The Driver: The Driver

By Steve Bartholomew

Here it is, my newest tale, The Driver. It concerns a streetcar driver by name of Georg Vintner. Georg was born in Norway, came to the U.S. at a young age and went to sea. Somehow he washed ashore in San Francisco in 1877. He has given up the sea and now drives a tram. These days most streetcars are pulled by horses.

 

Georg's job is not an easy one. He works a 16 hour shift, six days a week. The horses don't have it much better, though they only work four or five hours a day. They last about five years on the job.

 

That's bad enough, but now a man is murdered on Georg's car, in the middle of a riot. Georg is suspected of the killing, for lack of anyone else to blame it on. Now he finds himself with the job of trying to solve the murder.

 

I think this book is my first murder mystery, though I'm not sure about that. With most other mysteries, the detective actually solves the crime. Read the tale, and you decide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dark Gopher Books
• Release date: Nov 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215730331

Steve Bartholomew

I grew up in San Francisco, joined the Army after high school. That's where I got my most valuable education. Since then I've lived in a few other places, such as Mexico City and New York. Now I inhabit a small town in Northern California, where we have a volcano and a lake. What more could I ask? I have been writing since age 9. What more do you wish to know?

Book preview

San Francisco, 1877

The Murder

Georg Vintner reined in his horse when he caught sight of the riot ahead. His horse, Jim, stopped and hung his head, probably grateful for a moment of unexpected rest. Georg merely stood still and watching. At first he didn’t realize what he was looking at. There should be no crowd there, in the middle of the street, in the middle of a foggy cold day.

Why are we stopping? This is not a regular car stop. It was one of the passengers, speaking from behind him. Georg glanced back. He saw a short, stout fellow in business man’s dress, tailed coat and top hat.

See for yourself. I’m not driving into the middle of that mob. They look unruly.

I have an important appointment with my broker. I could lose money if I’m late.

Another man came forward. You could lose more than that, mate, you get mixed up in that bunch. He spoke with an Aussie accent. That there’s your Workingman’s Party. Scalawags and ruffians all.

The business man cleared his throat. I see. That would be Mr. Denis Kearney’s group then. Yes, I should like to avoid them.

How do you know it’s them? Georg asked. I have heard of them. This is the first I’ve run into any.

The second fellow wore a working man’s dress himself, canvas shirt and pants with a vest but no tie. An old derby hat. "Don’t you see that sign they’re waving around? Chinese must go! That’s their whole platform. Kearney don’t care about working men, he just wants to get fellows riled so they’ll donate and vote for him. Low class, he is. I’m a union man myself, but I’ve no use for his sort."

The business man nodded. I don’t usually agree with your unions, but I’ll make an exception here. Speaking as a capitalist, I think you are right.

Hah. Me, I’m thinking I’ll depart this fine street car and find another way around. Good day to you, sir, and Driver. The working man jumped out into the street and walked away.

What do you think? Business Man touched Georg’s shoulder. Should I remain or evacuate?

Georg shrugged. Suit yourself, sir. You’re probably safe enough on my car as long as that mob doesn’t move in this direction. Me, I’ll see to my horse.

He set the brake and dismounted from his perch. Grabbing a canvas bucket from the tool box, he filled it with water from the keg slung below the undercarriage. Then he walked around to water Jim and talk to him. It’s all right, fellow, just a short stop. We’ll be on our way again.

Any trouble with your beast? A woman’s voice. Georg looked around to see a lady about his own age, maybe forty, well dressed but not flashy, a long brown dress and hat covering dark brown hair. Not one of the fancy women from the parlor houses. Prosperous but not rich enough for her own horse and carriage. She was probably some kind of shopkeeper.

Jim is fine, Georg said. A little annoyed maybe. This is the end of his shift, he’s looking forward to the barn. We can only work a street car horse four or five hours without a break. As it is, they only last about four years before they break down. I try to treat them nice, never whip ‘em.

She nodded, looking him up and down. She reached to give Jim a scratch behind the ears. What about you? How often do you get a rest?

He laughed. There was something about her that made him laugh. Maybe just the way she looked at him, with open curiosity. Us drivers don’t rest as much as the horse. I work sixteen hours, six days a week. Course, I do get a break now and then when we’re changing livestock."

I remember now. There was a bill to reduce your work hours to twelve, but it was turned down.

Yes ma’am, but I’m glad to have a job.

Most of the other passengers by now had left the car. It could carry twenty, but today there had been only eight or nine. Most of them were standing around on the sidewalk, viewing the mob up ahead. A few had already walked away. This car had no rear exit, so they had all gone past the Driver on their way out. Most rail cars had a separate door in back, but that meant hiring a second man as conductor. This railway was trying the experiment of running with only one man. He might miss a few fares, but it was still cheaper than paying two salaries.

Looks like trouble, someone said.

Georg looked up. From somewhere came the sound of a shrill whistle, followed by renewed shouts and a few screams.

Here comes the militia, the woman said.

Now Georg could see men on horseback, charging into the mass of rioters. The whole mob began running downhill, in Georg’s direction. By instinct he grabbed Jim’s reins to keep him from bolting.

