Benito stared, bewildered, at the Chinaman. "McTurpin dying? Wants to see me?"
Po Lun nodded. "He send-um China boy you' house. He wait outside."
Benito rose. Alice laid detaining fingers on his arm. "Don't go ... it's just a ruse. You know McTurpin."
"The time is past when he can injure me," he answered gravely. "Something tells me it is right--to go." He kissed her, disengaged her arms about him gently, and went out. Adrian signaled to the Chinese. "Follow him...."
Po Lun nodded understandingly.
A shuffling figure, face concealed beneath a broad-brimmed hat, hands tucked each within the opposite sleeve, awaited Windham just outside the door. He set out immediately in an easterly direction, glancing over his shoulder now and again to make certain that Benito followed. Down the steep slope of Washington street he went past moss-grown retaining walls; over slippery brick pavements, through which the grass-blades sprouted, to plunge at length into the eddying alien mass of Chinatown's main artery, Dupont street. Here rushing human counter-currents ebbed and flowed ceaslessly. Burdens of all sizes and of infinite variety swept by on swaying shoulder yokes.
Benito's guide paused momentarily on the farther side of Dupont street. Then, with a beckoning gesture, he dived into a narrow alley. Benito, following, found himself before the entrance of a cellarway. As he halted, iron trapdoors opened toward him, revealing a short flight of steps. The Chinese motioned him to descend, but the lawyer hesitated with a sudden sense of trepidation. Beneath the pavement in this cul-de-sac of Chinatown, he would be hidden from the world, from friends or rescue, as securely as though he were at the bottom of the bay.
But he squared his shoulders and went down. A door opened noiselessly and closed, leaving him in total darkness. A lantern glimmered and he followed it along a narrow passage that had many unexpected turns. An odor, pungent, acrid, semi-aromatic troubled his nostrils. It increased until the lantern-bearing Chinese ushered him into a large square room, lined with bunks, three-deep, like the forecastle of a ship. In each lay two Chinese, face to face. They drew at intervals deep inhalations from a thick bamboo pipe, relaxing, thereupon into a sort of stupored dream. The place reeked with the fumes that had assailed Benito in the passage. Intuitively he knew that it was opium.
A voice in English, faint and dreamy, reached him. "This way ... Mr. Windham.... Please."
A white almost-skeleton hand stretched toward him from a lower bunk. A bearded face, cadaverously sunken, in which gleamed bright fevered eyes, was now discernible.
"McTurpin!" he spoke incredulously.
"What's left of me," the tone was hollow, grim. "Please sit down here, close to me.... I've something to tell you.... Something that will--"
He sank back weakly, but his eyes implored. Benito took a seat beside the bunk. For a moment he thought the man was dead. He lay so limp, so silent!
Then McTurpin whispered. "Bend closer. I will tell you how to serve your country.... There's a schooner called the 'J.M. Chapman.' Do you know where it lies?"
"No," Benito answered, "but that's easily discovered. If you've anything to say--go on."
McTurpin's bony fingers clutched Benito's sleeve. "Listen," he said. "Bend nearer."
His voice droned on, at times imperceptible, again hoarse with excitement. Benito sat moveless, absorbed.
Above the iron-trap doors Po Lun waited patiently.
In an unlighted alley back of the American Exchange Hotel two figures waited, as if by appointment on the night of March 14. One was Ashbury Harpending, a young Southerner, and one of the Committee of Thirty which, several years before, had hatched an unsuccessful plot to capture California for the hosts of slavery. The other was an English boy named Alfred Rubery, large, good-looking, adventurous, nephew of the great London publicist, John Bright. It was he who spoke first in a guarded undertone:
"Is everything ready--safe?"
"Far as I can tell," responded Harpending.
"How many men d'you get?" asked Rubery.
"Twenty ... that's enough. We'll pick up more at Manzanillo. There we'll dress the Chapman into fighting trim, set up our guns aboard and capture the first Pacific Mail liner with gold out of California."
"You're a clever fellow, Harpending. How'd you get those guns aboard without suspicion?"
"Through a Mexican friend," replied Harpending. "He said he needed them to protect his mine in South America. Besides, we've a large assortment of rifles, revolvers, cutlasses. They're boxed and marked 'machinery.'"
