The Russian Hill Murders Page 12

  I drew a breath to argue, but one look at my brother’s face told me it was pointless. Even now that he’d been made sergeant, George was severely limited in how much he could take upon himself. On the other hand, no one could fault him for keeping his eyes open.

  “Speaking of George, there’s something I’d like him to do.” I described my confrontation with Bert Corrigan the night before, as well as Eddie’s claim that Corrigan and Doyle had skipped town. “George must have some underworld informants. Ask him to find out as much as he can about those two. Especially where they’d be likely to hide.”

  “I can ask,” Samuel agreed somewhat dubiously. “I can’t promise that he’ll do it.”

  “Just try, please?” I stopped him as he started to get up. “There’s something else, Samuel.” Without mentioning the office manager’s name, I related Octavius Sloan’s account of Pierce and Caroline Godfrey’s illicit relationship.

  “My, my, you have been busy today,” he said when I’d finished. “If your informant is right, the affair must have been damned discreet. I certainly never heard of it.” He regarded me curiously. “Why does this interest you, Sarah? You were never one for idle gossip.”

  I hesitated, curiously reluctant to share my thoughts, even with Samuel. Realizing this was foolish, I blurted, “I thought if there were bad feelings between Pierce and Caroline, he might have—” I stopped as Samuel’s expression went from an astonished grin to outright laughter.

  “You thought he might have murdered her? That’s quite a stretch, Sarah, even for you. Besides, wouldn’t Leonard Godfrey have a better motive for doing in his wife than her lover? After all, he was the one being cuckolded.”

  “That’s true. But the first thing we have to do is verify the story. That’s where you come in.”

  “Don’t tell me,” he said with a resigned smile. “You want me to check newspaper files.”

  “Along with your regular sources, yes.”

  “All right, I’ll see what I can find out. I’m sure you realize, though, that if either Pierce or Leonard Godfrey did kill Caroline, it shatters your theory of a single murderer. I can’t see them killing Halsey, however much they disliked the man. And I doubt if they even knew Arlen.”

  “No, probably not. But someone killed three people.”

  I read sympathy in my brother’s eyes, as well as concern and a deep love. Perhaps because we were the two youngest children, he and I had forged a special bond. We’d shared everything growing up: toys, secrets, hidden forts and endless mischief. Drawing courage from those years, I allowed my true emotions to show, something I had not done in a long time.

  “I’m frightened, Samuel,” I told him in a hoarse whisper.

  “Something tells me this isn’t the end of it. Don’t laugh, but I sense evil here; a very sick mind is behind these murders.”

  My mouth felt dry, yet my hands were damp as I clenched my coffee cup. “I can’t stop asking myself who is going to be next.”

  True to his word, Eddie Cooper was parked outside our house at eight o’clock the following morning, and we quickly drove to pick up Robert at his lodgings. I’d been pleasantly surprised when the Scot agreed to help move Lily Mankin into the hospital, for it would have been difficult for Eddie and me to accomplish the job on our own.

  I’d arranged for a lorry to transport Lily’s meager furniture to the hospital, but we drove the widow and her family to their new home in Eddie’s brougham. Fortunately, the carriage was large enough to comfortably accommodate four adults instead of the coupe’s customary two.

  The three children seemed more interested in our mode of transportation than in where they would soon be living, and I deduced that this was their first ride in a hack. The eldest boy, a lad of about four years, kept darting from one side of the vehicle to the other, despite his mother’s efforts to restrain him. The eldest girl and her youngest brother, who sat on Lily’s lap, stared wide-eyed out the window as if they’d suddenly been transported into another world.

  The four-year-old had taken a liking to Robert and regaled him with questions about the carriage, the neighborhoods we were passing through and, my favorite, why horses ate hay instead of meat as dogs and cats did. The expression on Robert’s face was priceless, especially when the child ceased his fidgeting long enough to squirm his way onto the Scot’s lap. I was amused to observe Robert’s initial shock at this liberty soften into a smile, and the attorney actually began bouncing the boy on his knee.

