The Russian Hill Murders Read online

  Dora ignored him. Wearily, she rested her weight against the sink as she worked. The young woman really didn’t look well, I thought. Or perhaps it was just the excitement of being questioned by the police. That and Lucius Arlen’s death would be a disconcerting experience for anyone, much less an illiterate kitchen maid. The poor thing was probably terrified.

  Following me out of the kitchen, George said, “You heard Chin and Arlen’s fight on Monday afternoon, didn’t you, Miss Sarah? What can you tell me about it?”

  I explained what I’d seen and heard of the argument, then added, “What Dora said was true; Arlen came right out and accused Chin of being a thief. Mrs. Barlow, on the other hand, seems to think highly of the cook. She told Arlen she’d authorized his expenses and that she was confident he hadn’t pocketed any of the money.”

  “Interesting,” George said noncommittally. “We should know in a couple of days if Chin is keeping any poison in his kitchen. It’s not unusual for people to lay in a supply of arsenic to kill rats, but the Chinaman insists Mrs. Barlow forbade anything of that kind in a hospital kitchen. Well, we’ll soon see.”

  With that, George left to interview the nursing staff, and I started upstairs to check on all the banging I’d heard, as well as to reassure myself that Lily and her children were settling in comfortably. Before I reached the first landing, I heard a loud scream, which seemed to come from the direction of the kitchen.

  There were heavy footsteps above me, and Robert suddenly appear on the second-floor landing. “What now?” he exclaimed, then, without waiting for a reply, brushed past me on his way downstairs. Whirling after him, I was forced to yank up my skirts to keep up with his long strides.

  When we reached the kitchen, we found one of the older nurses sitting on the floor, Dora Clemens’s head in her lap. As we made our way into the room, Dora doubled over and threw up all over the nurse’s spotless apron.

  A string of Chinese chatter came from the corner of the kitchen, and I looked up to find Chin watching Dora, a look of fear and repulsion on his face. I hurried over to the ghastly tableau on the floor, anxious to help if I could.

  “I’ve sent someone for a doctor,” the nurse told me, shifting Dora’s head so that she wouldn’t choke on her own spittle. “She seems to be in a great deal of abdominal pain, perhaps from some kind of gastric fever.”

  Dora’s face was creased with pain and her pale skin had turned a sickly yellow. As I knelt down beside the girl, the little maid’s teeth started to chatter, then her body began to shake violently. Giving a strangled scream, she once again became sick. This time, the vomit was mixed with blood.

  I’d just removed my jacket to cover the shivering girl when one of the hospital physicians entered the kitchen and all but pushed me aside in his haste to bend down beside Dora.

  “What’s wrong, nurse?” he asked. Holding Dora’s wrist, he gave her dilated pupils a rapid inspection. Reaching for his stethoscope, he endeavored to place it on the little maid’s chest. But Dora appeared too agitated to lie still; with loud groans, she contorted her thin body in an effort to pull away.

  Gently holding the girl still while the doctor examined her, the nurse listed the maid’s symptoms. Evidently, Dora had suddenly doubled over in pain and collapsed onto the floor. The physician listened but kept his attention on the girl, who seemed to be growing weaker and more incoherent.

  I turned to see George Lewis enter the kitchen, followed by Harlen and Dobbs. Taking in the scene, George went to squat by Dora. Over the doctor’s protests, he bent close to her face.

  “Dora, who did this to you?”

  “This young woman is gravely ill,” the doctor protested. “Please, allow me to tend her.”

  “How bad is she?” George asked, holding his position.

  The doctor hesitated, but I could see the answer on his face. George must have seen it, too, for he clasped the maid’s hand and tried to lift her head.

  “Dora,” he whispered urgently, “tell me what you saw Monday evening. You heard Chin speaking to some man. Do you know who it was?”

  Dora’s pale eyelids fluttered and opened. She turned her head toward the door. Following her gaze, I spied Reverend Prescott standing next to Robert, his dark eyes grave as he looked down at the suffering girl. He started to come forward, then seemed to change his mind and remained where he was.

