Murder on Nob Hill Read online

  “Are you certain of your information?” he asked, obviously taken aback. “I can’t imagine why Mr. Hanaford would do such a thing.”

  “Nor can I,” I admitted. “As you were old friends, I hoped he might have spoken of it to you.”

  “ ‘Friends’ is perhaps too broad a term, Miss Woolson. While it's true we’d known one another for some time, we belonged to vastly different social circles and rarely met outside the bank. My employer was not in the habit of taking me into his confidence.”

  “I see,” I said, finding it hard to hide my frustration.

  After I thanked Eban Potter and took my leave of the bank, I decided to board a horsecar for Annjenett's Nob Hill home. I realized, of course, that the police had already searched the house— more than once, according to my client—but I wasn’t necessarily looking for the same thing.

  Fortunately, the widow's butler remembered me and readily admitted me to the mansion. Poor Beecher was distraught. Not only had his master been brutally murdered, but his mistress stood accused of the crime. He informed me that two of the maids had already given notice, and he wasn’t sure how long he could persuade the other servants to remain. Although frantic with worry, his loyalty hadn’t wavered.

  “Mrs. Hanaford is the gentlest of women,” he said fervently. “I will never believe she could harm anyone, especially given the way Mr. Hanaford was—” His face reddened.

  “I agree, Beecher. In fact, that is why I’m here.”

  I threw open the door to Hanaford's study. The room was dark and had an unpleasant, musty odor. Beecher must have noticed the faint wrinkling of my nose.

  “The maids refuse to enter the room,” he explained by way of apology. “The situation with the servants being what it is, I decided it was best not to press the issue.”

  “Actually, I’m pleased the room has been left undisturbed. It may make it easier to find something the police missed.”

  His eyes lit with hope. “If only you could, Miss Woolson. Please, is there anything I can do? Perhaps some refreshments?”

  I thanked the butler, saying that a cup of coffee would not be unwelcome. When he left, I threw open the heavy draperies to let in what remained of the afternoon sun. The layers of dust covering the furnishings confirmed that nothing had been touched since Hanaford's death.

  I had just settled myself behind the mahogany desk when Beecher returned with a coffee tray and some small sandwiches. He seemed startled to see me calmly ensconced in the very chair where his master had been brutally murdered. Happily, I am not squeamish about such things. I thanked him for the refreshments and the man quietly withdrew, leaving me to my work.

  Nibbling on one of the excellent sandwiches, I opened the first desk drawer. Hanaford had been methodical and neat, but the contents told me little about the man. What were his interests? His passions? His goals? His secrets? What fire had driven him to establish one of the city's largest banks? More importantly, who were his enemies?

  When I’d finished examining the desk, I was no closer to answering these questions than when I’d begun. I sank back in the chair, frustrated.

  I was wondering where to look next when I heard a loud knock on the front door and Beecher's muted footsteps as he passed through the foyer to answer. The booming voice demanding to be admitted was unmistakable. Robert Campbell! A moment later, there was a quick knock on the study door before it opened a crack.

  “There's a—person to see you, Miss.” Beecher announced, sounding distressed. “If you’d like, I could send him away.”

  Interesting as it might have been to watch the elderly, slightly built butler actually carry out this threat, the impatient attorney gave him no opportunity to try. Without waiting for a reply, he barged into the room like a charging bull.

  “Thank you, Beecher,” I told the startled butler. “Mr. Campbell is a colleague.”

  Somewhat dubiously, Beecher withdrew, but I noticed with amusement that he left the door slightly ajar behind him.

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded of my brash visitor.

  “I’ve come to prevent you from making a complete fool of yourself, and the law firm along with you,” he replied in a rude voice.

  “How did you know where to find me?”

  “Once you’d gotten it into your head that Hanaford and his partners kept secret bank accounts, I knew you wouldn’t leave it alone until you’d made laughingstocks of us all. Anyway, you all but announced where you planned to begin this wild goose chase.”

  Suddenly the real reason he was here occurred to me. “Joseph Shepard sent you to spy on me, didn’t he?”

