The first thing we decide to do is find out how much money Hardwick has and where he keeps it.
The day we ran into Hardwick, his entourage included the fellow whom Henry has taken to calling “Mr. Keys,” real name unknown. All we do know about Mr. Keys is that he’s a small man with a narrow face and no chin, and—most importantly—he sticks close to Hardwick, carrying a large ring of keys and a heavy leather bag full of gold.
It’s a sure bet some of Hardwick’s money is at that bank. But it’s a surer bet that not all of it is. And if anyone is in charge of Hardwick’s money, it’s Mr. Keys.
Jefferson took off before dawn to make inquiries about Hardwick’s main business office and hopefully put an eye on the little fellow.
In the meantime, before the bank opens, Becky and I camp out in the parlor of a hotel kitty-corner to the Custom House building. We find two large armchairs and drag them from the fireplace to one of the windows. The window is dirty but large, and it gives us an unobstructed view of the bank. This is one of the establishments where miners, flush with gold, stay up all night to gamble, and are then late abed, so we have the downstairs mostly to ourselves.
Their gold sings to me, though. Several coin purses’ worth, mostly upstairs, but a larger stash hides away in the downstairs office.
The air is especially chilly. Nothing close to a frost, but still the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and makes you ache for a warm kitchen and bread right out the oven; even a chunk of half-burned, half-doughy bread from Becky’s restaurant would be just the thing. A light rain falls, so the plaza feels sleepier than usual. The men who come to open the bank have hunched shoulders and dripping hats. They pause beneath the veranda to kick mud off their boots before unlocking the doors.
For the next hour or so, a handful of brave but unfamiliar souls, similarly inured to the cold and wet, are the only ones to enter and leave.
“Excuse me, ladies?”
I’d been so intent on watching the bank that I hadn’t noticed anyone approach. The proprietor of the hotel, wearing a green velvet vest and an air of self-importance, looks down his blunt nose at us.
I’m not sure what to say, but Becky doesn’t hesitate.
“My dear sir,” she says smoothly. The baby kept her up half the night, and it’s a wonder she’s not dozing in her chair. “How may we be of service?”
“That’s just it,” he says, hooking his thumbs into his vest pockets. “You can’t.”
“I’m afraid we don’t understand your implication,” Becky says.
“That is, what I’m trying to say is, this is not the sort of establishment where we welcome women who provide services.”
My head whips back around. “What?”
Becky reaches out and taps her fingers on his hand. “Oh, sir, that’s such a relief to hear. You’ve put my heart at ease.”
“I have?” he says, thrown off-balance.
I’m torn. I need to watch the bank, but I’m equally captivated by Becky—I have no idea what she plans to say next. It never occurred to me that we’d be a problem sitting in a public parlor on a cold day.
“You have,” she says. “You see . . .” She whispers the last phrase conspiratorially, leaning forward. The proprietor bends down to listen closely.
“My dear, beloved husband,” she says, “brought our gold into San Francisco to invest it, but I’m very much afraid he’s been spending it instead. It’s one thing if he gambles a bit of it. Why, that’s natural, and any man might do the same, whether for entertainment or in hopes of increasing his stake. But if he’s been spending it elsewise . . .”
She lets the last sentence trail off like an unspoken threat. Taking notice of my attention, she jerks her head to the window, and I oblige by turning my head around again to watch the bank, trusting her to take care of the proprietor.
“And you’re certain he’s a resident of our establishment?” he says.
“Not at all,” Becky says. “But he didn’t come home last night, and one of his usual companions said he was last seen in your gambling parlor, around midnight. So I’ve come to check. You say there are no women here who might keep the gentlemen company?”
“Ah,” the proprietor says.
In his silence, I hear a different story: that any such women here are discreet enough to avoid being seen in the front parlor in the morning.
“Perhaps he had a bit too much to drink and decided to sleep it off before coming home,” Becky suggests.
“That’s entirely possible,” admits the proprietor. “If you would like to give me a name, I could check our guest ledger.”
“Absolutely not!” Becky says. “If my suspicions are unfounded, I would certainly not wish to sully the reputation of our good name.”
A short man carrying something heavy walks toward the bank. I rub a circle clean on the window with my sleeve, then realize that Becky and the proprietor are both staring. I suppose that using my sleeve to clean a window is probably ill-mannered. “I apologize,” I say, hiding my sleeve under my arm. “I thought I saw . . . him.” Him being Mr. Keys, not Becky’s imaginary husband. “But I was mistaken.”