Further talk was interrupted by a group of men who approached, saluted, gave a whispered countersign. Others came, still others till the quota of a full score had arrived. At Harpending's command they separated to avoid attention. Silently they slipped through dimly-lighted streets, past roaring saloons and sailors' boarding houses to an unfrequented portion of the waterfront. There the trim black silhouetted shape of the schooner Chapman loomed against a cloudy sky.
At the rail stood Ridgely Greathouse, big, florid, his burnside whiskers twitching.
"Where the devil's Law?" he bellowed. "Lord Almighty! Here it's nearly midnight and no captain."
"He's not with us," said Harpending quietly. But his face paled. Navigator William Law was the only one of whom he had a doubt. But the men must not suspect. "Law will be along soon," he added. "Let us all get aboard and make ready to sail."
The men followed him and went below. Harpending, Greathouse and Rubery paced the deck. "He's drunk probably," commented Greathouse savagely.
"Tut! Tut!" cried Rubery, "let us have no croaking." But at two o'clock, the navigator had not shown his face. They could not sail without a captain. Wearily they went below and left a sentinel on watch. He was a young man who had eaten heavily and drunk to even more excess. For a time he paced the deck conscientiously. Then he sat down, leaned against a spar and smoked. After a while the pipe fell from his listless fingers.
"Ahoy, schooner Chapman!"
The sleeping sentinel stirred languidly. He stretched himself, yawned, rose in splendid leisure. Then a shout broke from him. Like a frightened rabbit he dived through the hatchway, yelling at the top of his lungs.
"The police! The police!"
Harpending was up first. Pell mell, Rubery and Greathouse followed. A couple of hundred yards away they looked into the trained guns of the Federal warship Cyane. Several boatloads of officers and marines were leaving her side. From the San Francisco waterfront a police tug bore down on the Chapman.
Greathouse stumbled back into the cabin. "Quick, destroy the evidence," he shouted.
Press reports gave full and wide sensation to the capture of the "Chapman." Chief Lees took every credit for the thwarting of a "Plot of Southern Pirates" who "Conspired to Prey Upon the Golden Galleons From California." Thus the headlines put it. And Benito was relieved to find no mention of himself. Harpending he knew and liked, despite his Southern sympathies; Rubery he had met; an English lad, high-spirited and well connected. In fact, John Bright soon had his errant nephew out of jail. And when, a few months later, Harpending and Greathouse were released, Benito deemed the story happily ended. He heard nothing from McTurpin. No doubt the fellow was dead.
That troublesome proclivity of wooing chance was uppermost again in Windham's mind. It was only natural perhaps, for all of San Francisco gambled now in mining stocks. The brokers swarmed like bees along Montgomery street; every window had its shelf of quartz and nuggets interspersed with pictures of the "workings" at Virginia City. It was Nevada now that held the treasure-seeker's eye.
Within a year it had produced six millions. Scores of miners staked their claims upon or near the Comstock lode and most of them sought capital in San Francisco. Washerwomen, bankers, teamsters--every class was bitten by the microbe of hysterical investment. Some had made great fortunes; none apparently thus far had lost.
In front of Flood and O'Brien's saloon a hand fell heartily upon Benito's shoulder. "Come in and have a drink," James Lick invited.
Lick had "made a pile" of late. He was building a big hotel on Montgomery street; was recognized as one of San Francisco's financiers. He took Benito by the arm. "We've got to celebrate. I've made ten thousand on my Ophir shares. Carrying any mining stock, Benito?"
"No," retorted Windham. He suffered Lick to lead him to the bar. Will O'Brien, a shrewd-faced merry Irishman, took their orders. He and Flood had bought an interest in Virginia City ... "a few fate only, but it's goin' t' make us rich, me lad," he said enthusiastically as he set their glasses out upon the bar. "We'll all be nabobs soon. Ain't that the God's truth, Mr. Ralston?"
"Sure, my boy," a deep voice answered heartily. Windham turned and saw a man of forty, tall, well-molded, with a smiling forceful countenance. He seemed to smack of large affairs.
Benito sipped his liquor, listening absorbedly while Ralston rattled off facts, figures, prospects in connection with the Comstock lode.
"The Nevada mines will pay big," Benito heard him tell a group of bearded men who hung upon his utterances. "BIG! You can bet your bottom dollar on it. If you've money, don't let it stay idle."
