Fanny Goodman and her remarkable accomplishments. When faced with early widowhood, she'd had the foresight and courage to pool every cent sheand her husband had saved, and open a small millinery shop. A store, I might add, that has proved to be remarkably successful. She is also a staunch supporter of women's suffrage. Ten years earlier she had helped organize the first annual meeting of the California Women's Suffrage Society in San Francisco, a noble cause that she remains actively involved with to this day. To my chagrin, I've learned that there is nothing the least bit ordinary about Fanny Goodman!
“Now, what's this I hear about you and Samuel finding a murdered man Sunday morning?” asked Fanny, moving a third straight-backed chair to the table. “What in heaven's name were you and your brother doing out and about in the middle of the night?”
Since Fanny and Eddie were both aware of my brother's secret life as a crime journalist, I was free to tell them the real story of how we happened to be at the Harrison Street Bridge at two o'clock on Sunday morning. When I finished the tale, Eddie had stopped eating and was listening with rapt attention.
“Who was the bloke?” he asked excitedly. “Was there much blood? Do the coppers know who done it?” His eyes grew suddenly bright. “Are you and Mr. Samuel gonna help the leatherheads bag the burker?”
When I first met Eddie, his street jargon would have made as much sense to me as Egyptian hieroglyphics. Gradually, however, I was learning to follow the boy's more colorful phraseology.
At Fanny's confused expression, I translated, “He wants to know if Samuel and I are going to aid the police in their murder investigation.”
“Oh,” she said, smiling fondly as she shook her head at the boy.
“Does that mean we're gonna have a go at it?” persisted Eddie.
“I'm sorry, Eddie, but neither my brother nor I have any intention of becoming involved in Mr. Logan's death.”
The boy's face dropped as he dolefully lowered his head and took another large bite of doughnut. “But it happened right next to your house, or close enough that it don't matter,” he protested, hisfull mouth slurring the words. “Thought You'd be all het up to pinch the bloke what done it.”
“The man who did it,” I automatically corrected.
“That's what I just said,” Eddie replied, giving me a look which implied that he doubted my hearing ability.
I resisted the urge to explain his grammatical error, having no wish to belabor the more minor issues of the boy's education. All in all, the lad was making excellent progress, even though I took exception to Samuel's habit of supplying him with copies of the lurid Police Gazette .
“Do the police know why Mr. Logan was killed?” Fanny asked. “Was he robbed?”
“At first everyone assumed it was a robbery, but now they seem to think his death might be connected to a dinner party that night at the home of the Reginald Tremaines. Actually, my parents were there as guests, as were my brother Charles and his wife, Celia.”
“Reginald Tremaine,” repeated Fanny thoughtfully. “Isn't he the fellow who owns the Men's Emporium on Market Street?”
“Yes, that's the man,” I told her. “I gather his store is quite successful.”
She laughed. “It's one of the largest retail stores in San Francisco. I seem to recall that Mr. Tremaine originally came here from Sacramento some ten or twelve years ago.”
“Closer to twelve, I believe. Evidently he left shortly after the death of his first wife. My sister-in-law Celia is a good friend of Mr. Tremaine's second wife, Faith. According to her, he arrived in San Francisco with a new wife and two small children, twins, actually, a boy and a girl. They must be sixteen or seventeen by now.”
She shook her head sympathetically. “It's a real tragedy to lose your mother at such a tender age. I'm sure it must have been difficult for their father, as well.”
“I'm sure it was. I
“Now, what's this I hear about you and Samuel finding a murdered man Sunday morning?” asked Fanny, moving a third straight-backed chair to the table. “What in heaven's name were you and your brother doing out and about in the middle of the night?”
Since Fanny and Eddie were both aware of my brother's secret life as a crime journalist, I was free to tell them the real story of how we happened to be at the Harrison Street Bridge at two o'clock on Sunday morning. When I finished the tale, Eddie had stopped eating and was listening with rapt attention.
“Who was the bloke?” he asked excitedly. “Was there much blood? Do the coppers know who done it?” His eyes grew suddenly bright. “Are you and Mr. Samuel gonna help the leatherheads bag the burker?”
When I first met Eddie, his street jargon would have made as much sense to me as Egyptian hieroglyphics. Gradually, however, I was learning to follow the boy's more colorful phraseology.
At Fanny's confused expression, I translated, “He wants to know if Samuel and I are going to aid the police in their murder investigation.”
“Oh,” she said, smiling fondly as she shook her head at the boy.
“Does that mean we're gonna have a go at it?” persisted Eddie.
“I'm sorry, Eddie, but neither my brother nor I have any intention of becoming involved in Mr. Logan's death.”
The boy's face dropped as he dolefully lowered his head and took another large bite of doughnut. “But it happened right next to your house, or close enough that it don't matter,” he protested, hisfull mouth slurring the words. “Thought You'd be all het up to pinch the bloke what done it.”
“The man who did it,” I automatically corrected.
“That's what I just said,” Eddie replied, giving me a look which implied that he doubted my hearing ability.
I resisted the urge to explain his grammatical error, having no wish to belabor the more minor issues of the boy's education. All in all, the lad was making excellent progress, even though I took exception to Samuel's habit of supplying him with copies of the lurid Police Gazette .
“Do the police know why Mr. Logan was killed?” Fanny asked. “Was he robbed?”
“At first everyone assumed it was a robbery, but now they seem to think his death might be connected to a dinner party that night at the home of the Reginald Tremaines. Actually, my parents were there as guests, as were my brother Charles and his wife, Celia.”
“Reginald Tremaine,” repeated Fanny thoughtfully. “Isn't he the fellow who owns the Men's Emporium on Market Street?”
“Yes, that's the man,” I told her. “I gather his store is quite successful.”
She laughed. “It's one of the largest retail stores in San Francisco. I seem to recall that Mr. Tremaine originally came here from Sacramento some ten or twelve years ago.”
“Closer to twelve, I believe. Evidently he left shortly after the death of his first wife. My sister-in-law Celia is a good friend of Mr. Tremaine's second wife, Faith. According to her, he arrived in San Francisco with a new wife and two small children, twins, actually, a boy and a girl. They must be sixteen or seventeen by now.”
She shook her head sympathetically. “It's a real tragedy to lose your mother at such a tender age. I'm sure it must have been difficult for their father, as well.”
“I'm sure it was. I
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