  We arrived at the hospital to find the police already there, questioning the staff about Lucius Arlen’s movements the day before he died. We were greeted by a harassed-looking Reverend Prescott, who explained that Mrs. Barlow’s mother, Adelina French, had taken a turn for the worse and that Margaret had stayed home to attend her. In her absence, she’d asked him to oversee the running of the hospital. He eyed my battered face with ill-concealed curiosity, but to my relief was too polite to inquire why I resembled a ruffian who had gotten the worst of it in a street brawl.

  “Until Mrs. Barlow returns, you shall have to put up with me, I’m afraid.” He gave an ironic little smile, and once again I was struck by the man’s charisma. “I’m sorry you had to call when there’s so much chaos, Miss Woolson. Mr. Arlen’s death has been very unsettling.”

  “I’m sure it has,” I agreed.

  “Still, I don’t understand why the police are involved. Surely there can be no doubt that Mr. Arlen died of influenza.”

  I had no wish to discuss my theory about Arlen’s death with the minister. Noncommittally, I said, “I’m sure they merely wish to be thorough, Reverend Prescott. Hopefully, they’ll complete their work quickly and leave you in peace.”

  Robert and I showed Lily and her children up to the second floor. While they explored their new quarters—and Robert and Eddie helped the lorry drivers with the widow’s furniture—I went in search of information. To my delight, I found George Lewis in the kitchen questioning the cook, Chin Lee Fong. Because both men were facing away from the door, I was able to overhear a good deal of the interview without being seen. I make no apologies for eavesdropping. I believe I’ve mentioned my conviction that one must occasionally bend conventional mores in order to achieve one’s higher goals. I felt confident this was one of those times.

  As usual, Chin was loud and defensive. “I know nothing about that cow chung,” he spat. I knew enough Mandarin to realize Chin had just accused Arlen of being not only a lowly bovine but one with questionable parentage. “He cut my pay, try get me fired, filthy mongrel!”

  “Is that what you fought about?” George asked.

  “Fight?” Chin spat contemptuously. “Which fight you mean? We fight all time. Can’t talk reason to man with no brain.”

  “I have witnesses who claim they saw Mr. Arlen entering this kitchen close to eight that evening.”

  Chin threw up his arms in obvious disgust. “Lies! All lies. I told you I not see him.”

  Just then, I heard approaching footsteps and quickly ducked behind some packing cases. In a moment, two uniformed policemen passed my hiding place and entered the kitchen.

  “Harlen, Dobbs, it’s about time,” I heard George say. “I want you to collect samples of all the food in this kitchen, especially the tea and coffee.”

  Chin’s explosion at this invasion of his domain was immediate and loud. “No! You not touch anything. Missus not like. I not like. I have nothing to do with pig’s death.”

  “Get him out of here,” George told his men. “And see if you can find the kitchen maid, Dora Clemens.”

  From my hiding place, I watched the policemen half carry a struggling, vigorously protesting Chin Lee Fong out into the hall. As soon as they were gone, I entered the kitchen, anxious for a private word with George.

  “Miss Sarah,” he said, looking startled by my sudden entrance. “What are you doing here? And what’s happened to your face?”

  It was a natural enough inquiry, but I was growing weary of fabricating storie
s to explain my bandaged and bruised face. This time, I decided to tell the truth.

  “I was hit with a rock, George. Thrown by a street hooligan. But that is not why I’m here. I trust you’ve had an opportunity to speak to Samuel?”

  George Lewis, a personable young man with a pleasant, boyish-looking face, wore his police uniform—a single-breasted “missionblue” frock coat, buttoned up to a rolling collar at the neck—with pride, especially now that it displayed his new rank of sergeant. For several years we had enjoyed a friendly, if slightly formal, relationship. I was surprised, therefore, when he didn’t seem the least bit pleased to find me here today.

  “I saw him,” he replied, avoiding my eyes. “He told me about those two fellows you’re looking for. I’ve never heard of Doyle, but Corrigan is well known at the station. Still, without an official complaint filed against them, I can’t use department recourses to conduct a search.”

  “What about the owner of the sweatshop that burned down?”

