The Russian Hill Murders Read online

  “Yes, Campbell,” Shepard snapped. “What is it?”

  “Mr. Wilton is waiting to see you in the outer office,” Robert said. “Perkins says he doesn’t have an appointment.”

  “Why didn’t Perkins inform me of this himself?” the senior partner demanded, no doubt feeling the need to take his foul temper out on someone.

  Again, Robert shot me a quick look. “I, ah, was on my way to Miss Woolson’s office and offered to deliver the message for him.”

  “Oh, for the love of—” Shepard got up from his desk, pausing in front of Pierce. “I’ll bid you good day, Mr. Godfrey. If your arrangement with Miss Woolson does not prove satisfactory, please inform me. Our firm employs a number of excellent attorneys who are at your disposal.” With that, he turned and marched out the door.

  The three of us stood awkwardly in Joseph Shepard’s wake. When neither man spoke, I broke the silence.

  “You remember Robert Campbell, don’t you Mr. Godfrey?”

  “Yes, of course,” Pierce said, reaching out his hand. “Good to see you again, Campbell.”

  Robert returned his shake. “Godfrey,” he responded a little stiffly.

  I wanted to kick Robert in the shins. Surely he could show more civility than that. And why did his face look as if he’d just bitten into a sour lemon?

  “You said you were on your way to my office, Robert?” I said, working to make my tone pleasant.

  “I, ah, had a case I wanted to discuss with you.” His eyes flickered to Pierce, then quickly back to me. It didn’t require a mind reader to know he was dying to find out why Pierce had come to see Shepard. “I see that you’re busy. We can do it later.”

  “I’d appreciate that, if you don’t mind,” Pierce told him amiably. “I am going out of town later this afternoon, and I’d like to familiarize Miss Woolson with some documents.”

  “Of course,” Robert said, walking to the door. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

  Leading Pierce to my office, I partially closed the door behind us (yes, upon occasion even I find it expedient to obey the social proprieties) and slid the typewriting machine to the far corner of my desk. Taking out a sheaf of papers, Pierce spent the next hour explaining them to me at length. It was nearly noon when we’d finished.

  “All this work has given me an appetite,” he said. “I’d be pleased if you’d have lunch with me.”

  I was tempted to accept his invitation, then remembered the hospital tour scheduled for that afternoon. There was also the matter of his behavior. Even now that I’d been retained as his attorney, his manner toward me tended to be less than professional. No, if this business relationship were to succeed, firm lines must be drawn.

  “I’m sorry, but that won’t be possible, Mr. Godfrey. Perhaps another time.”

  His intense blue eyes remained on mine longer than was necessary. “As you wish, Miss Woolson. I’ll pick you up at your house at ten o’clock Wednesday morning.”

  “I shall be ready,” I answered, matching his tone. “I hope you have a pleasant journey.”

  I stood watching him walk out with long, confident strides. As he disappeared into the hall, I wondered what in heaven’s name I’d gotten myself into.

  That afternoon, Margaret Barlow gave us an interesting tour of the new Women and Children’s Hospital. Her mother, Adelina French, Reverend Nicholas Prescott, Mama, Celia and several other board members had also joined the group.

  The old warehouse was a beehive of activity. On the main floor, workmen scurried about tearing down walls and erecting others to form a floor plan very different from the original structure erected thirty years earlier. The first ward had already been completed, and several of the dozen or more beds were occupied. Nurses bustled about tending the patients, all of them women who would soon be in labor.

  “Babies have a way of ignoring construction schedules,” Margaret told us with a smile, “so we completed this room first.”

  “That was a wise decision,” Reverend Prescott put in, regarding the room with approval. “It’s important that the new mothers have a clean bed and a roof over their heads.”

  Margaret gave the minister a grateful smile. “It’s still a bit chaotic, but we will soon put things to right.” She led us around a pile of rubble. “Most of the initial renovations will take place on this level and will house the larger wards. Fortunately, there are rooms on the second and third floors functional enough for immediate occupancy. Eventually, of course, they’ll be remodeled as funds become available.”