“Have all of your guests come downstairs yet this morning?” Becky asks the proprietor.
“No, ma’am,” he says. “No, they haven’t.”
“Then we’ll just wait here until they do. Thank you for allowing us to do that. Your thoughtfulness means everything.”
I take another glimpse, just to see his jaw working, trying to figure out how he ended up giving us permission. Finally he snaps it shut and takes a moment to gather himself. “I guess that will be satisfactory,” he says thoughtfully, perhaps considering how he can sneak upstairs and warn his customers that someone’s angry wife is lying in ambush in the parlor. He turns to go, saying, “If there will be nothing else, then?”
“Oh, thank you kindly for offering,” Becky says. “It’s so dreadfully cold out. A cup of tea would be perfect. Do you want a cup of tea, dear?”
I realize she’s talking to me. “Coffee, please.”
“And sugar,” Becky says. “Lots of sugar.”
We pass the morning supplied with a side table, and restored at regular intervals with fresh tea and coffee. Becky pretends to watch the lobby, deflecting conversations with the proprietor and anyone else who comes along. I keep an eye on the bank.
Gold from last night’s winnings pokes at my mind from the rooms above our head. After the proprietor leaves to make his rounds, I feel some of it moving out of the rooms and away, disappearing without coming down the front staircase.
By early afternoon, the rain has let up. We enjoy fresh sandwiches from the kitchen, while Becky pretends to enjoy the company of the hotel’s cook. Across the street, the bank’s clerks leave in small groups for lunch, and then return. It takes hours, but eventually even Becky’s mighty composure crumbles into fidgeting as she becomes bored and restless, ready to call it quits.
But my daddy taught me how to hunt with that Hawken rifle Jim returned to me. He showed me how to hole up in a blind and wait for my quarry to come along, even if it meant staying for hours in the cold and snow. Days, if we were desperate enough.
Sitting in the parlor of a hotel, even a low establishment like this one, is so much easier than sitting in a deer blind. Nobody ever brought me fresh coffee or sandwiches in a blind.
Becky is deflecting a fresh round of questions from the afternoon manager when I finally see our target. “There he is,” I announce, rising.
Becky nearly spills her cup of tea.
“You’ve spotted the lady’s husband?” the manager asks.
“Sometimes if you can’t catch them going, you get them coming,” Becky tells him, and we rush out the door. At the corner, we pause to catch our breath.
“You’re sure it’s him?” Becky asks.
“Absolutely.” I drop my voice to a whisper. “I sense his bag of gold. Also, he has two armed guards.” I point to the two men leaning against the wall beneath the veranda. One is pushing a wad of chewing tobacco into his mouth, while the other blows on his hands to warm them. “They were with Frank Dilley the other day. Which means they might recognize us. Are you ready to do this?”
“As long as my constitution holds,” Becky says. “I should have taken the opportunity to relieve myself when I had the chance.”
“If I’m right, we won’t be in there long.”
“We weren’t counting on guards. How do we get past them?”
“We’ve as much right to go to the bank as anyone. We’ll just lower our heads and—”
A cry of “Tag! You’re it!” rings out at the far end of the building, and Sonia’s group of urchins tears around the corner, bumping into everyone below the veranda before scattering in all directions. The guards give chase, patting down their pockets even as they tear after the children.
Sonia’s group must be well practiced at pickpocketing to bump and grab so quickly and easily. It couldn’t have happened at a better time. While the guards are distracted, Becky and I dash across the street and into the bank.
The moment we pass through the door, a clerk rises to assist us. I pause to catch my breath, because the gold in this room is overwhelming. Here, it’s less like a choir singing and more like a giant crowd shouting at the top of its lungs.
“How may I help you ladies?” the clerk inquires.
I blink rapidly, trying to focus. As planned, I pull a handful of large gold nuggets from the plain leather purse I carry, then screw up my face like it’s hard for me to think, which is not entirely an act. “Found this. Prospecting.”
He’s seen larger amounts of gold, but his eyes widen appreciatively.
Becky steps in and covers the gold with one hand, placing her other on my shoulder. “My friend’s a hard worker, but a little . . . unsophisticated,” she says. “I’ve tried to tell her not to carry nuggets like these around—that’s just asking for trouble. I’ve told her that she should have it converted to coinage. And she ought to keep it in a bank, where it can be safe.”
I take stock of the bank while she’s talking, trying to ignore all the gold weighing down my senses. A long counter divides the space. Behind the counter are a few desks, and behind the desks is an iron cage bolted to both floor and ceiling. The cage contains both a small strongbox and a larger safe.
