ROZ PINDER HEARD A KNOCK and went to the front door. Peering through lace curtains, she saw a young man clad in a gray suit with a red bowtie and straw hat. Fresh face, pale complexion, and a rather foppish demeanor. Not someone who had spent a good deal of time outdoors or engaged in anything remotely perilous. He carried a leather valise and had obviously come by horse—the bay mare with an expensive saddle tied to their hitching post. But she didn’t recognize him.
Still, he looked harmless, perhaps a traveling salesman or itinerant preacher, and Roz pulled back the door. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“You must be Mrs. Pinder,” the man-boy said chipperly, tipping his hat. “I am very glad to finally make your acquaintance.”
He extended a hand, but Roz did not immediately reciprocate. “And whom might you be?”
“Did I not say? Excuse me. Mr. Wendell Smith. I have the great honor of working alongside your husband at the Times.”
So this was Wendell Smith. She certainly knew of his existence from her husband and others, but had not yet come across him in person. Roz offered a polite smile and shook his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Smith.”
“Likewise, madam.”
“And how can I be of service?”
Wendell looked slightly flummoxed, as if Roz should already know the reason for his visit. “Mr. Pinder asked me to meet with him here at midday.”
News to her. But in typical fashion, Roz rolled with the flow. One thing she had learned during her marriage to Nick was to always expect the unexpected.
“Please do come in then.”
Roz offered him a seat in the parlor and went straight away upstairs. Being a Saturday, she had only just returned from her weekly provision shopping in town and had not seen her husband since leaving him in bed, sound asleep, early this morning.
She found Nick in the bathroom, wearing the long-johns in which he slept, shaving in front of the bureau mirror and a basin of hot water. “Who in blazes was banging at the door?”
“Wendell Smith.”
“He’s a touch early.”
“You knew he was coming?”
“Yes, we planned this yesterday.”
Roz stood in the doorway, staring daggers at the back of Nick’s head until he turned around. “Is there a problem, darling?” His tone was pure innocence.
“What made you assume that bringing your work home would meet with my approval?”
Wiping away the excess shaving cream from his face with a towel, Nick said, “I figured meeting up with Wendell here was better than me going into the office on a Saturday.”
“Well, you figured wrong!” she snapped. “Just because your body’s at home doesn’t mean your mind is, too!”
Nick responded with what he figured to be his best weapon—abject silence.
“You’ve got nothing more to say?”
“I can send Wendell back down the hill.” But his words lacked conviction.
“That’s quite all right,” she said icily, retreating from the room.
Roz briefly flirted with the idea of ducking out the back door, saddling a horse, and simply riding off. But propriety got the best of her, and she moved back into the parlor. “Nick will be right down, Mr. Smith. Meanwhile, can I offer you a beverage? Coffee perhaps?”
“I’m really more of a tea drinker, Mrs. Pinder.”
“If you don’t mind Earl Grey.”
“That would be lovely.”
Waiting for the water to boil, Roz steamed with anger. What was she going to do with Nick? He wasn’t just staying late at the office and roaming all over creation in search of stories. Now he was bringing the work home! Next thing you knew, he’d be writing in their bed at night. Something had to give—either his work or his home life. Because the former now dominated the latter.
She heard footsteps on the stairs—Nick on his way down—and dutifully prepared coffee for her husband and tea for his guest. Arranging everything on a tray, she retraced her steps to the parlor. As she had been taught many years before by her benefactor in Boston, Roz served the beverages in silence, making sure not to disturb the men, and then withdrew quietly, all the while loathing the entire situation.
Nick sipped his coffee and considered the man on the other side of the table. There wasn’t much he didn’t despise when it came to Wendell Smith. Born of the elite. Ivy League educated. Dispatched to the “Wild West” by Daddy (a prominent New York publisher) to garner real-world experience and learn the newspaper business from the ground up before returning to join the family rag. Nick would have been the first to admit he could no longer handle all of the day-to-day writing on his own. The Times had grown too large in recent years for one reporter to produce every single word. But why hire a nancy boy? I mean, look at him! Straw hat! Bowtie! Walks likes he’s got a stick up his ass! Not to mention that whiny, prep school voice.