  She led us to a storage area that had been converted into a modern hospital kitchen. There were exclamations all around when our eyes lighted on a brand new Sterling Range, a huge cast-iron stove with nickel paneling and beautifully decorated tile. Equally impressive was the tall, cylindrical hot-water heater standing next to it. Considering the hours it took to heat water on a stove—even a stove as large as this—the water heater would be a marvelous laborsaving device for the staff. But how had the hospital managed to come up with the money to purchase two such costly appliances?

  Adelina French must have noticed our astonishment. “Mr. Leonard Godfrey donated the stove and the water heater to the hospital in honor of his late wife. I can’t count the times Caroline told me, ‘Proper healing requires proper food.’” Adelina turned her head, but not before I saw tears brimming in her green eyes.

  Reverend Prescott gently touched the woman’s arm. “I was not well acquainted with Mrs. Godfrey, but I’m sure she would be pleased with your efforts,” he said softly.

  As he spoke, a small, wiry Chinese man entered carrying a sack of flour over one shoulder. He wore an interesting mix of East and West: the dark tunic and pants common among the city’s Chinese but, instead of the usual slippers, heavy brown boots and a very Western-looking bowler hat. Unable to see his long hair queue, I assumed it was tucked beneath the hat. When he saw us, his face twisted into angry lines, as if resentful we had invaded his domain.

  “This is our cook, Chin Lee Fong,” Margaret said. Chin executed a stiff bow, hardly pausing as he walked to the pantry to dump the bag of flour against the wall. Behind him, a thin young woman of about nineteen came in carrying pots and pans. The girl had a pale complexion and large, impudent-looking hazel eyes. A riot of red curls popped out here and there from beneath a starched white cap. “And this is our kitchen maid, Dora Clemens.”

  The young woman stopped in her tracks, regarding us with bold interest. She paused when she came to Reverend Prescott, and her sharp face broke into a saucy grin. Ignoring the rest of us, Dora executed a suggestive little curtsy, plainly intended solely for the attractive minister.

  Chin snapped impatiently at her in rapid Chinese, then in broken English. “Lazy good-for-nothing. Bring pots. Now!”

  The girl turned sullen eyes on the cook, then, without hurrying, handed the pans to Chin. Muttering angrily beneath his breath, the cook stood on a stool and hung each pan carefully above the cast-iron stove.

  “That stove is Chin’s pride and joy,” Mrs. French explained, in an obvious attempt to draw attention away from the kitchen maid, who continued to stare openly at the minister. “Woe be it if anyone else so much as touches it.”

  “He’s a splendid cook, so you must forgive us if we humor him,” Margaret said.

  One woman in the group commented that she didn’t blame the cook one bit. “If I had a stove like that, I’d protect it with my husband’s pistol,” she exclaimed, her expression indicating she was only half joking.

  “Shall we proceed?” Margaret asked.

  She led us up a flight of stairs to the second floor, where the original warehouse offices had been located. Eventually, she told us, they would house not only the hospital’s administrative staff, but also a chapel and the promised playroom for hospitalized children and for the offspring of women who had given birth. The third, uppermost floor would be reserved for surgical operations, storage and a temporary morgue.

  Not surprisingly, Reverend P
rescott showed particular interest in the chapel, and he looked around the room approvingly. I admit I’d been keeping an eye on Prescott since the tour began, curious to see if I’d imagined his amazing charisma. My interest turned to embarrassment when I realized every female eye in our group was also fastened on him. Margaret Barlow deferred to him as if he were a visiting potentate, while Adelina French hung on his every word. Prescott appeared to be unaware of his appeal, but I suspected this was largely feigned. Behind those smiling eyes, I guessed he was conscious of every glance, every sigh, every whisper.

  Our next stop was the room—actually two small rooms joined by a connecting door—that Lily Mankin and her children would soon occupy. I admit I’d been concerned about the arrangement, fearing the board’s promise to house the Mankin family might have been forgotten in the excitement of opening the hospital. I’d even put off informing the widow of the planned accommodation in case it didn’t materialize. I now realized that, far from breaking their word, Margaret and her mother had given the family’s housing needs thoughtful consideration.