  I had to raise my voice in order to be heard over loud bumps and scrapes coming from the room above us. Since I knew this to be Lily Mankin’s new quarters, I assumed Robert and the lorry drivers were busy moving in the widow’s furniture—and making a very noisy job of it.

  “There’s virtually no way to find him, Miss Sarah,” George answered. “Most owners make sure their paper trail is impossible to follow.”

  Since this response was no more than I’d expected, I moved on, anxious to make the most of our time alone. “Samuel tells me you suspect Lucius Arlen might have been poisoned.”

  “At this point we know nothing for sure. Of course there’s the autopsy—”

  “Yes, yes,” I said, cutting him off impatiently. “But what is the official view of the three murders?”

  He ran a finger along his starched white shirt collar as if it had suddenly grown too tight for his neck. “I know you think the three deaths have something to do with the hospital, Miss Sarah. I admit you were right about the Nob Hill murders, but this case is different. There’s just no way to connect the victims.”

  I gave an exasperated sigh. “This is no time to prevaricate, George. What makes you think Chin killed Arlen?”

  He seemed taken aback by my bluntness, but then his handsome face often bore a startled expression in my presence. I’m not sure why. (Samuel has some silly notion that the man is enamored of me.) Whatever the reason, I did not let it distract me from my purpose.

  “Well, George? Has the cat got your tongue? Why have the police fixed on Chin Lee Fong?”

  “Given the circumstances, Chin is the logical suspect. He and Arlen were always fighting, and half a dozen hospital employees have sworn the two hated each other.”

  “That’s hardly a secret, George. But it’s a leap to suppose Chin hated Arlen enough to kill him. Did anyone actually see the two together before Arlen left the hospital that day?”

  “No,” he said, then added, “That’s why I want to interview Dora Clemens. By all accounts, she was one of the last people to go home that evening.”

  We were interrupted as Harlen and Dobbs returned to the kitchen.

  “We can’t find Dora Clemens,” Harlen told George. “Seems she hasn’t come in today.”

  I looked at my lapel watch and saw it was nearly eleven. “What time does Miss Clemens normally report for work?” I asked Harlen, the taller of the two men. George gave me a quick look, but nodded for the man to answer.

  “We was told she’s supposed to be here by seven, miss.” He glanced at George, then added, “She doesn’t seem to be very popular with the rest of the staff, but she was punctual enough. And she’s never missed a day’s work without sending along a message.”

  George ordered Dobbs to find Miss Clemens’s home address. Once she’d been located, he was to take another man, go to her residence and bring her to the hospital. After Dobbs was gone, he instructed Harlen to complete the search of the kitchen, then turned to me, his expression unusually impatient.

  “I don’t know what else I can tell you, Miss Sarah. Until I’ve spoken to the kitchen maid, or found someone who saw the two men together that evening, I have little to go on.” He nodded toward Harlen, who was going through the cupboards in what appeared to be a methodical fashion. “Maybe we’ll find something in all this.”

  I wasn’t convinced that finding traces of poison in Chin’s kitchen would constitute reliable proof of wrongdoing. It would be all too easy to plant incriminating evidence in a room as accessible as the hospital kitchen. On the other hand, such a find would be extremely damaging to the cook.

  Since there seemed little more to be accomplished here, I was about to take my leave when Harlen came in, leading an agitated Dora Clemens. Remembering the girl’s sullen expression the first time we’d met, I wasn’t surprised to see her thin lips pursed into an unattractive pout nor to note the glare she directed at the policeman holding her arm.

  “This here’s Dora Clemens,” Harlen said, giving the girl a little push. “One of the nurses saw her sneakin’ in the back door and slipped me a nod.”

  George regarded the truculent young woman, then asked, “What do you have to say for yourself, my girl? Why are you so late getting to the hospital this morning?”

  The maid drew herself up to her full height, which was barely to George’s shoulder, and managed to appear as if she were staring down her thin, pointed nose at him. “What’s it to you if I’m late?”

  Harlen gave her a poke from behind. “Watch yer tongue, girl. And give the sergeant a civil answer.”

