Murder on Nob Hill (11 page)

As it turned out, my timing was perfect. Joseph Shepard had not yet returned to the office, and I was relieved to see that Campbell's cubicle was still unoccupied. Now that my corps of helpers had scurried off before I could find more work for them to do, no one

exhibited the least interest in the newest and sole female employee of the firm.

Leaving my office, I made my way as unobtrusively as possible down the hall, stopping at each door until I found the one I was seeking. In a room hardly larger than my own were a number of old, very dusty file cabinets. Slipping inside, I closed the door and quickly set about my task.

I knew that what I was doing was unethical. I had no reason— no official reason, that is—for being in this room, much less tampering with its highly confidential contents. Unofficially, I was prepared to stifle my conscience and take whatever steps necessary to save my client.

The esteem in which the city of San Francisco held Joseph Shepard's firm was borne out by the vast number of files I was forced to sort through. Samuel's discovery that all four mining partners used the same law firm had given me the idea, of course. The knowledge that their personal files were housed under one roof made searching for the records too great a temptation to resist.

I started with Hanaford's file. I’d already read the copy of the will in his home safe, but the folder I now held was thick with other documents. Everything seemed disappointingly ordinary until, at the very bottom of the file, I came upon several papers listing the holdings of Hanaford's estate. The final entry brought me up short. It read:
Fifty thousand dollars in trust at First National Bank, 850 Clay Street, San Francisco
. Intrigued, I examined the firm's copy of Hanaford's will. I was right! There was no mention of a fifty thousand dollar trust—and this I found most peculiar—held at a bank other than his own!

I dug through more files until I found Rufus Mills's folder, which also contained his last will and testament. My heart skipped a beat. There, again entered last, was the same notation for fifty

thousand dollars held in trust at First National Bank! My thoughts flew to the remaining partners. Was it possible they had similar funds?

It didn’t take long to find Senator Broughton's file. It was just as I’d suspected! He, too, had fifty thousand dollars in an account at First National. I had just located Wylde's folder when a voice boomed, “What in damnation do you think you’re doing?”

I was so startled I nearly dropped the file in my hand. Behind me in the open doorway, tousled red hair brushing the top of the wood frame, stood Robert Campbell, eyes glaring out accusingly from beneath fiercely knitted brows.

“Come in and close the door,” I snapped, annoyed he had caught me unawares. “And for heaven's sake, lower your voice!”

His scowl deepened and, typically, the obstinate man refused to budge. “I asked what you’re doing in here?” he repeated in what was, to my relief, a slightly lower decibel level. “Don’t you know these files are confidential?”

“The only thing
I know
, Mr. Campbell, is that Annjenett Hanaford is languishing in city jail, while the very men who are supposed to be championing her cause blithely accept that she's guilty of first-degree murder.”

“And what do you think you can accomplish?” he asked in a voice heavy with sarcasm.

“I can try to find out which of Mr. