Murder on Nob Hill Read online

  She looked at me blankly. “A tontine? I’m afraid I don’t—”

  “It's a fund whereby each member puts in a specific sum,” I explained. “The benefits go to the last surviving member. You might liken it to a kind of insurance policy.”

  Mrs. Mills was obviously taken aback by this notion. “I fear you’re mistaken, my dear. I am aware of no such arrangement.”

  I allowed myself to look flustered. “Dear me, I do apologize, Mrs. Mills. I must have mistook Senator Broughton. It was not my intention to cause you distress—”

  “Oh, but you haven’t,” she said, then looked embarrassed. “Financial matters are beyond my comprehension, I’m afraid. Fortunately, my attorney is dealing with Rufus's affairs.” She picked fretfully at the folds of her skirt. “Hopefully, in time, we’ll be able to explain how this terrible thing happened, how Rufus happened to be—where he was found. My husband was in poor health. Perhaps he suffered a seizure of some kind and became disoriented.” Her eyes begged me to agree.

  “You mustn’t torture yourself, Mrs. Mills,” I said soothingly. “It wouldn’t do for you to become ill.”

  It was time to take my leave. “Are you sure there's nothing I can do for you, Mrs. Mills?” I asked, rising from my chair.

  She got heavily to her feet, but managed a weak smile. “Your visit has been a great comfort, Miss Woolson. You must forgive me for going on about matters that cannot possibly interest you.” Her voice trailed away and she looked at me self-consciously. I knew that already she regretted speaking so freely. Her admission hung in the air between us like an uninvited guest.

  “Please, don’t concern yourself.” I took the hand she offered. It was cold as ice and trembling slightly, adding to my remorse that my questions had caused her further discomfort. I had to remind myself that I was trying to find her husband's murderer “I’ll call upon you again, Mrs. Mills, if you’d like.”

  “Yes,” she said gratefully. “I would like that very much.”

  I had a great deal to ponder as I found an unoccupied hansom cab and directed the driver to take me home. Settling into my seat,

  I thought back to Rufus Mills's actions and lies the night he died. Why hadn’t he wanted his wife to attend Frederick's dinner party? And what pressing business had enticed him to Chinatown?

  I sat still as an idea formed in my mind. Then, on impulse, I knocked on the trap door of the carriage and informed the driver I had changed my mind. Instead of Rincon Hill, I instructed him to take me to another address, where I hoped to find some answers.

  An opportunity to speak privately to Samuel did not present itself until after the evening meal. Drawing him into the library, I related what I’d discovered about Peter Fowler's possible relationship with Rufus Mills, then asked, “Do you recall our conversation in the carriage yesterday morning? About the article you wrote on Chinatown last year? “Yes. Why?”

  “In it, you mentioned opium dens and other places where a white man could buy the drug.”

  He looked bewildered. “What does that have to do with—”

  “Ever since Frederick's party, I’ve been troubled by Rufus Mills's sickly appearance that night.”

  “Come on, Sarah. The poor man was probably suffering nothing more ominous than the common cold.”

  “That's what I thought until I called on his widow this afternoon.” Briefly, I described my visit with Mrs. Mills, including her concerns about her husband's health. “I know this is going to sound farfetched, but I think he might have gone to Chinatown that night looking for opium.”

  “Opium!” he exclaimed with a short laugh. “Good god, Sarah.”

  I leaned forward in my chair. “I paid a visit to Charles's surgery after I left Mrs. Mills. He agrees that, taken as a whole, Mills's

  symptoms over the past year are very similar to those of opium addiction.”

  “That may be, but I still think you’re jumping to conclusions. And even if you’re right—which I’m not ready to concede—it doesn’t tell us why he was killed.”

  “No, but it would explain why he lied to his wife. And why he ventured into Chinatown so late at night. Surely that's one of the few reasons a white man would risk going there alone.”

  He looked thoughtful. “Have you mentioned these suspicions to anyone besides Charles?”

  “No, and I don’t plan to until I have proof.” I regarded him hopefully. “I thought you might agree to ask some of your Chinatown contacts. Mills was well known. He might be remembered.”