Mr. Keys sits at one of the desks. Across from him is a gray-haired man with heavy jowls, who appears to frown even when he smiles. Likely Mr. Owen, the owner of the bank.
“I don’t see many prospectors of the female persuasion,” the clerk notes. “It’s too hard a life for the weaker sex.”
Becky bristles. “I’ll hear no more from you about the weaker sex until you’ve birthed three babes.”
“I . . . of course. Apologies.” He wisely changes the subject. “Is that all the gold that your friend has?”
“Oh, no, sir, I got lots more,” I say, and I flip my purse, like I’m going to dump it on the floor. I can tell the clerk is trying to gauge its weight with his eyes. Becky grabs my hands and stops me again.
“You have to forgive her,” Becky says. “She works day and night. I think the mercury has affected her some. She uses so much of it, refining the gold she finds.”
“Some people have a knack,” the clerk says with a shrug.
He doesn’t know the half of it.
“Let’s retire to the privacy of my desk,” he offers, signaling to the far end of the room.
“I like that desk over there,” I whine. “It’s by the pretty window.” Which is just about the daftest thing to say, but I can’t think up another excuse.
Becky shrugs, as if to say, “What can you do?” The clerk accommodates my request by taking us to the desk beside the window. Becky proceeds to ask him a number of pertinent questions about turning gold into coinage and the protection of this bank compared to others.
From here, I have a perfect view of everything behind the counter, everything inside the cage. Which is where the bank’s owner is leading Mr. Keys.
Mr. Owen inserts the key into the cage’s lock. The iron door creaks open, and everyone stops work for a moment. You’d think the bank would oil the hinges.
“We have one of the strongest cages in the city,” the clerk is saying. Then he recites a flurry of details about its manufacture, installation, and maintenance.
The owner steps aside, and Mr. Keys pulls out his namesake ring and sorts through a dozen options, looking for the correct key. I reckon he knows them all by sight, because he slides one into the small safe, and it opens correctly the first time.
Mr. Owen removes himself from the cage and looks discreetly in the other direction. I have no such compunctions and gawk like a child at a carnival.
Before we came, I warned Becky that I wouldn’t be at my level best, not surrounded by so much gold, and we decided I would act a bit touched to cover any lapses. Good thing we did, because there there’s enough gold in that safe to ransom a kingdom. Stacks of coins and ingots. Hundreds of pounds. More than I have ever seen—or sensed—in one place at one time.
Mr. Keys removes even more gold coins from his little bag and stacks them carefully inside. When finished, he makes a notation on a ledger inside the safe; then he pulls a small notebook from his bag and writes what is certainly a matching entry. He locks up the safe and exits the cage. Mr. Owen latches the cage behind him. They shake hands, and Mr. Keys passes us on his way out. Becky has her back to him. I lean against my hand to hide my face. If he recognizes either one of us, he gives no indication.
“So you’re saying you can turn these nuggets into gold coins for a small percentage of the weight?” Becky says, pulling me back into the conversation.
“A nominal fee. The Pacific Company is known to charge up to twenty percent, and many other banks in town will require a similar amount. Our fee is only ten percent.”
“What about impurities?”
He smiles. “Yes, our assayer determines the level of impurities in the gold, and that amount is also charged against the weight.”
I imagine that it amounts to at least another ten percent.
“But everyone does the same,” he assures us. “Did you know that forty million dollars in gold was collected by miners last year?”
It boggles the mind. “How many gold coins is that?” I ask.
“Let’s use the fifty-dollar eagle as the standard. In that case, the total number of coins would be . . .” He pauses to think.
“Eight hundred thousand gold coins,” Becky says.
“No, it’s . . .” The clerk counts his fingers. “Oh, yes, it’s about eight hundred thousand gold coins. You guessed right.” He smiles at her like she’s a performing dog.
“That seems impossible. Where would people keep it?” she says.
“We estimate that half of it went out of the country, back to Mexico, or Peru, or Australia, maybe Sweden or China—wherever the miners came from. They struck it rich, packed up their money, and took it home. Once California is a state, we’ll pass more laws to keep foreigners out in the first place. We want as much of that gold as possible to stay right here in the United States where it belongs.”
“We’re all foreigners here,” I point out, forgetting for a moment that I’m supposed to be a bit addled by mercury.
Becky shoots me a warning look. “If my friend wants to keep her money safe until she needs it, she can store some of it here?”
