered, the gears of his massive brain grinding.
“That’s right. And you, you wanted to relocate the Chinese.”
“Ah, lost that one, didn’t I?” He grimaced. “But it was the right idea.”
“Not to the Chinese.”
“Ah, true. True enough,” he agreed. “I wasn’t supposed to be here that day,” he mused, his voice soft, almost nostalgic. “They decided they didn’t want me. Even Gene. Maybe especially Gene. But I came anyway. You bet I did.” He shrugged. “And look at me now, I can’t leave.”
“I suppose, as prisons go, it’s not the worst?” I put it as a question.
He misheard me. “Prison?” he said. “Ha, don’t you worry. I’m not going to prison.”
Eugenie’s room was as she’d left it: a world of lace—canopies and antimacassars and bows. The wooden cross, the one that always gave me the creeps, with its sad Jesus, still guarded the bed.
First off, I made a loud business of opening and shutting the drawers of Eugenie’s wardrobe. They creaked and thudded. When I felt I’d established sufficient racket, I hurried to the foot of the bed. The carpet was as it had been, covering the spot where the floor had been cut. I rolled it aside and found the hidden metal pull, and lifted the boards. I was so nervous, my hands were clumsy and I kept looking over my shoulder at the door.
I knew enough about Schmitz to understand that he was both reckless and lazy. I guessed that he would have decided against last-ditch measures, and even decided there would be no safer place to store the cash than in a house with half a dozen guards. Besides, if found, couldn’t it be Ruef who stashed it there?
The metal box was unlocked. I lifted the lid to find the red plush lining, and… nothing. The boodle box, as it was later called in the newspaper—a compartment that was never the right shape for storing violins—was empty. I stuck my nose inside the box to be sure.
In my desperation, I pushed on the velvet ends of the box and they gave way just a bit. I pushed harder—the ends had only been tacked in place. Beyond, in the crude space between the floor and ceiling, a second stash was hidden, on either side of the boodle box. I reached as far as my arm would go. The bills had been tied with the same sort of bands that I’d seen used at The Rose. I stuffed the valise till it couldn’t hold any more. Finally, I covered the stash with a dozen of Eugenie Schmitz’s hand-embroidered handkerchiefs and did up the leather straps.
The cop was waiting for me at the top of the stairs. “You need help, there, miss? Come, let me.” Before I could stop him, he took my heavy bag. “Let’s get you down the road, eh,” he said.
All I could think was: I just needed to get past the cops at the curb, then up two blocks