  He looked skeptical. “Stories of white men lounging about smoking the drug in underground opium dens are highly exaggerated. For one thing, most Chinese don’t want white men as customers. It makes them too conspicuous. The police may turn a blind eye to what the Chinese do among themselves, but it's a different story when Caucasians are involved. Besides, there are safer ways of indulging in the habit. Mills could simply send a servant to buy the stuff and smoke it in the privacy of his own home.”

  “Assuming his wife would permit it,” I pointed out dryly. “And consider the risk. If it came out that Mills was an opium addict, he’d be ruined, socially as well as financially.”

  He was silent for a long moment, but I knew my theory, however improbable, had captured his journalistic curiosity.

  “All right, I’ll ask around the Chinese Quarter and see what I can come up with. But I can’t promise anything.”

  “That's all I ask, Samuel.” I leaned forward and gave him a grateful kiss on the cheek. “Just see what you can find.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  That night, I was surprised to discover how hard it is to sneak out of one's own home. Indeed, as I watched my

  parents play what seemed an interminable game of chess, I began to despair that I’d ever be able to keep my eleven-thirty assignation with Miss Culbertson. I’d made my preparations earlier in the evening, but it would be impossible to leave the house until my father and mother retired for the night.

  My nerves were seriously frayed when the infernal game finally came to an end, sometime after ten. The moment my parents’ bedroom door was closed, I fled to my own room and changed into the most serviceable dress I owned, covering it with a dark gray woolen cape and hood. Then I forced myself to sit quietly, waiting until everyone in the house—including our butler, Edis—was in bed for the night. As the clock neared eleven, however, I could bear it no longer. Carrying a single candle, I crept down the stairs and gingerly drew back the bolt to the front door and quietly slipped outside.

  The night was unseasonably cold, but there was a full moon, and thankfully the streets were clear of the earlier fog that would have hindered my efforts to find a cab. Even so, it was necessary to walk several blocks before I located an unoccupied hansom and climbed gratefully inside. I was prepared for the driver's shock, first to have as his fare an unaccompanied female so late at night, and second to be given an address on the fringe of Chinatown. Still, it required even more persuasion than I’d anticipated to convince the obstinate man that I understood where I was going and, moreover, that I was anxious to arrive there as speedily as possible. It was only when I offered the driver a generous reward for his efforts that he finally, if unhappily, clicked his horse and we were off.

  Miss Culbertson, aided by a lovely young Chinese woman, was completing her final preparations for the night's raid when I arrived at the red brick house on Sacramento Street. Both women wore dark clothing, although in the Chinese woman's case it was the customary loose-fitting cotton shirt and pants.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d come, Miss Woolson,” Miss Culbertson admitted with a smile. “Most women would have found good reason to change their minds about such an undertaking.”

  “On the contrary,” I said, “I’m more determined than ever to see the night through. I trust your arrangements have gone well?”

  The woman frowned. “Not entirely, I’m afraid. Unfortunately, I could find no policeman available, or willing, to come with us. I considered postponing
the rescue, but the situation is too dire. The girl will almost certainly be sold into slavery before dawn. We must act immediately if we’re to save her.”

  She motioned to a short, wiry Chinese man standing out of range of the gaslights. He stepped forward and I observed his wizened face, shaved forehead and ears, and long black pigtail, or queue, trailing down his back from beneath a skull-like cap. The

  man, also wearing a dark-colored cotton tunic and trousers, seemed nervous, a fact I did not find reassuring.

  “Hi Gim will be with us on tonight's raid,” Miss Culbertson continued. “It's not as much security as I would wish, but as I say, the circumstances are desperate.” She turned to the young woman. “This is Gum Toy. She’ll act as our interpreter.” Then her dark gray eyes fixed on me, taking in my plain, dark-colored woolen dress and cloak. “You’ve dressed sensibly, Miss Woolson. Before the night is over, I think you’ll be glad that you did.”