Benito bade his friend good-bye and went out, thinking deeply. He wondered what Alice would say if....
Nesbitt of The Bulletin interrupted his musing. "Heard the news, Benito? We're to have a stock exchange next month."
"The brokers are opposed to it. They don't want staple values, because, now and then, they can pick up a bargain or drive a hard trade. And they can peddle 'wildcat' stocks to tenderfeet.... We must stop that sort of thing."
"Quite so," said Windham vaguely comprehending. Nesbitt babbled on. "There are to be forty charter members, with a fund of $2000."
He took a pencil from his pocket. Tapped Benito's shirt front with it. "Buy a little Gould and Curry.... I've just had a tip that it will rise." He hurried on.
Windham let his clients wait that afternoon. He took a walk toward Twin Peaks on Market street. That lordly, though neglected, thoroughfare began to make pretensions toward commercial activity. Opposite Montgomery street was St. Ignatius Church. Farther down toward the docks were lumber yards and to the west were little shops, mostly one-storied, widely scattered. Chinese laundries, a livery stable or two. The pavements were stretches of boardwalk interspersed with sand or mud, trodden into passable trails. Down the broad center ran a track on which for years a dummy engine had labored back and forth, drawing flat cars laden with sand. Now most of the sand hills were leveled above Kearny street. Benito picked his way along the northern side of Market street till he came to Hayes. There the new horse car line ran to Hayes park. One was just leaving as he reached the corner, so he hopped aboard. As the driver took his fare he nodded cordially. Benito recognized him as a former client.
"Listen," said the fellow, "you did me a good turn once, Mr. Windham. Now I'll return the compliment." He leaned nearer, whispered. "Buy some Hale and Norcross mining stock. I've got a tip straight from the president. It's going up."
In the spring of '64, Virginia City mines still yielded treasure harvests unbelievable. Windham's bank account had risen to the quarter-million mark. Month by month he watched his assets grow by leaps more marvelous than even his romantic fancy could fore-vision. Stocks were climbing at a rate which raised the value of each share $100 every thirty days.
San Francisco's Stock and Exchange Board, the leading of the three such institutions, had quarters in the Montgomery block. Electric telegraphs, which flashed its stock quotations round the world, made it a money power in London, Paris and New York.
Benito had a home now in South Park, the city's new, exclusive residence section. From there the Omnibus Street Railway Company, in which he was a large stockholder, operated horse cars to North Beach. He wore a high hat now and spectacles. There were touches of gray in his hair.
As he entered the exchange, a nimble-fingered Morse-operator was marking figures on a blackboard.
Windham heard his name called; turning, met the outstretched hand of William Ralston. They chatted for a time on current matters. There was to be a Merchants' Exchange. Already ground was broken for the building. The Bank of California, one of Ralston's enterprises, would soon open its doors. Ralston was in a dozen ventures, all of them constructive, public spirited. He counted his friends by the hundreds. Suddenly he turned from contemplation of the blackboard to Benito.
"Carrying much Virginia City nowadays?"
Benito told him. Ralston knit his brow, deliberating. Then he said with crisp decision, "Better start unloading soon, my son."
Benito was surprised; expostulated. Ophir, Gould and Curry, Savage were as steady as a rock. He didn't want to lose a "bag of money." Ralston heard him, nodded curtly, walked away. Disturbed, rebellious, Benito quit the place. He wanted quiet to digest the older man's advice. Ralston had the name of making few mistakes. Restlessly Benito sought an answer to his problem. In the end he went home undecided and retired dinnerless, explaining that he had a headache. He awoke with a fever the next morning. Alice, frightened by his haggard eyes, sent Po Lun for a doctor.
Benito looked up from his pillows, tried to rise and found that he had not the strength. Someone was holding his wrist. Oh, yes, Dr. Beverly Cole. Behind him stood Alice and Robert.... How tall the boy looked beside his little mother! They seemed to be tired, worried. And Alice had tears in her eyes.
He heard the doctor's voice afar off, saying, "Yes, he'll live. The danger's over--barring complications." Once more his senses drifted, slept.
In the morning Po Lun brought a cup of broth and fed him with a spoon.
"Long time you been plenty sick," the Chinaman replied to his interrogation.
"Where's Alice?"
"She go 'sleep 'bout daylight.... She plenty ti'ed. Ebely night she sit up while you talk clazy talk."