  “We chose these rooms for Mrs. Mankin because they catch the morning sun,” Adelina said, pleased by my delighted expression. “And they’re located close to the children’s playroom.”

  I was already picturing the rooms filled with Lily’s homey touches. “She’ll be so pleased, Mrs. French. And exceedingly relieved. I can’t thank you enough for your efforts.”

  Several more rooms on the second floor were also ready for occupancy or were already being used by staff members. Margaret showed us her own office overlooking Pacific Street, which was large and tastefully furnished.

  “This is only temporary,” she explained. “We’re in the process of hiring a hospital administrator, but it’s proving more difficult than we anticipated. When we do hire someone, this will be his office.”

  We were startled by the sound of loud voices erupting from the next room. When they turned into full-scale shouts, Mrs. Barlow excused herself and went out into the hall.

  “Kwei-chan!” I heard a male voice scream. “Villain! How you expect me cook without proper supplies?”

  I followed Margaret out of the office to find Chin Lee Fong facing off against Lucius Arlen, the hospital’s accountant. Although Arlen towered over him, Chin showed no fear. He glared up at Arlen as if he would have liked nothing better than to engage the accountant in physical combat.

  “I’m not a fool, Chin,” Arlen shouted. “I know well enough that a good portion of the money I’ve given you has ended up in your pocket.”

  “You call me thief?” the cook exploded, shaking his fist and exploding into a torrent of Chinese.

  “I’m stating the facts as I see them,” Arlen retorted. “This is a charity hospital, Chin, not the Palace Hotel.”

  Margaret bravely stepped between the two men. “Stop it, please! Mr. Arlen, you know I authorized Mr. Chin’s expenses. I’m sure he hasn’t taken any money for himself.”

  Arlen’s look was pitying. After all, what could a poor, trusting woman know of such things? “With due respect, I’ve had a great deal of experience with this sort of pilfering. I have attempted to warn you, madam, but you seem loath to listen. Chinamen are not to be trusted!”

  Chin bristled with rage. “You no better than boo how doy,” he yelled, referring to the thugs in some of the more violent tongs. “You lie, try get me fired!”

  “That’s where I’d like to see you, all right, out on the street where you belong—where all you yellow devils be—”

  Arlen stopped in mid-sentence as an authoritative voice boomed, “Arlen! Chin! You heard Mrs. Barlow. That is enough out of both of you.”

  The two men fell into startled silence as Judge Barlow’s commanding figure strode down the hall. Chin’s bravado changed to sulky deference, while Arlen’s face flushed a blotchy red.

  “I’ll deal with you later, Chin,” the accountant snapped, dismissing the cook with an angry gesture. “Now get back to the kitchen.”

  Chin started to speak, then took in Judge Barlow’s stern face and seemed to think better of it. Spinning on his heels, he stalked in silent fury toward the stairs.

  Mrs. Barlow looked mortally embarrassed. “I apologize for this outbreak. With all the confusion going on, I’m afraid our tempers have become a bit frayed.”

  “Don’t make excuses for them, my dear,” Barlow said, watching Chin’s departing back. “They’re grown men and should know better than to behave like squabbling children.”

  “Judge Barlow, I assure you—” the accountant’s face darkened an even deeper red as he choked off the words, obviously deciding there were times when silence truly was golden. Turning to Margaret, he said, “Actually, I’m glad to see you, Mrs. Barlow. There’s an urgent matter I must discuss with you before you leave for the day.” He entered his office and picked up one of his black ledgers. His demeanor now seemed more agitated than angry, as if something were seriously amiss.

  “Mr. Arlen,” Margaret said, following him to his desk. “Can we postpone this until I’ve finished with my tour?”

  “I would prefer to do it now, Mrs. Barlow,” Arlen persisted. “It really can’t wait.”

  “I’m afraid it’s going to have to wait, Mr. Arlen,” Judge Barlow interrupted. “If you recall, Margaret, we have an appointment with Mr. Peterson this afternoon.”

  “Oh, it slipped my mind.” Margaret turned to our group. “I’m afraid we must meet with our architect,” she explained. “We’re building a home in Menlo Park, you see.”