  Our little party of four drove by carriage to Dupont Street, where we entered the streets of Tangrenbu, a dense ten-block area so alien I marveled that such a place could exist in the middle of San Francisco. The streets were narrow, the wooden structures to either side piled so tightly, one upon the other, that I was reminded of a child's house of cards. Through the moonlight I could make out signs whose graceful characters identified restaurants, barbershops, laundries, vegetable, fruit and fish markets. By night the pungent smells of the Chinese Quarter seemed all the more intoxicating, and it was possible to imagine I had been transported to an exotic land across the sea.

  We turned onto lower Jackson Street, and our carriage passed a Chinese theater that was still open. Inside, I could hear the voices of noisy patrons seeking relief and entertainment after their long day's work. Next to the theater was a brilliantly painted pagoda advertising a Chinese temple. In contrast to its noisy neighbor, it sat in eerie silence, patterning the moonlit street with exotically shaped shadows.

  As we made our way farther up Jackson, the character of the street changed. We began to pass narrow houses—actually more like shanties—with scantily clad Chinese girls standing in open doorways, or provocatively posed in gas-lit windows. I was shocked

  by the tender age of some of these girls; they were little more than children!

  “It's heartbreaking,” Miss Culbertson said, guessing my thoughts. “Most of these girls are slaves in a very real sense of the word.” Her voice grew hard and I sensed her anger and frustration. “They’re treated as chattel, kept virtual prisoners inside those filthy walls. Then, when they’re of no more use, their owners sell them, or put them out on the street to die.”

  I stared helplessly at the pitiful young women, filled with shame that I had naively looked forward to tonight's mission as an adventure. There were so many of them! The utter futility of freeing so many poor souls suddenly overwhelmed me. How did Miss Cul-bertson do it? She must face this frustration every day, yet she seemed not the least deterred. I marveled that night after night she risked her life to save one wretched victim at a time.

  My thoughts were still on the singsong girls when our hack-man—clearly no novice to these raids—stopped at the end of Sullivan's Alley. Miss Culbertson instructed the man to wait, then informed me we’d go by foot from there. In low tones she explained that the alley was too narrow for a vehicle to pass through, but that we’d need it for a quick escape once we had found the girl.

  Despite the late hour, men still mingled in the alley and our little group kept to the shadows. The dirt lane was so narrow that the overhang from shops located to either side nearly met overhead to form a canopy, blocking out much of the moonlight. Most of the shops were closed, and I was surprised to see that many had rows of sliding iron doors in front.

  “Those bars are to keep out the police,” Miss Culbertson whispered, stopping inside a darkened doorway. “At the first sign of trouble, they’re pulled closed.”

  “Are the police often required here?” I asked softly.

  “The Chinese prefer to take care of their own problems, but occasionally the constabulary find it necessary to intervene. Beneath these stores an underground culture of gambling, prostitution and opium dens flourishes, controlled by rival tongs.” She indicated a store across the alley marked by several colorful lanterns. “My informant said we’d find the girl in a room above that toy shop.”

  I followed her gaze and detected a faint light flickering inside an upstairs window.

  Miss Culbertson plucked at my sleeve. “Come, it's time. Our best chance is to catch them by surprise.”

  We waited until a group of laughing men passed by, then moved to the darkened shop. I was shocked when Hi Gim pulled an axe from beneath his tunic and at Miss Culbertson's signal, struck a blow to the door. After several more strikes, the wood finally gave way and we made our way inside.

  “They’ll have heard Gim's axe,” she said, hurrying through the cluttered shop to a narrow stairway. “Up there!”

  She took the steps so quickly I was hard pressed to keep up, and marveled that a woman her age could move with so much energy. Atthe first landingweheardthe soundof a muffled scream. Miss Culbertson ran toward a closed door, but it was locked.

  “Fi dee!” she cried to Hi Gim. “Hurry!”

  Hi Gim again produced his axe and soon the door lay in pieces at our feet. We rushed into the room only to find it empty.

  “They’ve taken her out through the back,” Miss Culbertson cried, running through another door that stood slightly ajar.

  We followed to find ourselves in a small storage room. Using a candle, Miss Culbertson rapidly took in the room, then looked up at the ceiling.

  “The skylight,” she said, pointing to the rectangular opening above our heads. “They must have taken her up to the roof.”