  Despite her agony, Dora managed to give the minister a weak smile, then her glazed eyes turned to the cook. “He—”

  “What about him, Dora?” George pressed. “What did you see Chin do?”

  “Took money—money for—” Again, she faltered, her eyes closing then opening with difficulty.

  “Money?” George prompted. “Chin was stealing money?”

  Dora managed a weak nod. Her watery eyes bore into George’s face. “Cookies,” she whispered. “In the cookie—”

  “You mean the poison was in some cookies Arlen ate? Are you saying that’s how he was killed?”

  “No.” Her face twisted in frustration. Struggling to raise her head, she managed to look directly at the cook. “Put it in coffee—”

  “Who put the poison in Arlen’s coffee?” George demanded. “Was it Chin?”

  With renewed determination, the doctor positioned himself between Dora and the policeman. “I cannot allow you to ask any more questions. Can’t you see that she’s—”

  He broke off as Dora’s body was stricken with another, even more violent, convulsion. Hearing a gasp from the corner, I looked up to see that Chin’s normally dour face wore a surprised, uncomprehending expression. He started sputtering in Chinese but was silenced by a poke from a nearby nurse.

  There was a mumble of shocked whispers from people gathered by the door. My gaze went to Reverend Prescott, and I was startled to see his handsome face had taken on an otherworldly look. He was staring at the maid, but his eyes looked unfocused and miles away. Was he in some kind of trance? I wondered. Or had his minister’s eyes seen something that had escaped the rest of us?

  Beside him, Robert was also staring helplessly at the girl. Catching my eye, he seemed to be imploring me to do something. I sadly shook my head. With a horrible sense of déjà vu, I realized there was nothing I could do—perhaps that anyone could do—to save Dora Clemens’s life.

  The attack seemed to go on forever, then gradually Dora’s shaking became less pronounced and her struggles to suck air into her lungs lessened. I watched in dismay as a stream of blood trickled out of the girl’s mouth. Her eyes were still open, but they had lost their ability to see. Looking up from the crumpled body, I saw that, like Robert, Nicholas Prescott’s trancelike face was as white as his starched collar.

  Then the minister seemed to come out of his stupor. Kneeling by Dora, he took the maid’s hands into his and I was again reminded of Caroline Godfrey’s death scene. Mumbling what sounded like a blessing beneath his breath, Prescott bowed his head in prayer. Following his example, everyone in the kitchen lowered their heads and joined the minister in silent respect for the young woman.

  When he finished praying, Prescott reached out and gently closed the girl’s eyes, then rose gracefully to his feet and quietly ushered onlookers out of the room.

  George continued to stare down at the dead girl as if he couldn’t quite believe she was gone. He motioned to Harlen and Dobbs, and without a word they obediently went to stand on either side of the cook.

  I watched in astonishment as George approached the Chinese man and said in a flat, authoritative voice, “Chin Lee Fong, I arrest you for the murders of Lucius Arlen and Dora Clemens.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Eddie Cooper ran out of the hospital after us. I hadn’t seen him in the kitchen, but of course he couldn’t have missed all the commotion.

  “What happened to the girl?” he asked eagerly. “Was it some kind of fit, do ya think?”

  “We don’t know yet, Eddie,” I told him. “No one does.”

  “She looked awful, didn’t she, miss?” t
he boy said, his eyes alight with excitement.

  “Yes, it was awful,” Robert broke in before I could answer. I noticed my colleague seemed unusually subdued. Now that I thought about it, Robert had hardly spoken a word since we found Dora collapsed on the kitchen floor. I knew him well enough to realize he was endeavoring to cover his emotions. It was clear he’d been as shaken by the poor girl’s death as I had been.

  Giving the lad a grumpy look, Robert added, “And you needn’t look so pleased with yourself, young man. Death is never something to be made light of.”

  Eddie’s face instantly sobered. Mumbling apologies, he reached out to help me into the brougham. Naturally, I required no assistance, but I allowed the lad to aid me since I feel it is important for the younger generation to learn proper etiquette. If Eddie Cooper hoped to make a living driving a hack in San Francisco’s better circles, possessing good manners would be an absolute essential.

