Murder on Nob Hill Read online

  cent woman? I had to answer these questions, I thought, taking my seat inside the horsecar. And soon!

  Wylde had not exaggerated Lotty Cork's fate. I returned home to find Celia in her room trying to comfort a hysterical Ina. Lotty's employment had indeed been terminated, and our little maid was convinced that poverty and destitution lay ahead for her sister. Celia's kind eyes reflected my own feeling of responsibility. We had created the situation. We were morally obligated to set it right.

  After a restless night, a surprisingly suitable solution came to me and I hurried to the office to place the matter before Mr. Shepard. Enduring the inevitable argument I had come to expect whenever he was presented with a new idea, I finally convinced him of the practicality of the plan. Not only would it help two women in distress, it was certain to generate goodwill for the firm.

  That night I told Ina that arrangements had been made for her sister to help Rebecca Carpenter take care of her family while she recuperated from a traffic accident. Although the Carpenter family lacked the funds to pay Lotty, my employer had agreed to advance the necessary money in lieu of the settlement Mrs. Carpenter was almost certain to receive. Best of all, when it was time to seek a new position, Lotty would be provided with glowing references.

  That matter settled to everyone's satisfaction, I was more determined than ever to prove Benjamin Wylde's guilt. I won’t pretend that his threats hadn’t unnerved me, but as the days marched inexorably toward the beginning of Annjenett's trial, I made a determined effort to stifle my fears by turning all my attention on her defense. I wracked my brains to come up with a strategy—no, let's be honest—with a miracle that might save my client from the gallows, or equally repellent, from a lunatic asylum. I could not allow myself to contemplate failure.

  What have you done to aggravate Benjamin Wylde?” Mr. Shepard demanded several days after the meeting in Paulson's office. “Whatever it is, it must stop,” he went on before I could muster a suitable retort. “He is one of our most prestigious clients.”

  The injustice of this remark stunned me. “Did Mr. Wylde mention that he accosted me on the street and threatened my life?” I asked from between clenched teeth.

  Shepard regarded me over his pince-nez, his face slightly flushed above a starched, high-winged collar. “I am not interested in excuses, Miss Woolson. From this day forward, you are to have no contact with either Mr. Wylde or Mr. Paulson. I am appalled by reports of your obstreperous behavior.”

  “Are you serving me with notice of termination?” I asked.

  He hesitated and I knew he was thinking of my father, and the consequences of having such a powerful enemy on the bench. “Well, er, not exactly.” I watched as he searched for a face-saving way out of this dilemma. “You may stay, but on a probationary basis, contingent upon your future conduct. Is that clear, Miss Woolson?”

  “Perfectly clear. Rest assured I will do nothing to compromise my integrity as an attorney, or my responsibility as a human being.”

  Shepard nodded his head curtly, but when I turned for the door I could see he wasn’t quite sure what I had just agreed to.

  I was still fuming when I hailed a cab and instructed the driver to take me to Senator Broughton's home on Nob Hill. If Benjamin Wylde thought to frighten me off by complaining to my employer, he’d chosen the wrong means. I would be lying if I pretended his threats hadn’t unnerved me, but I honestly believed I

  was Annjenett's last hope. With her life at stake, I had no choice but to carry on, regardless of the possible consequences.

  I had embarked on my present errand for two reasons. First, I was convinced Senator Broughton knew more about his partners’ deaths than he had admitted and, secondly, I truly feared for his life. My conscience would not leave me in peace until I had at least made an effort to warn him.

  Arriving at the Broughton's residence, I paid the cabby and pulled the bell on the heavy oak door. A liveried footman wearing ablackarmbandtookmycardandusheredmein,leavingmeinthe entry hall while he inquired if the senator was receiving visitors.