"You mean I've been delirious, Po Lun?"
The Chinese nodded. "You get well now plitty soon," he said soothingly and, with the empty cup, stole softly out. After a time Alice came, rejoiced to find him awake. The boy, on his way to school, poked a bright morning face in at the door and called out, "Hello, dad! Better, ain't you?"
"Yes, Robert," said Benito. When the boy had gone he turned to Alice. "How long have I been ill?"
"Less than a fortnight--though it seems an age." She took his hand and cried a little. But they were happy tears. He stroked her hair with a hand that seemed strangely heavy.
Three weeks later, hollow-eyed, a little shaky, but eager to be back at work, Benito returned to his office. A press of work engaged him through the morning hours. But at noon, he wandered out into the bright June sunshine, walking about and greeting old friends. At the Russ House Cafe, where he lunched, William Ralston greeted him cordially.
"How is the war going?" Windham asked. "I've been laid up for a month--rather out of the running."
"Well, they're devilish hard fighters, those Confederates. And Lee's a master strategist.... But we've the money, Windham. That's what counts. The Union owes a lot to California and Nevada."
"Nevada!" with the word came sudden recollection. "That reminds me, Ralston.... How are stocks?"
But the banker, with a muttered excuse hastened off.
Benito finished his coffee, smoked a cigarette and made his way again into the street.
Presently he went into the stock exchange, almost deserted now, after the close of the morning session. O'Brien was there, smoking a long black cigar and chatting in his boisterous, confidential way with Asbury Harpending. The latter was babbling in real estate.
"Hullo, Windham!" he greeted. "You don't look very fit.... Been ill?"
"Yes," Benito told him. "Laid up since the last of May. What's new?"
"Nothing much--since the bottom dropped out of Comstock."
Instinctively Benito's hand went out toward a chair. He sank into it weakly. So that was the explanation of Ralston's swift departure.
He felt the men's eyes upon him as he walked unsteadily to the files and scanned them. Ophir stock had dropped 50 per cent. Gould and Curry was even lower. Benito closed the book and walked blindly out of the exchange.
After a time he heard footsteps following. Harpending's voice came, "Hey, there, Windham." Benito turned.
"Cleaned out?" asked the other sympathetically.
"Not--quite."
"Then forget the stocks. They're tricky things at best.... I've a proposition that's a winner. Positively.... There's law work to be done. We need you."
"Montgomery Street Straight" was the plan. It was to be extended across Market street either in a straight line or at an easy angle--over all obstructions to the bay.
"But such a scheme would involve millions," Benito objected. "It would cut through the Latham and Parrott homes for instance.... Old Senator Latham would hold you up for a prohibitive price. And Parrott would fight you to a finish."
"Quite right," returned Harpending. "That's where you come in, Benito. We want you to draw us a bill and lobby it through the Legislature...."
"The thing is to make it a law. Then the Governor must appoint a commission. The Latham and Parrott properties will be condemned and we can acquire them at a fair price."
"Very well," Benito answered. "It's a go."
Several days after his talk with Harpending, Benito met Adrian and Francisco, the latter a tall, gangling lad of sixteen. Father and son were talking animatedly, discussing some point on which Francisco seemed determined to have his way.
"What d'ye think of this youngster of mine?" Stanley questioned. "Scarcely out of short pants and wants to be a newspaper man! I say he should go to school a few years more ... to one of those Eastern colleges you hear so much about. I've the money. He doesn't need to work.... Talk to him, Benito. Make him listen to sense."
"I don't wish to go East, Uncle Ben," said Francisco. "What good will it do me to learn Latin and Greek.... Higher mathematics and social snobbery? I want to get to work. Calvin McDonald's offered me a job on The American Flag."
"What will you do? Write editorials or poetry?" his father asked.
Francisco flushed. "I'll be a copy boy to start with.... And there's no harm in writing poetry. Uncle Ben does it himself."
It was Benito's turn to redden. "Better let the boy have his way," he said hastily. "Journalism's quite an education in itself."
"So, you're against me, too! Well, well. I'll see about it."
They shook hands good-humoredly, the boy beaming. Afterward news reached Benito that young Stanley was a member of McDonald's staff.