  Hi Gim found a ladder and Miss Culbertson nimbly ascended the rungs and pushed her way onto the roof. Hi Gim went next, followed by Gum Toy. Swallowing my reservations, I gathered up my skirts and scrambled through the opening to see the others jump to the roof of an adjoining building. Through the moonlight, I saw that the block of buildings were built so close to one another it was possible to move in this manner from one rooftop to the next. Taking a deep breath I leapt after my companions, landing more or less intact near another skylight. I was in time to see Hi Gim lower Miss Culbertson through the opening by her arms.

  “Mother, look for steps,” Gum Toy explained.

  Sure enough, a moment later a ladder protruded from the skylight, and Hi Gim started his descent to the room below, followed by Gum Toy and myself. Miss Culbertson, who had relit her candle, motioned toward a door.

  “I heard footsteps running down the stairs,” she told us.

  As the last one to descend the narrow stairway—well behind the only candle—I was forced to proceed in near darkness. Reaching what I assumed to be the final step, I discovered to my chagrin that there were still several more to go. Caught off balance, my boots tangled in my skirts and I fell, landing heavily against a wood panel at the foot of the stairs. In my attempt to get up, I leaned against the panel, and to my shock it gave way beneath my hand, propelling me down yet another flight of stairs that seemed to have been carved out of the ground. I tumbled for several feet before I was able to bring my fall to a painful stop. Almost immediately, a flickering light appeared above me.

  “Miss Woolson, are you all right?” Miss Culbertson's voice was

  raised in alarm as she reached her candle through the opening, straining to see me.

  “I—I think so,” I replied, gingerly moving my arms and legs. “I’m not sure what happened.”

  “You stumbled—quite literally, it appears—upon a trap door.”

  Despite her concern for my well-being, our leader couldn’t hide her excitement as she descended the stairs. “We’re in your debt, Miss Woolson. This stairway is very likely where they took the girl. But you took a very nasty fall. I fear you’ve injured yourself.”

  “I don’t think so,” I answ
ered, embarrassed by my clumsiness. “At least nothing more serious than a few bumps and bruises.” I got somewhat unsteadily to my feet, fearful that my ineptness would sabotage our mission. “Please, let's proceed.”

  Miss Culbertson held the candle up and studied me closely. Then she nodded, and I could see that my determination met with her approval. “I knew you were made of sturdy stuff, Miss Wool-son. Very well, then. Let us see where this staircase leads.”

  This time I took my place directly behind the older woman— and the candle she was holding—and was thus able to make my way safely down the remaining stairs. I was vaguely aware of a stab of pain when I put weight on my left ankle, but I was too caught up in the urgency of the moment to give it more than passing notice. When we reached the foot of the steps, I was disappointed to find our way blocked by what seemed to be a solid wall of stone.

  Without a word, Miss Culbertson held up the candle and ran her hand over the rough surface. After a few moments, she stopped and addressed the three of us in a soft voice. “I’m going to blow out the candle. Please, stay close behind me.” I watched as she pressed what must have been a hidden mechanism in the wall, then

  I heard a section of the rock wall begin to slide open as she quickly extinguished the candle.

  I was instantly assaulted by an odor so putrid it was all I could do not to gag, and I was disoriented by dozens of fireflies dancing about and making strange hissing and gurgling sounds. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I realized these insects were actually glass lamps set next to shelflike bunks built against the walls. Chinese men, curled up in fetal position, occupied these beds. The peculiar noises I had heard seemed to come from a black substance resembling India rubber that the supine men held at the end of wire pokers over the lamps’ flames. Judging by the long pipes they were smoking, I guessed the significance of the room even before Miss Culbertson whispered, “It's an opium den, a sepulcher filled with the living dead.”

  Boldly, she approached a row of bunks and peered into the bottom cot. I watched as the bunk's occupant opened his eyes to behold what to him must have seemed a drug-induced nightmare—a female Fahn Quai (white person) had somehow invaded this most inaccessible of sanctums. The man blinked, then turned over and resumed smoking his pipe. As Miss Culbertson passed on to the next bunk, Hi Gim and Gum Toy set off on their own search.