Ralph Compton - Bounty Hunter

“After Mr. Tone saw the body, he ascertained that she was the same woman who had solicited him outside her residence the night before by pulling up her skirt and acting in a lewd and offensive manner.”

“Why were you in Pisser’s Alley the night before, Tone?” Muldoon asked.

“Mr. Tone was—”

“Let the man answer for himself, Sergeant.”

Tone helped himself to a cigar. Outside, the morning was growing brighter and birds were singing in the elm tree in the front yard of Langford’s house. He lit the cigar, willing himself to stay awake. He hoped that Muldoon would cut his visit short.

“After the first murder, a witness said he saw a small, slight man run into Pisser’s Alley. Sergeant Langford asked me to investigate and I did, but saw nothing.”

“That’s when you were solicited by the recently deceased?” This from Langford.

“Yes.”

“And naturally, you turned her down?” Muldoon asked.

Tone nodded. “She was a fifty-cent whore with a child clinging to her skirt. What would you have done, Inspector?”

Muldoon was lost for words for a moment, then he said finally, “I have no doubt that Elizabeth What’s-her-name is the second Ripper victim.”

Tone saw Langford wince. “Yes, she was murdered by the same . . . perpetrator,” he said.

“It’s a bad business, Sergeant,” Muldoon said. “The newspapers are already jumping on the story. Did you see the Morning Chronicle ’s front-page headline? ‘The Ripper Strikes Again.’ We have to catch this lunatic, Sergeant Langford, and soon. The mayor and more than a few aldermen have commercial interests along the waterfront and a mad ripper on the loose could be bad for business.”

“I am pursuing several leads and will continue with my inquiries,” Langford lied easily. “I am confident I will have the perpetrator in custody very soon.”

“I trust so, Sergeant. As I said, this is bad for business—very bad.” He looked at Tone. “Now, to the other matter at hand, the shooting of ”—it was Muldoon’s turn to consult his notebook—“Silas Pickett, by one John Tone, age thirty-seven, of no fixed abode. Occupation, laborer.” There was not a great deal of friendliness in the inspector’s eyes. “Enlighten me, especially since the killing was done while said John Tone was in the company of a San Francisco sergeant of police.”

“What did you find out about Pickett, Inspector?” Langford asked.

Muldoon consulted his notebook again. “He was a seafaring man, but for the past few years has worked as a runner, shanghaiing sailors for the New York and Boston ships. He was twenty-nine years of age, unmarried, and was named as a suspect in several murders but never prosecuted. He was reputed to have been a crack shot with the revolver and . . . well, that’s all I have on him at the moment.”

Langford nodded. “After I posted an officer at the murder scene, I proceeded—”

“I want to hear it from Mr. Tone,” Muldoon said.

“As Sergeant Langford was about to say, we returned to Pacific Street and proceeded to the Jolly Jack tavern to consult with an informant,” he said. He was smiling inwardly at his use of the word “proceeded.” It seemed that coppers never walk, they always proceed. And he recalled Langford’s caution about telling senior officers as little as possible, so he played his cards close to his chest.

“The informant was not present and we returned to Pisser’s Alley. We were proceeding along the alley in a southerly direction when we came under fire.”

“At whom was this fire directed?” Muldoon asked.

“I believe it was directed at me,” Tone said.

“Aha! Now, please go on.”

“I ascertained that my assailant was hiding in the shadows at the corner of a nearby dwelling and I proceeded to return fire. I saw the man stagger and fall and when we examined him we ascertained that he was already dead.”

Tone sat back in his chair, looking at Muldoon. It seemed that all his “proceeding” and “ascertaining” had pleased the inspector greatly, because the man was smiling.

“A clear case of self-defense, wouldn’t you say, Sergeant Langford?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, indeed. But Mr. Tone somewhat understates his role in the fight. He stood in the open to engage Pickett, and I have never seen anyone draw and work revolvers with such exquisite accuracy and rapidity. It was splendid work, and Mr. Tone’s behavior was exemplary.”

“Yes, yes, no doubt,” Muldoon said. “But one must wonder why he was targeted in the first place.”

“He was with me,” Langford said. “That was cause enough.”

Muldoon nodded. “Policing the waterfront is a hazardous business.” He drained his cup, rose to his feet and collected his cap, swagger stick and gloves. “One more thing, before I leave, Sergeant. A little bird told me that following the bombing of Joseph Carpenter’s saloon, the various rogues who between them control eighty percent of the Barbary Coast are planning a peace conference. Have you heard anything to that effect?”

“I have heard that same rumor, yes, and my inquiries are proceeding as to time and location,” Langford said, his face straight.

“Good. We can’t have more bombings, Sergeant. Bad for business. Peace along the waterfront is desired, both by the mayor and his aldermen. I don’t have to tell you that the mayor is nothing if not a generous man. It wouldn’t surprise me at all to see promotions all round if the peace talks succeed.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, sir,” Langford said. He stood. “Let me show you to the door, Inspector.”

Before he turned to leave, Muldoon said, “Good work, Mr. Tone. Keep it up and you’ll be in uniform in no time.”

“Thank you,” Tone said. Like Langford, he did not even crack a smile.

Chapter 28

The next two nights passed without a Ripper murder and there were no more attempts made on Tone’s life. But there was a strange tension along the waterfront, as though it were holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

On the afternoon of the third day, Tone was wakened by the murmur of voices in Langford’s kitchen. He rose, slipped into his pants and shirt and padded to his bedroom door, listening.

Someone, a man, was talking earnestly to the sergeant, but Tone couldn’t make out the words. For a moment he thought about returning to bed for another hour’s sleep. It was Langford’s house and he was entitled to entertain visitors in privacy.

But he decided against it. Some instinct told him that this was no ordinary visitor. Perhaps he was a man with information to impart.

Tone walked to the kitchen and Langford turned when he stepped inside. “Take a seat, Tone,” the cop said. “Now you’re awake, you should hear this.”

After Tone pulled up a chair to the table, Langford waved a hand at the tiny, shabby man sitting opposite him. “This unprepossessing character is Willie Sullivan, alias Wee Willie Winkie, for a reason that will soon become apparent to you.”

The sergeant sat back in his chair and glared at Sullivan. “Now speak, thou apparition.”

Willie winked. “Is there money in it, Mr. Langford?” He winked again. “I’m getting married, y’see.”

“Willie,” Langford said, “you’ve got maybe three teeth, no hair and you smell like a sewer. What woman in her right mind would marry a nasty little rodent like you?”

A wink. Then, “You’ll never guess.”

“No, I would never guess.”

“Dago May.”

“Willie, she’s a whore, and a looker. Hell, man, she won’t marry you.”

“Yes, she’s a whore, and yes, she’s a looker, and yes, she’s agreed to marry me. Well, as soon as I’ve got a hundred dollars.” Willie winked, winked again, the second slower and more meaningful. “Dago May knows bed stuff, Mr. Langford, if you catch my drift. There ain’t nothing she won’t do to make me feel reeeal good.”