  Dora gave Harlen a withering look and grumbled, “I wasn’t feelin’ well, if you must know.”

  George’s expression was skeptical as he motioned Dora to take a seat at the table. “I’ve got some questions for you. And I want honest answers, or it will go hard on you.”

  Crossly, the maid sank onto one of the straight-backed chairs and glowered up at George through hard, wily eyes. I noticed her face seemed pale, and she was perspiring more than the temperature in the kitchen warranted. I wondered if she really had been sick that morning. She certainly didn’t look well now.

  “If yer want to ask me about that daft accountant,” Dora told George, “I don’t know nothin’. I stayed as far away from him as I could.”

  “Why was that?” George asked.

  “Threatened to give me and cook the sack,” she retorted, as if George was an idiot for not knowing this. “Said all Chinamen was lying devils, that me and the cook was robbin’ the hospital blind.”

  “Are you sure Mr. Arlen didn’t have provocation to believe you might be helping yourselves to food or ready cash?” George persisted. “Maybe he caught you or Mr. Chin pocketing something from the kitchen.”

  Dora half rose from her seat, and her pale face blotched an ugly red. “I never did no such thing! And don’t you be sayin’ I did, ’cause it’s a rotten lie.”

  As if to punctuate this outbreak, there was another series of loud bangs from above our heads. Good heavens, I thought, wondering if Robert and the lorry men were throwing Lily’s furniture into the room.

  George, too, glanced up at the ceiling before turning back to the kitchen maid. “I’m not accusing you of anything, Dora, so just calm down. By the way, what time did you leave the hospital the day before yesterday?”

  “Just after supper. I saw to the cleanup, then got outta here sometime after seven.”

  “And where was Mr. Chin when you left for home?”

  “How should I know? It’s not up to me to keep track of him, is it? He can go to hell for all I care.”

  “You don’t care for Mr. Chin?” George inquired, raising sandy-colored eyebrows.

  “Why should I?” she retorted defensively. “All he does is yell at me. He cooks good enough but acts all high and mighty, for a Chinaman and all.”

  “Dora,” George said. “This is important. Was Mr. Chin in the kitchen when you left here on Monday evening?”

  Dora squinted slyly up at hi
m and once again ran a hand over her perspiring brow. Coyly, she said, “I don’t remember. I might have heard him talkin’ to someone.”

  The red patches on Dora’s cheeks had grown so bright they looked as if they’d been painted on. Her sharp, glassy eyes darted from George to the other policemen, as if trying to gauge their reaction to this statement.

  “Was it a man’s or a woman’s voice you heard?”

  “Oh, it was a man, all right.” She paused, then went on in a slightly lower voice, “I heard him swearin’ at Chin and soundin’ savage as a meat axe.”

  “No one swear at me!” Turning, I saw Chin Lee Fong standing in the doorway glaring at the maid. “Why you tell lies, worthless piece of sheep dung?”

  “That’s enough, Chin,” George motioned for Dobbs to stop the cook’s angry advance into the kitchen. “I told you to stay away until we were through.”

  “It late, I start lunch. You go, come back later.”

  George hesitated, then nodded to Dobbs, who reluctantly relinquished his grip on the agitated cook.

  Turning his back to us, the chef began banging pots and pans. Dragging out a bag of flour, he dropped large handfuls into a bowl. When he saw we were still there, he said, “Go away! Talk later. Cook now.” Addressing Dora, he snapped, “Take off coat. Time to work, lazy girl.”

  The kitchen maid rolled her eyes and shrugged out of her wrap. Tying a white apron around her slender waist, she went to fetch potatoes from a bin in the storage pantry.

  I caught George’s eye, and he shrugged in resignation. “Have you finished in here?” he asked Harlen, who had continued to collect samples during the maid’s interview.

  The tall policeman nodded and tied off the bag he’d used to deposit individual wrappings of marked food samples.

  “You can get on with your duties for now,” George told Chin. “But I want to talk to you again later.” His gaze went to Dora, who’d begun to peel potatoes. “I want to speak to you, too, Dora. Perhaps you should think over your story and decide exactly what you saw that night.”