  “Whatever the problem is, you can speak to my wife about it tomorrow,” Barlow told Arlen and, without waiting for a reply, marched out of the accountant’s office.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Arlen,” Margaret said after her husband’s abrupt departure. “Will tomorrow morning do?” She glanced at her mother. “Or perhaps you could speak to Mrs. French in my stead? She knows nearly as much about the hospital as I do.”

  The accountant hesitated, then shook his head. “No, I’m sorry, I prefer to speak to you.”

  “Are you sure?” Mrs. French offered kindly. “If there is anything I can do—”

  “Thank you, Mrs. French,” he said, “but it’s a matter best kept between myself and Mrs. Barlow.”

  “Mr. Arlen seemed upset,” Mama said quietly as Margaret led us down the hallway. “I hope it’s nothing serious. It would be awful if we had to stop work on the hospital now.”

  I had no time to reply, as Margaret had stopped in front of a storeroom where dozens of old, rusty paint cans were piled everywhere. As she went on about projected occupancy, I’m afraid my mind wandered. Mama was right; Arlen appeared unusually upset. Moreover, I was sure it had something to do with the books. Raising money for a project of this magnitude was always a challenge, but I’d heard that thus far donations had been generous. What could be wrong?

  Mama gave me a little nudge, and I came out of my thoughts to find the group trooping up the stairs to the top story. As we climbed, I glanced out a dirty window, surprised to see how dark it had become outside. Clouds blotted out the sun, and streaks of fog billowed in from the Bay to grip the streets with long, ghostly fingers.

  I shivered and realized it had nothing to do with the chill warehouse or the gathering fog. Whatever Lucius Arlen was so anxious to tell Mrs. Barlow, I had an ominous feeling it did not portend well for the new hospital.

  I had not invited Robert to join me on my visit to Lily Mankin the following afternoon. As a matter of fact, I had actively opposed it. But of course the redoubtable Scot was not easily discouraged. He’d discovered where Lily Mankin lived, and he flatly refused to allow me to travel alone to this—according to him—less than reputable district. Ever since Joseph Shepard had bribed him into dogging my steps during the Nob Hill murders, he seemed to consider my safety his personal concern. In all fairness, this attitude had, upon occasion, proved useful. At the moment, it was simply annoying.

  “What do you really know about Lily Manki
n?” he demanded. “You’ve spoken to her what, twice? Yet here you go butting into her life. I can tell you who they’re going to blame if this little arrangement doesn’t work out.”

  “Oh, Robert, do be quiet.”

  “Blast it, woman, if I’ve said it once I’ve said it—”

  “Far too many times. If you dare say it again, I’ll scream. I’m not interfering, Robert. I’m simply bringing Mrs. Mankin and the hospital together for their mutual benefit. And that is all I care to say on the subject.”

  We drove the rest of the way in silence, contemplative on my part, sulky on Robert’s. Ever since I’d toured the warehouse the day before, I’d been eager to give the widow the good news. Adelina French said Lily could move into her new rooms as soon as they’d been given a fresh coat of paint. The timing was perfect, as Lily had less than a week before she’d have to vacate her current premises.

  When our clarence—a brougham converted into an extension-front hack capable of carrying four instead of the usual two passengers—drew up before a frame house several blocks south of the Slot (that is, south of the Market Street cable car line), I was pleasantly surprised. The neighborhood, though poor and unpretentious, was hardly the disreputable district of Robert’s imagination. In fact, San Francisco teemed with areas like this, where hardworking men and women eked out a modest livelihood in the fastest growing city on the West Coast.

  Lily, appearing weary and somewhat disheveled as she tried to calm the child squirming in her arms, seemed genuinely delighted to see us. Turning the toddler over to her daughter, she led us into a room that evidently served as kitchen and parlor for the family. Through an open door, I spied a second, smaller room, furnished with a small bed and several cots. Toys were scattered about, but otherwise the room appeared spotlessly clean. The dingy walls were hung with prints—most of a religious nature—as well as several beautifully executed embroideries, which I assumed the widow had done herself. Beside the room’s only overstuffed chair sat a basket of mending, most of it, I’m sure, sent over by Mama and her friends.