“Absolutely.” He twists in his seat and indicates the cage. “Our strongbox is the most secure in the whole city.”
The strongbox is little more than a traveling trunk, with breakable hinges and a flimsy padlock. It doesn’t contain a quarter of the amount in the safe that sits beside it. There’s so much gold in the safe that I feel slightly sick, like I would after eating a whole pie, when all I needed was a single piece.
“But the safe,” I say. “The safe looks safe. I want my money safe. In a safe.”
“My friend likes the safe,” Becky says. “The big black one. Is it available to customers?”
“That’s a Wilder Salamander safe, one of only a few in the entire state of California,” the clerk says. “It’s got double walls, insulated, to protect the items inside in case of fire. State of the art. But that’s the personal safe of one of our most elite customers.”
“But I just saw somebody put something in there?” I say.
The clerk smiles at me. “As I said.”
Becky says, “He must be a very good customer.”
“He’s very nearly a bank unto himself,” the clerk exclaims, and then, glancing at the gray-haired owner, decides that circumspection is called for. “But let me assure you that your friend’s money will be triply protected here. First by the strongbox itself, which only the manager has keys to. Then by the cage, which is similarly locked. And finally by the guard who patrols our building at night.”
“That’s a lot of protection,” Becky says.
“It’s not safe if it’s not in the safe,” I say, failing to sound angry.
Becky puts a hand on my arm. “Why don’t you go outside and get some air? I’ll join you shortly.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She knows I want to lay eyes on Mr. Keys if I can. I give her a grateful look and exit the bank without another word. Beneath the veranda, I scan the square for Mr. Keys and his guards, but they are already gone.
Becky joins me outside a few minutes later. “You’ve upset the poor gentleman. He’s very concerned that if you take your business to another bank, they’ll take advantage of you. On the positive side, young Mr. Owen—he’s the son of that other fellow—is impressed by my mathematical abilities, considering that I’m a woman, and he asked me to tea, which I reluctantly declined.”
I grin, in spite of the churning in my belly. “I’m getting sick from being near so much gold,” I whisper. “Let’s walk.”
We stroll into the plaza, and I feel a little steadier with each step. Halfway across the square, Jefferson slides in beside us.
“Hello, Lee, Becky. How’d you like the distraction? I ran into Sonia’s little gang and paid them to make a ruckus so you could slip past Mr. Key’s guards.”
“That was clever,” Becky says.
“We saw where Hardwick keeps his gold,” I say, and I describe everything we observed in the bank. “It’s more gold than I ever imagined. More than one man could ever spend or need.”
“Then I have some bad news for you,” Jefferson says.
“Worse news than ‘He has more money than we could ever steal’?”
“Yes, worse than that.” We cross the street and head downhill toward the Charlotte. The scent of saltwater marsh rises to greet us. “I found Hardwick’s main business office, which is at his house. His mansion, I mean. Takes up half a block. And I started following our pal, Mr. Keys, first thing this morning. This bank wasn’t his first stop. It wasn’t even his second.”
“Where was he going?” I ask.
“To other banks,” he says. “He took a large bag from Hardwick’s office, went to a couple of banks, made deposits, and then went back to Hardwick’s house to collect another bag.”
“I counted forty-seven gold coins in his deposit,” Becky says. When I look at her in astonishment, she says simply, “Well, something like that. It was hard to count and talk at the same time, so I might be off a coin or two. Assuming they were all fifty-dollar coins, which seems to be the most common denomination, that’s a deposit of two thousand three hundred fifty dollars. Three of those comes to more than seven thousand dollars! Just this morning.”
“More than three banks,” Jefferson says.
“Exactly how many banks?” I ask, my voice rising to a near-panic register.
“Eleven,” Jefferson says.
Becky and I stop in the middle of the street to stare at him.
“This was his eleventh bank visit of the day,” he assures us. “In and out within a few minutes at each stop. Like it’s something he does every day. But that’s not possible, right? There’s not that much gold in all the world.”
“Maybe there is,” Becky says. “According to Mr. Owens Junior—who seems a reliable compendium of details, even if he’s a bit slow at multiplication—California is home to at least twenty million dollars in gold.”
“No wonder I was so distracted when our boots first touched this territory,” I say. “It was like a constant ringing in my ears.”
Jefferson nods. “And Hardwick is trying to get it all.”
Becky resumes her journey toward the Charlotte and gestures for us to keep pace. “This job just got a lot more complicated,” she says.
“Yep,” I say. “We need to think bigger.”
“And smarter,” Jefferson adds.