  For a moment, I thought he was going to deny my accusation. Instead, he swore beneath his breath.

  “You don’t think I’d waste my time coming here on my own, do you? I have better things to do than play nursemaid to a supercilious female who thinks that by calling herself a lawyer she can set about saving the world.”

  “If that's all you have to say, Mr. Campbell, I suggest you get on with your pressing business and allow me to save the world in peace.”

  I lowered my head and once again pulled out the first desk drawer, this time running fingers along the top and sides. Nothing. I tried this with the second drawer, at the same time scanning the bottom of the first drawer to see if anything had been taped there. Again nothing.

  “What in god's name are you looking for, woman?” Campbell asked, his r's rolling with Scottish indignity.

  I ignored this latest burst of profanity. In fact, I was endeavoring to ignore the man altogether. When I didn’t answer, he stalked around the desk to stand behind me.

  “What the devil gives you the right to search this house in the first place?”

  Really, enough was enough! “Not that it's any of your business, but Mrs. Hanaford has appointed me to handle her affairs while she's incarcerated. Now, I’d appreciate it if you would leave. You may inform Mr. Shepard that I neither require, nor do I appreciate, being spied upon.”

  With this dismissal, I pulled out the bottom drawer and ran my hand around the inside circumference. I felt it at once. Somehow during my initial inspection, it hadn’t registered that this drawer was six to eight inches shallower than the others. With a cry of satisfaction, I scooted my chair back in order to pull the drawer out to its full extension. In doing so, I inadvertently ran the chair's casters over Campbell's foot, causing him to howl as if he’d been run over by a train.

  “Oh, are you still here?” I asked without looking up.

  “Of course I’m here, you aggravating woman!” he spat, rubbing his afflicted toes. I watched as he mentally measured the drawer's depth in relation to the side of the desk. “What have you found?”

  I didn’t bother to answer. The drawer seemed to be stuck. I yanked and pulled at it, but to no avail. “Oh for the love of heaven! Here.”

  As easily as if we were made of feathers, he lifted aside the chair, with me in it, then hunkered down in front of the jammed drawer. He stuck his hand inside and deftly jiggled the compartment back and forth until he was able to extract a piece of paper wedged in the back. Once this was out, the drawer slid smoothly forward, al-

  lowing us to see the hidden compartment. How to get it open was another matter.

  “I don’t see a lock,” I observed, bending over his shoulder.

  “There must be a hidden mechanism.” With surprisingly gentle fingers, he felt along the front and sides of the niche. He must have accidentally triggered the device because suddenly the front panel of the compartment sprang open.

  “It's just a lot of papers,” he said, sounding disappointed.

  “What did you expect? Any real valuables would be kept in the safe.”

  I reached past him and lifted out a handful of documents. As I did so, I uncovered several magazines featuring lurid pictures of unclad women on the covers. Of course I had heard of such publications but I had never actually seen one. I must admit I was tempted to peruse one, just to see what all th
e fuss was about. Before I could act upon this impulse, however, Campbell's huge hand reached inside the drawer, scooped up the lot and tossed them, face down, on the floor behind the desk.

  “What else is inside?” he asked shortly.

  I was amused to see that his face had colored, and stifled a derisive remark. commenting on his embarrassment would only invite howls of denial that I was in no mood to endure. Instead, I looked through the papers, finding nothing of interest until I came upon a small square of cardboard that I took to be a business card. Upon closer inspection, I realized the card contained no writing. Instead, it pictured four pick axes—such as those used by miners—grouped together, handles upright. Even stranger, the head of a devil had been drawn above the axes, a grinning, malevolent-looking Satan wearing, of all things, a black mask over its eyes.

  Taking the card from my hand, Campbell studied it then handed it back. “It's obviously some kind of joke.”

  “Perhaps,” I said thoughtfully.

  A small black ledger lay at the bottom of the compartment. Thumbing through it, I realized it contained evidence that at least some of Cornelius Hanaford's business dealings had not been strictly on the up-and-up.