Nick preferred to work alone and normally did. He had agreed to Wendell’s assistance on the Archer case only after a considerable amount of pressure from Clive. He didn’t know for certain, but Nick had always suspected that money had changed hands between Daddy Smith and Clive Bennett. Otherwise, how could you explain the employment of such a buffoon?
Clive could force them to cooperate on the Archer case, but Nick still decided how to divvy up the workload. Out of spite, he had relegated his unwelcome sidekick to research rather than writing, a dog’s body to amass background information on Archer, interview various people who knew the deceased, and keep tabs on the ongoing police investigation, in particular, the movements of Cradoc Bradshaw. Nick would snag the byline on whatever stories might be produced and Wendell no more than a brief mention at the very end. That burned the young reporter, and Nick knew it. But that was the way of the world. Nick had waited his turn and so would Smith.
For his part, Wendell Smith found himself pondering Nick. Even after three months at the Times, he still couldn’t decide if he admired or reviled Pinder. He was such a bastard, lashing out with obscenities if you disturbed his writing, ordering you around like a common servant, and not offering even perfunctory thanks when you completed whatever laborious task you had been dispatched to attend. How could anyone be that full of themselves?
Yet at the same time, Nick had unmistakable charm, the kind of charisma that could sweep both men and women off their feet. And that oozing confidence was more than hot air. He got things done. He worked harder and longer than anyone else at the paper. His reporting and writing were nothing short of brilliant. Perhaps he should be despised, but Nick was also someone to emulate—tricks of the trade that Wendell could duplicate when he returned to New York.
All things considered, it was best to keep on Nick’s good side. But often that was easier said than done, their current meeting being a good case in point. Smith had burned the midnight oil creating a detailed summary of everything he had learned thus far about the Archer murder.
But Nick had something else in mind. “What’s Cradoc been up to?” he asked, just as Wendell was about to read his summary out loud.
“No disrespect,” Wendell said, “but my time might be better spent trying to identify and locate the actual killer, rather than following someone who is attempting to do the same.”
Nick didn’t bat an eye at Smith’s insubordination. As a matter of fact, he was amazed it had taken the young reporter so long to raise an objection. “Wendell,” he said with an edge in his voice, “I am the decider on this story. And as such, I have decided on a division of labor in which I search for the killer directly and you do so indirectly by keeping tabs on Marshal Bradshaw. To state things in metaphorical terms, think of this as a hunt. You can go straight after your quarry and hope you get lucky … or you can fall in behind the bloodhounds and wait for the dogs to sniff out the prey. We are pursuing both strategies, and you happen to be the one tailing the bloodhounds. Perhaps you and the dogs will get there first, or maybe I will. In such a manner, we get the story no matter what happens. And we do not have to concern ourselves with Bradshaw deciding that another paper besides the San Diego Times deserves to get the news first. Is that clear enough, Wendell?”
“I suppose.” Wendell didn’t even try to suppress his sigh. Having failed to convince Nick to let him undertake what he considered a more significant role in the Archer investigation, Smith read out loud from his notebook, a long and excruciatingly detailed summary of Marshal Bradshaw’s movements over the previous week. All said and done, it appeared Cradoc had been working the case alone and wasn’t even close to naming a suspect or making an arrest.
“So he has shit all,” Nick mused.
“I do suppose you could term it that way.”
“But neither do we.”
“Not for lack of trying,” the young reporter said defensively. “Other than intermittent sleep and occasionally eating, I haven’t done anything but work on this story for the last fortnight!”
“Sleep’ll get you every time,” Nick responded. “I’ve always held that the key to successful journalism is an endless flow of coffee.”
“Coffee?” asked Wendell, puzzled by the comment.
“Don’t mind if I do,” said Nick, holding out his empty cup. “You’ll find both coffee and kettle in the kitchen. But before you go, pass the mail. You did bring the post, didn’t you, Wendell?”
“It’s in here,” said the young reporter, passing his valise across the table to Nick. “Do you take sugar?”