In 1865 there came the joyous news of victory and peace. The Democratic Press accepted Lee's surrender sullenly, printing now and then a covert sneer at Grant or Lincoln. Enmity died hard in Southern breasts.
One morning as he came to town Benito saw a crowd of angry and excited men running down Montgomery street. Some of them brandished canes. "Down with Copperheads," they were shouting. Presently he heard a crash of glass, a cry of protest. Then a door gave with a splintering sound. The crowd rushed through, into the offices and print rooms of the Democratic Press.
There was more noise of wreckage and destruction. Broken chairs, tables, typecases, bits of machinery hurtled into the street. Benito grasped the arm of a man who was hurrying by. "What's wrong?" he asked.
The other turned a flushed and angry mien toward him. "God Almighty! Haven't you heard? President Lincoln was shot last night ... by a brother of Ed Booth, the actor.... They say he's dying." He picked up a stone and hurled it at an upper window of the Press.
"We'll show these traitor-dogs a thing or two," he called. "Come on, boys, let's wreck the place!"
The publishers of the Democratic Press had their lesson. In a city draped with black for a beloved President, they swept up the glass of their shattered windows, picked up what remained of scattered type, reassembled machinery and furniture--and experienced a change of heart. Presently The Examiner burgeoned from that stricken journalistic root.
Francisco was now a member of the Alta staff, the aggressive but short-lived American Flag, having ceased publication several years after the war. Adrian admitted to Benito that the boy had justified his bent for journalistic work.
"The young rascal's articles are attracting attention. He even signs some of them; now and then they print one of his verses--generally a satire on local events. And he gets passes to all of the theaters. Inez and I are going to 'Camille' tonight."
"So are Alice and myself, by a coincidence." Benito lighted a cigar and puffed a moment; then he added, "Do you know what that boy of mine proposes to do?"
"No," said Adrian. "Become an actor--or a politician?"
"Well, it's almost as bad.... He wants to be a letter carrier.... The new free delivery routes will be established soon, you know."
"Yes, the town's growing," commented Stanley. "Well, you'd better let young Robert have his way. He's almost as big as you.... How is 'Montgomery Straight' progressing?"
"Fairly well," returned Benito. "Latham and Parrott are fighting us as we expected. But Harpending's acquired Selim Woodworth's lot on Market street, just where Montgomery will cut through." He laughed. "Selim wanted half a million for it.... He'd have got it in a day or two because we had to have the property. But along comes an earthquake and literally shakes $350,000 out of Woodworth's pockets. Frightened him so badly that he sold for $150,000 and was glad to get it."
"Well, even earthquakes have their uses," Adrian smiled. "Here comes Francisco. I'll have him see Maguire and arrange it so that we can sit together at the show."
"Who is the lanky fellow with him?" asked Benito. "Looks as if he would appreciate a joke."
"Oh, that's his friend, Sam Clemens," Adrian answered. "An improvident cuss but good company. He writes for the Carson Appeal under the name of Mark Twain."
Benito, that afternoon, was closeted with Harpending and Ralston in the Bank of California. The financier, who was backing the Montgomery street venture, regarded Harpending a trifle quizzically. "Once," he said, "you tried to be a pirate, Asbury.... Oh, no offense," he laid a soothing hand upon the other's knee. "But tonight I need a desperate man such as you. Another like Benito. We're going to raid the Mint."
"What?" cried Windham, startled.
"You'll need steadier nerves than that for our enterprise." Ralston passed his cigar case to the two men, saw them puffing equably ere he continued. "You know how tight the money situation has become because President Grant declines to let us exchange our gold bars for coin. With eight tons of gold in our vault we almost had a run this afternoon.... Now, that's ridiculous." His fist smote the table. "Grant doesn't know the ropes.... But that's no reason why Hell should break loose tomorrow morning."
"What are you going to do?" Benito asked.
"Use my common sense--and save the banks," said Ralston shortly. "You two must meet me here this evening. Soon as it's dark. You'll have a hard night's work. My friend Dore will be there also. Can you suggest anyone else--absolutely to be trusted, who will ask no questions?"
"My son," Benito answered; "Robert likes work. He wants to be a postal-carrier."
"Bring him by all means," said Ralston. "If he helps us out tonight, I'll see that he gets anything he wants in San Francisco."
He was boyishly eager; full of excited plans for his daring scheme. The two men left him chuckling as he bit the end off a fresh cigar.