  Campbell scanned the book, then tossed it aside in disgust.

  “So now we know that Hanaford liked ribald magazines and that he altered his books. Neither of which suggests that anyone besides his wife and her paramour were responsible for his death.”

  I wasn’t ready to give up so easily. As I went through the rest of the documents, I discovered, close to the bottom, a folded sheet of yellowing paper. Reading it, my breath caught in my throat.

  “What is it?” Campbell demanded.

  Silently, I handed him the paper, then watched as he read the single paragraph.

  “It appears to be some kind of joint financial arrangement—a tontine,” he said at last.

  “Yes, that's just what it is,” I said with excitement. “Hanaford and his partners each deposited twenty-five thousand dollars at the First National Bank soon after their return from Virginia City. According to this contract, the accumulated proceeds of the fund go to the last surviving member of the group. Don’t you see? This explains the mysterious pages we found appended to each of the men's last will and testament—and why the currency wasn’t kept in Hanaford's bank. The tontine money had to be kept in a neutral account. Over the past twenty years, the original investment has more than doubled.”

  I allowed my words to hang in the air, convinced that even he would recognize the significance of this discovery. Instead, the infuriating man just stared at me.

  “Damn it all! I can see the wheels turning in that devious head

  of yours. You want me to believe that one of the most successful men in San Francisco would brutally murder two of his colleagues in order to be the final survivor in a tontine.”

  “The account now exceeds two hundred thousand dollars! Men have killed for far less than that.”

  “Not men like this!” His sea blue eyes blazed. “Think what you are suggesting. Of the two remaining partners, one is a respected attorney, the other a California State Senator. The idea that either of these men could be a murderer is utter balderdash!”

  Realizing the futility of trying to reason with a man who wouldn’t recognize a motive for murder if it bit him on the nose, I silently slipped the tontine agreement into my briefcase. Outside the study window, the sky had transformed into a vivid palette of red, orange and yellow as the sun sank over the Bay. It was time to leave.

  “Where are you off to now?” he demanded, as I got to my feet. “Why do you want to know? So you can report back to Shep-ard?”

  “Blast it, woman, why must you be so mule-headed?” “Why must you be so obtuse?”

  In my irritation, I accidentally knocked over the papers I had placed on the desktop. Among them was the crumpled sheet my disagreeable companion had dislodged from the hidden compartment while prying it open. I picked it up and read it with interest.

  Campbell was watching me warily. “Now what?”

  “I’m not sure. It's a note arranging a meeting between Mr. Hanaford and someone called Li Ying. Hanaford is instructed to bring ‘the payment’ to the Little Red Cafe on Jackson Street.” I looked up. “What do you suppose he means by ‘the payment’?”

  Campbell's arms flew into the air. “More intrigue! The next

  thing I know, you’ll claim Hanaford was murdered because he was a spy for the Afghanistan government. Are there no limits to what you’ll concoct to support your outlandish theories?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t manufacture this note. Nor did I invent the tontine drawn up by the four partners.”

  I wasted no time responding to his rude retort. Placing Li Ying's note inside my briefcase, I rang for Beecher and instructed him to lock Mr. Hanaford's study. I also promised him sufficient funds to cover household expenses until Mrs. Hanaford was home once again. This seemed to cheer the unhappy man considerably. Campbell mumbled something, but neither the butler nor I paid him the least notice.

  Outside the mansion I hailed a hansom cab, leaving the ill-mannered lawyer to find his own way home in the gathering dusk.

  That evening I was to accompany Charles and Celia to the theater, escorted by one of my brother's colleagues, Dr. William Ferris. Dr. Ferris and I had, on several previous occasions, formed a foursome with my brother and his wife. Like Charles, William Ferris is a dedicated healer, a talented surgeon with a brilliant future. Unfortunately, he is also a colossal bore. I have Celia to thank for the good doctor's attentions. She's a hopeless matchmaker; he is, I fear, but the latest in a series of gentlemen she has lured to my reluctant door.