He said to the woman, Perhaps you should get back on the car, ma’am. Someone may get hurt.

She gave a sniff. You needn’t call me ma’am. I am Mrs. Genevieve Sutliff. I shall stand my ground. She raised a small parasol, which Georg hadn’t noticed. She held it like a pistol. The other passengers by now had already scattered.

I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Sutliff. I’m Georg Vintner.

In a moment the mob was upon them, screaming and shouting men, mostly in their shirtsleeves, many carrying axe handles. Ten or twelve militia men pursued them on horse, wielding swords.

A large man, still wearing his derby, confronted Georg. "You look to me like one of them Chinee lovers!"

Jim the horse whinnied and tried to rear. Georg didn’t want to let go of the reins. He glanced at the man’s axe handle. You look to me like a stupid oaf.

At that the fellow drew back his weapon, preparing to strike. He didn’t get the chance. Genevieve Sutliff stepped forward. I’m Chinese myself. Don’t you love me? And with that she shoved her parasol into the man’s left eye. He screamed, dropped his club, and ran.

Georg gave her a sideways glance. She didn’t look Chinese.

In a few minutes the riot was over, the horsemen pursuing the few hold-outs down several streets. Georg turned to look at Genevieve. She smiled.

That man may lose an eye.

I’m terribly sorry. I shall apologize when I see him again. She still smiled.

He looked around. A few of the mob had been lying in the street, but they got up one by one and wandered off. Well, I must say that was interesting. You have gained my respect, Mrs. Sutliff. From now on you may ride for free on my streetcar. Shall we get on board?

Indeed. She allowed him to take her arm and help her mount the step. He said, I guess now you’re my only passenger.

She looked toward the back of the car. There were two long benches, one on each side. At the very back a well-dressed man was slumped over, apparently asleep. Genevieve said, There’s one more. I wonder he could sleep through this. She walked back to him and bent over him a moment. Then she straightened and gave Georg a strained look.

You had better see.

Georg followed her back and got a closer look. It was a young man with a well-trimmed beard, dressed in expensive clothes. He did seem asleep. For a moment Georg saw nothing amiss. Then Genevieve pointed to his ornate embroidered vest.

Oh, I do see. In his first glance he had not noticed it, with all the fancy silver embroidery and beadwork. The hilt of a small dagger stuck out from just below where the man’s heart would be.

Georg said, I’ll put up the Out of Service sign.

The Coppers

He had to wait nearly an hour before the coppers would talk to him. He'd made it back to the horse barn on Valencia Street without encountering any more rioters. Mrs. Sutliff had insisted on riding along, though he'd advised her not to. You don't need to get involved in this, he told her. It's my streetcar.

I'm a witness, she said. I have nothing to fear. But I don't want those lawmen trying to blame this on you just so they can say they made an arrest.

So a cop showed up at the barn. He looked over Georg's car and the body. Then he sent a runner to City Hall, and the police wagon came to escort everyone including the dead fellow to Headquarters. Once there, Georg and Mrs. Sutliff were left sitting for three quarters of an hour before a police captain in uniform came for the lady. They interviewed her first while Georg waited.

He fumed in silence. He was losing time from work. He was losing money. He hoped this wasn't going to get him fired. He liked the job and didn't feel like finding another one just yet.

Genevieve Sutliff came back from the interview room, followed by the captain. She paused to hand him a small card. Here's my pasteboard. You come and see me, if you wish. The card said, SUTLIFF FINE PRINTING with an address on Montgomery Street. He had to spell out the words, moving his lips.

No talking to other witness, ma'am, the captain said. He ushered her out the door, then left Georg sitting another twenty minutes.

Finally a patrolman came out and pointed at Georg. You next. He jerked a thumb toward the interview room.

The room was small, with a rolltop desk in one corner and a table and three chairs in the middle. It reeked of stale cigar smoke. The captain and another man, in civilian suit, were sitting at one side of the table. The patrolman behind Georg shoved him into the other chair, then left the room.

The civilian looked to be forty or fifty, full mustache, slightly threadbare but expensive suit. Georg felt he had seen the man before somewhere, maybe around City Hall at some civic function such as a parade or ribbon-cutting.

Mr. Vintner, the man said when Georg was seated. Have I got your name right? What kind of name is that, by the way? German?

Norwegian.

I see. Well, my name is Cyrus Potter, Commissioner of Police. You have already met Captain Murphy. Been in this country long, have you?

Long enough. I came over when I was six, with my pa.

Uh huh. You belong to the Workingman's Party, Mr. Vintner?

No, why would I?

Well, the party advocates a eight hour work day. How do you feel about that?

Great idea. I don't like most of their other ideas.

Captain Murphy was taking notes on a yellow pad. He scratched something down in pencil. Georg made an effort not to glance at what he was writing. The Commissioner said, Did you know the deceased? He was murdered on your car in the midst of a riot. Tell us what you saw.

Georg shrugged. I don't know the man. I didn’t see who gutted him because I was busy watching a riot. I didn't even know he was dead until Mrs. Sutliff pointed him out.

Potter glanced at Murphy. "The deceased is Alexander Penworthy. He belongs to