  Restlessly, I paced the hall while I waited. The large, vaulted foyer was like a small museum. In addition to several sculptures, a number of paintings and an excellent tapestry decorated the walls. My eye had just fallen upon a landscape by Camille Pissaro—a French painter who was making a name for himself in the so-called Impressionist school—when I had the feeling I was being watched. Turning my head, I spied a burly man partially concealed behind a marble statue. He wore a shabby brown suit, and a heavy beard concealed the lower part of his face. His eyes were dark and piercing to the point of rudeness. Was he a tradesman, I wondered? Or a workman hired to do repairs? If so, what was he doing in this part of the house? And why did he make no move to go about his business, instead of standing there openly staring at me?

  I was still pondering these questions when the footman returned to lead me up the curved staircase. As we ascended, the strange man's eyes rudely followed our progress, an act that clearly made the footman nervous. On the second floor, I was led into the senator's study. The room was gloomy; the draperies were drawn and only one or two sconce candles along the walls had been lit. It

  took a moment before I was able to make out the figure of Broughton sitting in a chair facing the fire. His greeting was not enthusiastic as he motioned for me to take the seat opposite his. He did not offer refreshments and, to be truthful, I would have declined them if he had. My mission was awkward, and I didn’t care to be sidetracked by social niceties.

  Now that my eyes were accustomed to the gloom, I was shocked to note the senator's altered appearance since his wife's funeral. His face was drawn and pale as ash, his overbright eyes rimmed by dark circles, as if he hadn’t slept well in days. Normally a stylish dresser, this afternoon his clothes were rumpled and disarranged. Of course he was in mourning, but I suspected this remarkable transformation was due to something more ominous than bereavement.

  After a few moments of polite, if strained, conversation, I searched for a way to introduce the real purpose of my visit.

  “I’m relieved that you have recovered from the attack you sustained outside your club,” I began, treading carefully.

  He seemed taken aback. “It was hardly an attack,” he said tersely. “The penny press blew the incident out of proportion.”

  Again I found myself wondering why Broughton was so determined to minimize what had clearly been a deadly assault.

  “You don’t think it a coincidence that you were set upon by a man wielding a knife so soon after your late partners’ deaths?”

  “No, of course not. Why should I think such a thing?” His eyes narrowed. “That's right. I remember—from your brother's party. All those questions about Cornelius. You fancy you know something about crime. And you take perverse pleasure prying into people's lives.”

  “Senator, I meant no—”

  “Well, you will not meddle in mine. I won’t have it!”

  “The situation is too desperate to mince words,” I said, ignoring his insults. “I believe Mr. Hanaford and Mr. Mills were murdered by the same man. I’m also convinced that you, not your wife, was the intended victim of that runaway phaeton.”

  His pale face slowly suffused with color. “How dare you!”

  “Senator, your life is in danger. The killer has three souls on his conscience. I’m sure he won’t hesitate to strike again.”

  Eyes blazing, Broughton rose, and with noticeably shaking hands, reached for the cord to summon the footman. “You will leave my house at once,” he said tightly.

  “Senator, you must—”

  “Miss Woolson. Please go!”

  I stared at him for a long moment. Behind the anger I sensed a debilitating terror. The senator did not require my warning, I realized with a little shock. He already feared for his life.

  Recognizing there was nothing more to be said, I stood and wordlessly left the room. As the footman led me to the door, I again spied the strange man I had seen on
my way in. His dark, probing gaze remained fixed on me as I was escorted outside, and the large oaken door had been firmly closed behind me.

  The afternoon had turned dark, and heavy clouds were rolling in from the Bay. The wind was blowing so hard I had to hold on tightly to my hat, and I felt drops of rain on my face as I walked down the hill toward Powell. There I boarded a cable car to Sutter Street, where I could transfer to a second line that would deposit me at Market and Battery Streets, a short, if uphill, walk to my home. I was lucky to find an unoccupied seat inside the trailer car, and after settling myself between two men of burly proportions, I looked outside to find the drizzle had turned into a downpour.

  The weather matched my mood. Straightening my damp skirts, I mulled over my visit with Broughton. Any fool could see he was

  frightened—but of what? If he truly believed his wife's death was an accident, why did he appear so terrified? Was it possible he knew the identity of Hanaford and Mills's murderer, or the reason why they’d been killed? Yet if he had any suspicion of the killer's identity, why hadn’t he taken this information to the police?