It was nearly nine o'clock when they left the Bank of California. Theater-going crowds were housed at the play; the streets were extraordinarily silent as the quintet made their way toward the Mint. Robert was breathing hard. The dark streets, the mysterious Empire ahead, the hint of danger and a mighty stake distilled a toxic and exhilarating fever in his blood. As the pillared front of the federal treasure house loomed up before them, Ralston made a sign for them to halt, advancing cautiously. With astonishment they saw him pass through the usually guarded door and disappear. Presently he emerged with two sacks.
"Robert and Benito, take these to the bank," he whispered. "The watchmen there will give you the equivalent in gold bars to bring back." He turned to Harpending and Dore. "I'll have yours ready in a minute." Once more he vanished within.
Robert picked up the bag allotted to him. It was very heavy. As he lifted it to his shoulder, the contents clinked.
"Gold coin," said his father, significantly.
"What if we're caught?" asked the boy, half fearfully. Ralston, reappearing, heard the question.
"You won't be," he said. "I've attended to that."
His assurance proved correct. All night the four men toiled between the Mint and the Bank of California sweating, puffing, fatigued to the brink of exhaustion. With the first streak of dawn, Ralston dismissed them.
"You've brought five ton of gold coin to the vault," he said, his eyes agleam. "You've saved San Francisco the worst financial panic that ever a short-sighted federal government unwittingly precipitated." Suddenly he laughed and threw his arms wide. "At ten o'clock the frightened sheep will come running for their deposits.... Well, let 'em come."
"And now you boys go home and get some sleep. By the Eternal, you deserve it!"
William C. Ralston's Bank of California had become the great financial institution of the West. Ralston was the Rothschild of America. Through him Central Pacific Railway promoters borrowed $3,000,000 with less formality than a country banker uses in mortgaging of a ten-acre farm. Two millions took their unobtrusive wing to South America, financing mines he had never seen. In Virginia City William Sharon directed a branch of the Bank of California and kept his eye on mineral investment. Benito sat in Ralston's office one morning, smoking and discussing the Montgomery street problem when a clerk tapped at the door.
"A fellow's out here from Virginia City," he said nervously. "Wants to see you quickly 'and no bones about it.' That's what he told me."
"All right, send him in," said Ralston laughing. "Stay, Benito. He won't take a minute...." Ere he finished there stalked in a wild-eyed individual clad in boots, the slouch hat of the mining man, a suit of handsome broadcloth, mud-bespattered and a heavy golden watch chain with the usual nugget charm. He was a clean-cat type of mining speculator from Nevada.
"Sit down," invited Ralston. "Have a smoke."
The intruder glared at Windham; then he eased himself uncomfortably into a spacious leather-covered seat, bit off the end of a cigar, half-viciously and, having found the cuspidor, began.
"I've something for your ear alone, Bill Ralston...."
"Meet Benito Windham," Ralston introduced. "Speak out. I have no secrets from my friends."
The other hemmed and hawed. He seemed averse to putting into words some thought which troubled him beyond repression. "Do you know," he burst out finally, "that your partner, Sharon, has become the most incurable and dissolute gambler in Nevada?"
"You don't say." Ralston did not seem as shocked as one might have expected. "Well, my friend, that sounds quite serious.... What's poor Bill's particular kind of--vice?"
"Poker," said the visitor. "By the Eternal, that man Sharon would stake his immortal soul on a four-card flush and never bat an eye. Time and time again I've seen it."
Ralston leaned back comfortably, his folded hands across his middle. His speculative stare was on a marble statue. At length he spoke. "Does Sharon win or lose?"
"Well," the other man admitted, "I must say he wins...."
"Then he's just the man I want," Ralston spoke with emphasis. He rose, held out his hand toward the flustered visitor. "Thanks for telling me.... And now we'll all go for a drink together."
"That's Bill Ralston!" said Benito to his wife. They laughed about the anecdote which Windham had related at the dinner table. Robert, in his new letter-carrier's uniform, spoke up. "I saw him at the bank this afternoon.... There was a letter from Virginia City and he kept me waiting till he opened it. Then he slapped me on the shoulder. 'If the contents of that letter had been known to certain people, son,' he told me, 'they'd have cleaned up a fortune on the information.' Then he handed me a gold-piece. But I wouldn't take it. 'Don't be proud,' he said and poked me in the ribs. 'And don't forget that Bill Ralston's your friend.'"