  As soon as Robert was seated in the carriage, Eddie leapt into the driver’s seat and clicked the dappled gray into an easy trot.

  “Don’t say it,” Robert declared, as I drew breath to speak. “There’s no need for you to argue that Arlen’s death was deliberate. Nor the girl’s, for that matter. I agree they were both poisoned. And since we know who the murderer is, you can spare me the tiresome lectures.”

  “Oh? And who do you suppose that person to be?”

  He gave me a sharp look. “You’re being deliberately thickheaded, Sarah. You know as well as I do that Chin murdered them both. The girl came right out and accused him, for God’s sake. She said he was stealing money meant to run the kitchen, and when Arlen found out, Chin slipped poison into the accountant’s coffee.”

  It was my turn to stare. “Talk about making things up out of whole cloth! Dora said no such thing. In fact, she could hardly speak at all.”

  “That’s right, she was dying. And people don’t lie on their deathbeds. She pointed a finger directly at Chin and said he’d put poison in Arlen’s coffee. You were right next to her, Sarah. You must have heard.”

  “Yes,” I answered softly, “I must have.” I tried to remember exactly what I had heard. When Robert started to speak again, I motioned him to be quiet while I removed the pencil and notebook from my reticule. It was important to record everything I could remember about the girl’s death while the details were fresh in my mind, especially the words she spoke, and in what order. When I was finished, I studied the page thoughtfully.

  “Interesting,” I said at length. “Very interesting.”

  “What’s interesting?” he demanded. “You just can’t leave well enough alone, can you? You always have to orchestrate everything into a big dramatic production.”

  “Robert, please!” I placed the notebook back in my bag. There was no sense discussing the subject with Robert when he was in this sort of mood. Besides, I wanted time to consider matters. “Well, at least I’m to be spared the bother of convincing you the four deaths are connected,” I went on, straightening my hat, which had become disarranged in my rush to the kitchen.

  Robert groaned. “Not that again. I merely said Lucius Arlen and Dora Clemens’s deaths were undoubtedly committed by the same person. Josiah Halsey is an entirely different matter. And how in God’s name you can lump Mrs. Godfrey into this drama of yours is beyond comprehension!”

  Rather than engage my cranky companion in a frustrating and probably useless argument, I rode the rest of the way to the office in silence. This seemed to suit Robert, since he made no effort to break our standoff. Unfortunately, without the distraction of my colleague’s chronic obtuseness, my mind played and replayed poor little Dora’s horrible death. Who would be so ruthless as to wish that kind of agony on a fellow human being?

  I considered Chin Lee Fong—his total lack of social graces, his volatile temper, the chip that seemed to be perpetually affixed to his shoulder—and decided he would have a difficult time proving his innocence. There would be little public sympathy for a Chinese man accused of murdering two white people, especially when one of the victims was a young girl. As if his situation weren’t dire enough, Chin made no secret of his dislike for the accountant. And of course, Dora had all but accused Chin of arguing in the kitchen with Arlen on Monday evening and of poisoning the accountant’s coffee. No matter how one viewed it, matters looked extremely grim for the explosive cook.

  Which did not mean for one moment I thought him guilty. Assuming Arlen’s and Dora’s deaths were part of a larger picture, it was possible to view the crimes from an altogether different perspective. While I could imagine Chin killing Arlen out of anger and fear—and silencing Dora if she were a witness to this act—it was impossible to imagine his motive for killing Caroline Godfrey or Josiah Halsey. As far as I knew, the cook had never met either of these victims. Certainly, he could have had no opportunity to kill Caroline, even if he’d wished to. And why, for heaven’s sake, would he want to end Halsey’s life?

  I was still mulling this over as Eddie pulled the brougham up at Clay and Kearney streets. Over Robert’s disapproving glare, I paid the boy for the morning, adding a generous tip in the bargain.

  “Ya want me to wait here?” Eddie asked with his usual enthusiasm.

  “No need for that, boy,” Robert told him. “Go pick up some honest fares or you’ll find yourself out of a job.”