“Black, thank you. And a word of advice: Real journalists drink coffee. You really should switch. Put some hair on that chest of yours.”
Wendell huffed his disapproval and shuffled off to the kitchen.
Nick emptied the contents of the valise onto the low table, at rough glance about three dozen letters. The vast majority appeared to be nothing but letters to the editor. Bellyaches and complaints, supplications and petitions, as well as the ramblings of local lunatics, which often made the best reading. As the lowest rung on the Times totem pole, Wendell perused each and every letter received from the public and chose at least a dozen to be published in every edition. Anything addressed to a specific person at the newspaper was automatically forwarded to the name on the envelope. In this particular batch, there were several addressed to Clive Bennett and other staffers, but merely one bearing Nick’s name.
Nick examined the envelope, turning it over in his hands. Both the name and address were typed. That alone was enough to make it stand out from the others, all of them handwritten. Typing machines were now common in the workplace, but seldom used for personal correspondence. Also odd was the lack of a return name or address on either the front or back flap. Flipping it over again, Nick examined the postmark—mailed the previous day at the main post office in San Diego.
After tapping the envelope on the tabletop, Nick ripped open an end, blew into the void, and shook out the contents. Onto the table dropped a two-page letter also composed on a typing machine. In silence, he began to read.
Dear Mr. Pinder:
Forgive me for making first contact with you in such an impersonal manner, but it is not possible for me, at this point in time, to call upon you in person.
The purpose of this correspondence is two-fold: to introduce myself as a person of knowledge and to illuminate a recent event in our fine city.
I am privy to information about the death of Mr. Zebulon Archer that is not yet known to the general public….
Nick had grown weary of “insider tips” on Archer’s puzzling death. The Times had received at least a hundred missives from would-be informants claiming they had seen the homicide take place or possessed indisputable evidence that would help him solve the case. Most of these letters were no doubt prompted by a thousand-dollar reward that Mrs. Archer had posted in return for information explaining her husband’s passing. Thus far, no one had come close to claiming the bounty. Nick and Wendell had chased down every tip, and each had been a frustrating dead end.
Now here was another letter writer claiming insider knowledge of Archer’s death. And not just any old information this time.
It was I who dispatched Mr. Archer.
An assertion made with such boldness that it raised the hair on the back of Nick’s neck. He quickly read on.
Given the innate skepticism of every good reporter, I suspect you will mistrust my claim. If that be the case, then let me tell you, Mr. Pinder, that I have indisputable proof. All the proof that you shall ever desire or require.
Let us start with the fact that I can relate aspects of the affair known only by the marshal’s office and the county medical examiner at this point in time.
For instance, I can say with some certainty that Mr. Archer’s demise did not come about as a result of falling from a high precipice as reported in the local press. He was overcome by seawater. On purpose, I might add, by none other than yours truly. I did not force his head beneath the water, but rather let nature, in the form of the incoming tide, run its own course through Mr. Archer’s lungs.
From the days he had worked alongside Cradoc rather than against him, Nick knew the marshal routinely withheld details of a crime as a means of weeding out false confessions. Only the true perpetrator would know what really happened. This seemed to be just such a case—the fact that Archer had drowned, rather than fallen to his death as everyone presumed.
Wendell came trundling back into the parlor with a fresh cup of coffee.
Nick waved the letter in the air. “This fellow claims to have killed Archer.”
“Another lunatic?”
“I don’t think so. Not this time. Whoever penned this letter seems to know an awful lot about the crime that hasn’t been revealed by the authorities.”
“Such as…?”
Nick began again from the salutation, reading out loud. By the time he reached the passage about the intentional drowning, the young reporter was hunched over his shoulder, eyes glued to the document.
… more proof can be found beside the row of latrines behind the Cliff House. Scattered about the ground are the broken pieces of a ceramic vessel used to immobilize the accused before conveying Mr. Archer to Devil’s Cove.
The question you are no doubt asking yourself at this precise moment is why I would take Mr. Archer’s life. The simple answer is that no one else seemed willing to undertake a task that should have been accomplished long ago.
“What on Earth is he talking about?” Wendell asked.