  My head ached as I struggled for answers. If Broughton suspected that Wylde was a merciless killer, why protect him? So far, my inquiries had come up with no obvious improprieties in Broughton's past. If the attorney was blackmailing his ex-partner, it was for a reason I had thus far failed to uncover.

  Then there was the man I had seen lurking—for really that best described his strange behavior—in the senator's foyer. He was dressed too shabbily to be a guest, nor did he have the appearance or the demeanor of a servant. So, who was he?

  The answer came to me as the car slowed for my stop: Broughton must be so afraid for his life that he had hired a professional to guard his home and his person. That would explain the man's bizarre presence. Had the senator become so mistrustful that even his female guests were subject to vulgar scrutiny?

  The cable car stopped, and I held a discarded newspaper over my head as I transferred to the Sutter Street line. When I left that car a few blocks later to walk the short distance to my home, the newspaper soon became too soaked to be of any use. The afternoon had grown so dark that it was difficult to see more than a few steps ahead as I made my way up the hill.

  Suddenly, the skin on the back of my neck prickled. Someone was following me! I tried to tell myself it was only my imagination, but the terror gripping my heart was too real to ignore. Bending my head against the wall of wind and blinding rain, I increased my pace and struggled up the hill toward warmth and safety.

  When I felt a hand grasp my shoulder, my heart nearly stopped

  beating. Strong fingers dug into my arm as I tried to pull away. Spinning about, I tried to confront my attacker, but all I could make out in the pounding rain was a shapeless figure. I opened my mouth to scream, but my cries were drowned in the howling wind.

  They say at times of extreme terror, your life passes before you in the blink of an eye. In my case, I felt nothing but incapacitating fear, and the certainty that I was going to die on this rain-soaked street without ever knowing why or by whose hand.

  Over the sounds of the wind, I realized the man was speaking, but I was too distraught to make out his words. Then, slowly, the sense of what he was saying began to breach the storm and the panic hammering in my ears. He spoke in broken English—an accent I found strangely familiar. As I strained to see the man's face through the rain, his features slowly began to take shape. With a shock, I realized my assailant was Chinese!

  “Missy, please, you take,” he said, attempting to push a piece of paper into my hand.

  “What is it?” I cried. “Who are you?”

  Releasing my arm so abruptly that I nearly fell over, he said, “You need help, you go this place.”

  I stared at the note he had pressed into my palm, but it was too dark and too wet to make out the writing.

  “Who told you to give this to me?” I asked, then looked up to see that the man was no longer there.

  Like a shadowy specter, he had vanished soundlessly into the stormy night.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Thankfully, no one was home when I slipped, drenched and bedraggled, into the house. Never had my bedroom looked so inviting—and so safe. Angry at myself for allowing the Chinese to cause me such fright, I fumbled with buttons and hooks and pulled off my wet dress and undergarments, then slipped on a robe and rang for the maid. When Hazel appeared, I requested hot tea and a large snifter of brandy. Although the latter request resulted in a raised eyebrow, my devoted maid speedily delivered both restoratives to my room, then mercifully left without comment.

  When I was alone, I swallowed the brandy in one long gulp, then sat down to sip the tea while I brought my nerves under control. As the brandy and tea spread welcome warmth through my shivering body, I drew out the note I’d been given, which was written on white, high-grade bond paper. The writing itself was precise and neat, if a bit spidery; the grammar perfect. It read:

  Miss Woolson. If you require assistance, come to theYoot Hong Low restaurant on Clay Street, between Dupont and Waverly Place. Kin Lee, the proprietor, will know how to reach me.

  I stared at the message, which could only have been written by one man: Li Ying. But for what reason? Had he come across some new information regarding the case? If so, why not simply tell me in the note? Or was it of such a sensitive or dangerous nature that it could only be delivered in person?