"Everybody calls him 'Bill,'" his mother added. "Washerwomen, teamsters, beggars, millionaires. If ever there was a friend of the people it is he."
"Some day, though, he'll overplay his game," Benito prophesied.
Ralston had been euchered out of a railroad to Eureka, planned by Harpending and himself and opposed by the Big Four; "Montgomery to the Bay" was meeting with a host of difficulties; the Grand Hotel was building and Kearny street, where he owned property, was being widened. Ralston's genial countenance showed sometimes a little strained pucker between the eyes.
Now and then Benito met a man named Adolph Sutro. They called him "The Man With a Dream." Stocky, under average height, intensely businesslike, he was--a German Burgomeister type, with Burnside whiskers and a purpose. He proposed to drive a tunnel four miles long from Carson valley, and strike the Comstock levels 1800 feet below the surface.
An English syndicate was backing him. The work was going on.
Much of Sutro's time was spent in Virginia City, superintending the work on his tunnel. But he fell into the habit of finding Benito whenever he came to town--dragging him from home with awkward but sincere apologies to Alice.
"You will lend me your husband, Hein?" he would say. "I like to tell him of my fancies, for he understands ... the others laugh at me."
Alice smiled into his broad, good humored face. "That's very silly of them."
"Donnerwetter! Some day they will laugh the other way around," he threatened.
Benito and Sutro usually drove or rode through the Presidio and out along a road which skirted cliffs and terminated at the Seal Rock House. There they dined and watched the seals disporting on some sea-drenched rocks, a stone's throw distant. And there Sutro indulged in more dreams.
"Some day I shall purchase that headland and build me a home ... and farther inland I shall grow a forest out of eucalyptus trees. They come from Australia.... One can buy them cheap enough.... They grow fast like bamboo in the Tropics." He clapped a hand upon Benito's knee. "I shall call it Mount Parnassus."
Benito tried to smile appreciatively. He felt rather dubious about the scheme. But he liked to see the other's quiet eyes flash with an unexpected fire. Perhaps his genius might indeed reclaim this desolate region. Inward from the beach lay the waste of sand-hills known as Golden Gate Park. There was talk among the real estate visionaries of making it a pleasure ground.
So regularly did they end their outings with a dinner at the Seal Rock House that Alice always knew where to find her husband in case some clamorous client sought Benito's aid. And tonight as an attendant called his name he answered with no other thought than that he would be asked to make a will or soothe some jealous and importunate wife who wanted a divorce without delay. They usually did want them that way. He rose, leisurely enough, and made his way to the door. There, instead of the usual messenger boy, stood Alice.
"You must come at once," she panted. "Robert has been robbed of an important letter to the bank. They talk of arresting him.... Ralston wants you at his office."
In the president's office at the Bank of California, Benito found his son, pale but intrepid. He was being questioned by William Sharon and a postoffice inspector. Ralston, hands crammed into trousers pockets, paced the room disturbedly.
"You admit, then, that the envelope was given you?" Sharon was asking truculently as Benito entered.
"Yes," said Robert, "I remember seeing such a letter as I packed my mail."
"Humph!" exclaimed Sharon. He seemed about to ask another question, but the postal official anticipated him. "Explain what happened after you left the mail station."
"Nothing much ... I walked up Washington street as usual. On the edge of Chinatown a woman stopped me ... asked me how to get to Market street."
"Is that all?"
"Yes, that's all," said Robert. "She seemed confused by our criss-cross streets. I had to tell her several times ... to point the way before she understood."
"And nothing else happened?"
"Nothing else--except that Mr. Ralston asked me for the letter. Said he was expecting it.... I searched my bag but couldn't find it."
"Tell us more about this woman. Give us a description of her."
"Spanish type," said Robert tersely. "Very pleasant; smiled a lot and had gold fillings in her teeth. Must have been quite handsome when she was young."
The inspector stroked his chin reflectively. "Didn't set the bag down, did you? ... when you pointed out the way, for instance?"
"Let me see.... Why, yes--I did. I hadn't thought of that...."