  On this occasion, however, I wasn’t ungrateful for the invitation. Largely at my urging, we had settled upon seeing The Beaux Stratagem at the California Theater. It was, of course, the play in which Peter Fowler had been performing until the previous Saturday, the night of Rufus Mills's murder. I hadn’t told the others my reasons

  for this choice, at least not yet. In truth I was looking forward to the production, as it was my favorite of George Farquhar's delightful comedies. Altogether, it seemed a fortuitous arrangement.

  We arrived well before curtain time. The theater, which was built by W. C. Ralston, wasn’t new. The year before, it had undergone renovations, including the installation of electric lights. Now, magnificent chandeliers glittered above our heads, still enough of a novelty to cause a stir among the theatergoers. I was intrigued by this new invention, but wasn’t sure I liked the way this lighting threw everything into such a harsh glare. Perhaps I’m a romantic, but I rather favor the warm glow of candlelight, a preference that I suspect is shared by other women who have had an opportunity to experience both methods of illumination at first hand.

  After settling into our seats, I studied my program. I was pleased to read that Michael Carstairs was playing Aimwell, a gentleman of broken fortune. A loose paper inserted into the program announced that an actor I didn’t recognize would play Archer, Aimwell's co-lead, normally acted by Peter Fowler. No reason was given for this substitution.

  “Look,” Celia said, breaking into my thoughts. “There are Mr. and Mrs. Stanford.”

  She inclined her head toward a box to our right where Leland Stanford, the railroad mogul and former governor of California, and his wife Jane were taking their seats.

  “Frederick will be disappointed he didn’t come tonight,” said Charles, also noting the Stanfords’ arrival. “He's been trying for weeks to arrange a meeting with Mr. Stanford.”

  “He was devastated when they didn’t make an appearance at his dinner party,” Celia put in.

  “I imagine he was,” I said dryly. I knew my eldest brother was desperate to impress Stanford, who could be an invaluable

  stepping-stone to his entrance into politics. Secretly, I hoped the ex-governor had better sense than to allow Frederick inside that particular door.

  But I had little time
to speculate on Leland Stanford's political savvy, as my eye was caught by a man entering the box adjacent to the former governor.

  “What is it?” Celia asked, sensing me stiffen.

  “That man in the box next to the Stanfords’,” I replied. “That's Benjamin Wylde, one of Mr. Hanaford's former partners.”

  “Ah, yes,” Charles said, following our gaze. “The executor of Cornelius Hanaford's estate.”

  “I’ve been following the Hanaford case in the newspapers,” Dr. Ferris said. “I’ve never met his widow, of course, but judging by her photograph in the Evening Bulletin, I find it difficult to believe she could have committed such a brutal murder.”

  “Actually, Sarah not only believes Mrs. Hanaford to be innocent,” Celia offered with ill-concealed pride, “she's acting as the widow's attorney.”

  My escort's mouth fell open. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Mrs. Hanaford has asked Sarah to represent her on some personal matters related to her late husband's estate,” Charles explained, obviously wishing the subject hadn’t been broached.

  My escort regarded me in surprise. “I was aware of your interest in the law, Miss Woolson, but I never imagined it to be a serious avocation.”

  Undoubtedly alarmed by the doctor's expression of distaste, Celia tactfully broke in. “Excuse me, Sarah,” she said, nodding toward Wylde's box. “Do you know the identity of Mr. Wylde's companion? She looks very young—and very beautiful.”

  Drawing up my opera glasses, I saw that Celia was right. The young woman sitting beside the dour attorney could not yet be

  twenty and was strikingly lovely. Her mass of honey-gold hair curled in soft, becoming ringlets about her oval face. She neither wore, nor required, any jewelry save for exquisite diamond-drop earrings that glittered beneath the dazzling electric chandelier. Despite her youth, the girl's features were well defined and of a classic line. But it was Wylde's expression I found most surprising. As they spoke over their programs, he looked at his companion with a tenderness so unlike his usual surliness that for a moment I feared I had mistaken his identity.