  Eddie looked crestfallen. Repressing a smile at his eagerness, I said, “We have no more need of your services today, Eddie. I’ll get word to you if something comes up. I assume a message sent to”—I read the cab company’s name embossed on the side of the brougham—“Laine Carriages and Company will reach you?”

  The boy hesitated, and I quickly guessed the problem. “Just to make certain there’s no mistake,” I said, not letting on that I’d deduced his secret, “I’ll sign the note with my initials, SLW, and draw a circle around them, like this.” Matching my actions to the words, I again drew out my notebook and demonstrated what I had in mind. “That way, I can make my intentions clear to you without revealing them to anyone else.”

  The boy smiled broadly at this strategy. Taking the paper, he tipped his hat, leapt into the driver’s seat and clicked the dappled-gray mare back into noon-hour traffic.

  “What was all that about?” Robert wanted to know as we entered the building. “Why couldn’t you just sign your name and be done with it?”

  “Because the lad can’t read,” I answered, stating what seemed to me patently obvious. “My initials will be a good deal easier for him to identify than my full name.” Giving my hat another slight adjustment, we entered the rising room.

  “I’ll have to do something about that boy’s sad lack of education,” I added as we rose to the top floor of the building. “He’s quite bright, you know. I’m sure he’ll pick up his letters quickly.”

  My companion’s only response was a grunt, which I chose to assume to be his agreement to this sensible objective.

  I stopped at the tea closet before going to my office. As usual, considerable disorder greeted me: cups, saucers, plates, cookie and cake crumbs, even a soggy pile of tea leaves tossed onto the table, when the trash receptacle stood only a few inches away. It hardly mattered how often I tidied up, the closet was invariably a mess. Of late, I’d begun to suspect this continual disorder was yet one more attempt to drive me out of the firm: one, I thought in frustration, that just might work!

  When I finished, I went directly to my office. There, I found a sealed envelope on my desk, my name printed in a bold masculine hand. It turned out to be an invitation from Pierce, requesting me to dine with him the following evening. Despite my vow to keep our relationship professional, I was tempted to accept. Since my talk with Octavius Sloan, I’d been consumed with curiosity about Pierce’s alleged affair with Caroline. Granted, it was a long shot, but I had to know if it related in any way to her death. Finally, I took out pen and paper and accepted the invitation, then placed it in an envelope and dropped it into the box set aside for outg
oing mail. That taken care of, I returned to my office and settled down to work.

  As usual these days, the afternoon seemed to pass at a snail’s pace. I had difficulty paying proper attention to my work, when only hours before I’d witnessed such a dreadful death. Did Lucius Arlen suffer the same horrible fate as the kitchen maid? I wondered. If so, his death dragged on a good deal longer—over twenty-four hours, according to his landlady. It must have seemed an eternity to the poor man. If only a doctor had been summoned sooner, perhaps he’d still be alive—and able to explain why he’d been so insistent on speaking to Mrs. Barlow that Monday afternoon.

  I was increasingly convinced that this episode was key to understanding his murder. Had he discovered discrepancies in the hospital books and been killed to insure he told no one?

  I sighed as I went back to my typewriting. There was no way around it, I told myself. I must at least try to find answers to these questions. As far as I could see, only one person could help me. I would speak to Mrs. Barlow as soon as possible.

  I have good news and bad news, little sister,” Samuel said that evening as we sat on our favorite bench in the garden. “The bad news is I couldn’t find one lick of information about who owns that sweatshop. The good news is I happened onto something I think you’ll find interesting.“He lit a cigarette, relishing my curiosity. “Guess who owns the warehouse the new hospital is leasing?”

  “The warehouse?” I repeated rather stupidly. “Why should it matter who owns it?”

  “I’m not sure that it does. Still, I thought you might like to know that it’s registered to Godfrey Shipping.”

  “What?”

  “That’s right, your new client and his brother purchased the building some fifteen years ago. They kept offices there for six or seven years until it became too small, then moved to new quarters. The place has been empty ever since. Until the hospital came along, it was considered a very costly white elephant, too large and in too much disrepair to rent, much less to sell. Leonard and Pierce must have been ecstatic when the hospital offered to take the place off their hands.”