She gave them a tentative sniff and wrinkled her nose. “All I can say is, you’ve come a long way from Dutchman’s Creek, Mr. Seavers,” she teased.
Quint appeared not to have heard. He was staring at something—or someone—on the far side of the room. As she watched, his face paled, his eyes went flinty and his mouth hardened into a blade-thin line.
Chapter Two
Quint’s attention was riveted to the far side of the crowded restaurant. Only when a tall, swarthy man rose from his place did Annie realize who he was watching.
The man laid a bill on the white linen cloth. Then, strolling across the floor, he cut a path toward their table. A vague unease crept over Annie as she watched him come. He looked to be in his late forties, solidly built, with slick, black hair, an actor’s profile and a well-trimmed Vandyke.
His suit of fine gray worsted looked exquisitely expensive. Annie, with her eye for fabric and tailoring, recognized good custom work when she saw it. He carried an ebony walking stick topped by a brass lion’s head. Since the stick never touched the floor, Annie judged it to be an ornament, a weapon or maybe both. A large ruby signet ring decorated one finger. A penny-size mole splotched his left cheek.
Reaching their table, the man paused as if he’d just happened upon them. Quint had assumed an air of nonchalance. He made a show of swirling an oyster in the buttery sauce.
At last, with a huff of impatience, the stranger spoke. “Fancy meeting you here, Mr. Seavers. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your charming lunch companions?”
Quint finished the oyster and laid the small fork on the plate, taking his time. “Miss Annie Gustavson and her niece, Miss Clara,” he said. “Ladies, it gives me no great pleasure to present Mr. Josiah Rutledge, a member of our fair city’s board of supervisors.”
If Rutledge had caught the slight, he chose to ignore it. “Miss Gustavson, Miss Clara, my pleasure,” he murmured, bowing over Annie’s extended hand. Clara, she noticed, had slipped out of her chair and moved close to Quint. She shrank against his sleeve as Rutledge smiled at her. Annie had never known her niece to be shy.
Rutledge cleared his throat. “I read your column in the Chronicle last week, Seavers. You tread a fine line between speculation and libel. More pieces like that one, and you could find yourself in court.”
Quint didn’t stir, but Annie sensed the coiled spring tension in him. “I can hardly be sued for writing the truth,” he said.
“Truth?” The mole darkened as color flared in Rutledge’s face. “You wouldn’t know the truth if it bit you in the pants. Do you have any proof?”
Quint speared another oyster with his fork and stirred it in the sauce. A pinpoint of sweat glistened on Rutledge’s temple.
“Did you hear me, Seavers? I asked whether you had proof.”
Quint paused in his stirring. “Are you saying that proof exists?”
“You don’t have a blasted thing, do you?”
Quint shrugged. “Not yet. But give me time. Sooner or later, I’ll find a rope to hang you with, Rutledge. When I do, you won’t have to ask.”
“Ladies, my pleasure.” Rutledge turned away with a curt nod and strode toward the exit.
Clara was still clinging to Quint’s sleeve. “I don’t like that man, Uncle Quint,” she piped in her childish voice. “He scares me.”
Rutledge froze in his tracks, making it clear he’d heard. Turning slightly, he looked back over his shoulder.
His smile chilled Annie to the soles of her shoes.
They spent the afternoon seeing the city from an open horse-drawn cab. Quint did his best to be a good guide, but Annie could see that he was distracted. At unguarded moments, his features tightened into a worried scowl that was nothing like the rakish, playful Quint she remembered. Something was wrong; and Annie suspected it had to do with the man they’d met at Delmonico’s.
The cab took them up Market Street where electric trolley cars clanked along tracks of steel. On either side of the tracks, buggies, wagons and autos crowded the thoroughfare.
Annie gaped at the towering granite-faced Call Building with its wedding-cake top. City Hall, with its massive dome and pillared facade, looked almost as grand as the photographs she had seen of St. Paul’s in London.
“The pillars are supposed to be solid marble,” Quint said. “That’s what our taxes paid for. But I know for a fact they’re hollow and filled with gravel. The contractor probably split the difference with the city supervisor who gave him the job.” He glanced down at Clara, who’d fallen asleep against his shoulder. “San Francisco’s run by a bunch of crooks, from the mayor on down, and one day there’s going to be hell to pay for it.”
“Is that what you wrote about in your column? The one your friend Rutledge didn’t like?”
“My friend?” Quint mouthed a curse. “Rutledge is the worst of the lot. He knows I’m on to his shenanigans. But he’s right—I don’t have a lick of evidence to pin on him. He keeps his own hands lily-white while his hired thugs do the dirty work.”
“And all you can do, as the man said, is tread the line between speculation and libel. Isn’t that dangerous, Quint?” Annie’s gaze traced the worried lines on his face, lingering on the shadows beneath his warm brown eyes. It was all she could do to keep from reaching out and brushing back the lock of hair that had strayed from under his hat.
“Dangerous?” His frown deepened. “Maybe. But if I were to disappear, everyone who reads my column in the Chronicle would be aware of it. And I’ve got friends, good friends who know what I know and wouldn’t let it rest. That gives me a measure of protection.”
Her eyes searched his. Quint’s gaze flickered away, just slightly but enough for her to notice. “You’re not telling me everything, are you?” she asked.
He sighed. “Little Annie. You always could see right through me.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“No, and for your sake, I’m not going to. Just understand that I’ve stumbled onto a dirty mess. Rutledge is part of it, and things have gone too far for me to back off. I’ve got to bring him down.”
Annie’s white-gloved hand crept to her throat. “You are in danger! Have you thought of going to the police?”
“No good. Half the force is in Rutledge’s pocket.”
“Then the federal marshals. Surely—”
“Without solid evidence, they’d laugh in my face. All I can do is use the power of the press to jab at him and hope he breaks. Tomorrow’s column should really singe his whiskers.”
He reached out, took Annie’s hand and cradled it in his palm. “Meanwhile, I have two beautiful ladies to entertain, and I mean to enjoy every minute of their company.”
“But we’ve come at a bad time, haven’t we?”