Nick shook his head. “I have no idea.” But soon enough they had their answer.
As you are already aware, having been around in the “old days” yourself, Mr. Archer was a loyal son of the Confederacy as well as an outspoken critic of anything he found loathsome or vile. And that included just about any human being who was not of white, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant heritage. That, in and of itself, is not a crime. After all, one of the founding precepts of this great nation is freedom of speech.
However, Mr. Archer found it imperative to act upon his beliefs by striking out at those he saw as responsible for the demise and degradation of the American way of life. While he had a limited tolerance for those who occupied this land before his arrival—Indians and Mexicans—he held a particular disdain for recent immigrants from China.
In the spring of 1865, a group of Chinamen arrived in boats from northern California. Their initial activity was abalone harvesting and they very much kept to themselves on so-called “junk” sailing craft anchored in the bay. But it was perhaps inevitable that eventually the Chinamen would seek economic opportunities on land, too. And that is what raised the ire of Mr. Archer—competition in the form of a Chinamen by the name of “Sam” Ah Choy, who began selling lumber from the back of a handcart parked on the plaza in Old Town. At substantially reduced rates, I might add. Not only did this end Mr. Archer’s monopoly on lumber sales in San Diego, but it inspired other Chinamen to test the waters of mainland commerce, and soon half a dozen handcarts could be seen around the plaza.
Mr. Archer was the leader of the small, but vocal minority who disapproved of this enterprise. These men took it upon themselves to “encourage” the Asians to abandon their terrestrial endeavors and return to the high seas where they belonged. When discourse failed to dislodge the flaxen-skinned migrants, Mr. Archer and his cohorts resorted to violence, including the surreptitious beating of several Chinamen.
This, too, failed to achieve Mr. Archer’s aims. The Chinese did not take heed until “Sam” Ah Choy was discovered lifeless in the wetlands downriver from Old Town …
“Is any of this true?” asked Wendell, figuring quite rightly that Nick must have been around when these deeds transpired.
Nick looked up, squinting as if trying to recall something in the distant past. “I can’t recall. I was pretty young at the time, six or seven.” And then he picked up reading again, eager to reach the letter’s climax.
Despite their suspicions to the contrary, the military commanders who administered the region at that time had no choice but to deem Mr. Choy’s passing a death by misadventure. There was simply no proof to the contrary.
While a public inquiry into Mr. Choy’s passing would have been the most righteous course of action, there were concerns amongst San Diego’s civic and military authorities that local Confederate sympathizers might take up arms if one of their number were accused or arrested in connection with the death of a Chinaman. In other words, keeping the peace trumped the pursuit of justice, especially in the absence of indisputable proof.
However, as an eyewitness to the aforementioned incident, I am in a unique position to declare that Mr. Choy’s demise was nothing short of murder. Having incapacitated his victim with the assistance of several like-minded ruffians, Mr. Archer held his head beneath the waters of the San Diego River until such time as Mr. Choy was no longer breathing. “So Archer was a cold-blooded killer?” Wendell straightened and ran his hand through his otherwise perfectly groomed hair.
“So our correspondent claims.”
“But why wait more than twenty years to exact revenge?” Wendell asked, stooping to see the rest of the letter.
Indeed, the letter writer, in his slow and methodical way, had not neglected that consideration.
One might ask why I did not alert the proper authorities immediately after the incident. For the simple reason that I was terrified of Mr. Archer and his allies, and quite rightly feared that something similar might befall myself and those close to me if I should utter a single word about the ghastly events that had passed before my very eyes.
I have always been discomfited by my lack of valor and ashamed that I was not able to step forward directly thereafter. Hopefully recent events, belated as they are, will serve to rectify at least a portion of my earlier inaction.
- Your Humble Servant
Nick sprang to his feet. “Any idea where Clive is this afternoon?”
“My guess is somewhere in the Stingaree, getting a leg up on Saturday night.”
“Check the Medusa first—maybe he’s still sleeping off last night’s bender. If he’s not there, start working your way up Fifth Street. I’ll meet you at the office. We’ve gotta find him, fast.”