  Since there was nothing to be gained from idle speculation, I put the note aside and made it an early night. Whether because of the brandy, or sheer exhaustion, I slept soundly and was one of the first to arrive at work the following day. I planned to clear my desk before noon, then seek out the Yoot Hong Low restaurant. Circumstances, however, conspired against this endeavor.

  The distraction came in the form of a request from Eugene Ackroyd. The young associate had been so impressed by my work on the Carpenter case, he sought to employ me on a project concerning a recently divorced woman in danger of losing custody of her two small children. The wife's husband, a known wife beater, was to have his case heard the following week. When I expressed my surprise that the matter had been left until the last moment, Mr. Ackroyd claimed the woman's case had become buried in paperwork. I thought it more likely that my male colleagues had thought little of the woman's chance of winning, or they secretly sided with the husband. My money was on the latter. Despite the concerns weighing so heavily on my mind, I could not bring myself to turn my back on the unfortunate mother.

  As fate would have it, the fact that I worked on the brief until well after my usual departure hour caused me to happen upon a discovery pertaining to the Nob Hill murders (the name I had

  taken to calling the case) that I might otherwise have missed. It was, in fact, eight o’clock when Robert barged into my office and announced that it was high time I left for home. I started to protest that I would leave when I was ready, then reconsidered. Remembering Wylde's threats, as well as my fright the night before, I decided there was an advantage in having Robert escort me outside and into a taxi.

  It was dark when we emerged from the building and unfortunately there wasn’t a brougham in sight. complaining that by now he had missed supper at his boardinghouse, Robert suggested we eat at a nearby hotel, then walk to Montgomery Street where we’d be more likely to find an unoccupied taxi. Realizing that I, too, was hungry, I readily agreed to this sensible plan.

  As if by silent agreement, we didn’t speak of the murders—or the beginning of Annjenett's trial—as we made our way toward the hotel. The evening was mild and I found myself enjoying the brisk walk. And, amazingly, Robert's company. When he wasn’t going on about my imagined faults, or the folly of women in the workplace, he was not unpleasant company.

  We had just settled into a lively discussion concerning recent demands by the Workingman's Party for a Chinese exclusion act, when I spied two men leaving a nearby bar. I fear I gave Robert a start when I grabbed his arm and p
ulled him into a nearby doorway.

  “Look! Over there,” I whispered. “It's Benjamin Wylde.”

  “So, what if it is? I see no reason to—”

  “Shh. I think I know his companion.”

  The man I referred to was short and stocky, with unkempt hair and the unfocused look of the inebriated. In fact, Wylde didn’t seem at all pleased by the man's intoxicated condition.

  “I can’t remember his name,” I continued in a low voice, “but I know I’ve seen him before.”

  Robert gave a snort of disgust. “Of all the ridiculous—” Ordering him to be quiet, I strained to hear what the men were saying, but we were too far away. The older man began to flail his arms about as if arguing a point, but Wylde appeared to have had enough. Taking his companion roughly by the arm, he propelled him down the street in our direction. As they passed within several feet of our hiding place, I heard the attorney snap that if the other man knew what was good for him, he would hold his tongue.

  Suddenly, I knew where I’d seen the man before. His name eluded me, but I was sure he was one of my brother Charles's colleagues. What in the world, I wondered, was he doing with Benjamin Wylde?

  The incident cast a pall over our dinner. Despite my protests that the confrontation we’d just witnessed might be important to Annjenett's case, Robert insisted on referring to it as my “damned female imagination working overtime again.”

  It was a relief when the meal was over and we were able to locate a cab on Montgomery Street. I didn’t bother to look back at my fractious dinner companion as the driver clicked his horse toward Rincon Hill.

  I was pleased to find Charles alone in the parlor when I returned home. During the ride I had wracked my brain to remember the mysterious doctor's name and finally decided it was either Lan-gley or Langton. When I described him to my brother, he thought I must be referring to Howard Lawton, one of his instructors at medical school.

  “I heard he was no longer teaching. A scandal of some sort, I believe. I can’t imagine what he’d be doing with Mr. Wylde.” “What sort of scandal?” I urged.