Parquet flooring gleamed in the foyer, its brilliant shine reflecting the glow from a gas chandelier that hung from the ceiling. Cole turned to the left, going into a small, windowless chamber which had once been a cloakroom. Now it contained a comfortable armchair and a small table which held only a lamp and a telephone. Many of the members of the Olympia Club, old-fashioned gentlemen that they were, had resisted for years the very idea of. installing a telephone. The club members were businessmen as well as gentlemen, however, and eventually simple expediency had demanded that a telephone be put in. Still, its use was limited to this small, unobtrusive room, and members were expected to close the door and be discreet when placing calls.
As soon as he'd shut the door, Cole sat down and picked up the receiver. He held it to his ear with one hand while using the other to turn the crank on the wooden box that held the rest of the apparatus. When the operator came on the line, he leaned closer to the mouthpiece and asked to speak to Fire Station Number Twenty-one.
He heard a distant ringing, then a broad Irish brogue said, "O'Flaherty's Gardenin' and Undertakin' Parlor. We specialize in all kinds o' diggin'."
With a frown, Cole asked, "Patsy, what if this had been someone reporting a fire?"
"Well, it ain't, now is it? I recognized yer voice, Cole."
"I hadn't even said anything when you—" Cole stopped, took a deep breath, and resumed. "Is everything quiet?"
"Oh, aye, quiet as a wee church mouse. Where are ye, lad? I expected ye in afore now."
"I ran into. . ." How to refer to Annabel Lowell? Cole suddenly found himself wondering. Not as a problem; certainly not that. A delay? That word didn't seem right for such an attractive woman. He settled for, "I ran into something unexpected, and I may not be able to get to the station for a while."
"Sure and it's nothin' to worry yer head about. 'Tis quiet here, and if there is a fire, I expect ye'll hear the alarms, wherever ye might be."
"All right, then. I'll be there when I can."
"Have a good time, lad," Patsy O'Flaherty said. "The Good Lord knows ye deserve one. Sure and I never saw such a serious young fellow, always workin' all the time—"
"Good-bye, Patsy," Cole said, then broke the connection with his thumb. He had listened to the little Irishman's lectures often enough that he knew them by heart.
He was relieved that there had been no fire alarms, but he still felt guilty about not being on duty. As he left the telephone room and walked down the hallway from the foyer to the salon, he checked his watch. After he picked up Annabel, it would be time for dinner, and given the fact that she knew no one else in the city and had no money, he would have to take her somewhere to eat.
Then there was the matter of where she was going to stay. He couldn't invite her to be a guest at his house, despite the fact that there were plenty of empty rooms in the big old house on Russian Hill. He kept no servants other than a cook and a housekeeper who came in during the day, and to have a young, unmarried woman staying with him would be the height of scandal, no matter how proper things really were.
Of course, Annabel was quite lovely. Under the right circumstances, perhaps a little impropriety might be in order. . . .
He gave a little shake of his head. Such musings could only lead to trouble.
Speaking of trouble, Cole thought, a tall, slender man in evening clothes appeared in the doorway of the salon, brandy glass in one hand and cigar in the other. He smiled a greeting at Cole.
"Hello, Brady," he said. "I was just thinking of getting up a game. Care to join us?"
Cole shook his head. "No thanks, Garrett. I'm afraid I won't be staying that long."
"You're certain?" Garrett Ingersoll asked.
"Yes," Cole replied, trying not to be curt. He didn't like Garrett Ingersoll and never had, despite the fact that the man's shipping line did a considerable amount of business with Brady Enterprises. Several of the Brady warehouses along the docks were filled with cargos from Ingersoll vessels.
"Whatever you say, old boy. By the way, how are things going with that Chinaman? Still having trouble with the old yellow devil?"
"Wing Ko and I have an understanding," Cole said stiffly. He didn't like having his business bandied about, but he supposed it was unavoidable. Despite its cosmopolitan airs, San Francisco was still a small town at heart, and gossip traveled fast.
Ingersoll chuckled. "You'd best hope Wing Ko understands the same way you do, or else he's liable to send his hatchet men after you. Human life means nothing to those tong leaders, you know."
Cole wasn't afraid of Wing Ko's soldiers, his boo how doy or hatchet men or whatever else anyone wanted to call them. The last time Wing Ko had sent emissaries to call on him. Cole had made it very clear that he did not intend to share control of his holdings along the docks with anyone— not even Wing Ko. The man had made a business proposal, Cole had turned it down, and that was that.
Frank appeared, silently as always, at Cole's elbow. The butler was holding a silver tray with a snifter of brandy balanced on it. "I believe you said you would take your brandy in the salon, sir?" Frank said.
"That's right." Cole nodded to Ingersoll. "Good night, Garrett. Good luck in your game," he added, not really meaning it.
Ingersoll smiled. "Luck usually has very little to do with success, my friend." He put the cigar in his mouth and wandered off down the hall in search of other pigeons to pluck.
"Thank you, Frank," Cole said as he went into the salon, accompanied by the butler. "And not just for the brandy."