Captain of Detectives I.W. Lees was making a record for himself among the nation's crime-detectors. He was a swarthy little man, implacable as an Indian and as pertinacious on a trail. He never forgot a face and no amount of disguise could hide its identity from his penetrating glance. Without great vision or imagination, he knew criminals as did few other men; could reason from cause to effect within certain channels, unerringly. He was heartless, ruthless--some said venal. But he caught and convicted felons, solved the problems of his office by a dogged perseverance that ignored defeat. For, with a mind essentially tricky, he anticipated tricksters--unless their operations were beyond his scope.
It was 10 o'clock at night, but he was still at work upon a case which, up to now, had baffled him--a case of opium smuggling--when Robert and Benito entered. At first he listened to them inattentively. But at Robert's story of the woman, he became electrified.
"Rose Terranza! Dance hall girl back in the Eldorado days! Queen of the Night Life under half a dozen names! Smiling Rose, some called her. Good clothes and gold in her teeth! I've her picture--wait a minute." He pulled a cord; a bell jangled somewhere. An officer entered.
Chinatown at midnight. Dark and narrow streets; fat, round paper lanterns here and there above dim doorways; silent forms, soft-shuffling, warily alert.
"Wait one minee," said Po Lun. "I find 'em door."
Following the Chinaman were Captain Lees, with his half a dozen "plain clothes men," Benito, Robert and the mail inspector. Presently Po spoke again. "Jus' alound co'ne'" (corner), he whispered. "Me go ahead. Plitty soon you come. You hea' me makem noise ... allee same cat."
Lees descried him as he paused before a dimly lighted door. Evidently he was challenged; gave a countersign. For the door swung back. Po Lun passed through. Nothing happened for a time. Then a piercing feline wail stabbed through the night.
"M-i-i-a-o-w-r-r-r!"
Lees sprang forward, pressed his weight against the partly-open portal; flashed his dark lantern on two figures struggling violently. His hand fell on the collar of Po Lun's antagonist; a policeman's "billy" cracked upon his skull. "Tie and gag him," said the captain. "Leave a man on guard.... The rest of you come on."
Po Lun leading, they went, single file through utter blackness. Now and then the white disc of Lees' lantern, now in Po Lun's hand, gleamed like a guiding will-o-wisp upon the tortuous path.
Suddenly Benito felt the presence of new personalities. They seemed to be in a room with other people. Several dark lamps flashed at Po Lun's signal. They revealed a room sumptuously furnished. Teakwood chairs, with red embroidered backs and cushions, stood about the walls. Handsome gilded grillwork screened a boudoir worthy of a queen. Clad in the laciest of robes de chambre, a dark-skinned woman sat on the edge of a canopied bed. She was past her first youth, but still of remarkable beauty. At the foot of the bed stood McTurpin--pale ghost of his former self. He looked like a cornered rat ... and quite as dangerous. Two Chinese were crouched against a lacquered screen.
"What do you want?" asked the woman, her voice shrill with anger.
"Take your hand out from under that pillow!" ordered Lees. "No nonsense, Smiling Rose."
Reluctantly the ringed and tapered fingers that had clutched apparently a hidden weapon came into view. "Light the lamps," said Lees, and one of his men performed this office.
"That's the woman, father," spoke young Robert, unexpectedly.
"Put the bracelets on her," ordered Lees, "and search the place." A man stepped forward.
But they had not counted on McTurpin. "Let her be," he screamed. A pistol flashed. The officer went down at Rose's feet.
Instantly there was confusion. The room was filled with shuffling Oriental figures. The lights went out. Powder-flashes leaped like fireflies in the darkness. Through it all Lees could be heard profanely giving orders.
Then, as swiftly, it was over. Somewhere a door closed. Lees leaped forward just in time to hear an iron bar clang into place.
"Gone," he muttered, as his light searched vainly for the woman.
"Who's that on the bed?" asked Benito.
"The cursed opium-wreck, McTurpin," Lees replied impatiently. "I planted him when I saw Dick go down." He bent above the wounded officer while Benito relighted the lamps and examined curiously the body of his ancient enemy. For McTurpin was dead. He had evidently tried to reach the woman as he fell. His clawlike fingers clutched, in rigor mortis, her abandoned robe. On the floor, where it had fallen from her bosom, doubtless in the hasty flight, there lay a crumpled, bloodstained envelope. Robert springing forward, seized it with an exclamation. It was addressed to William C. Ralston.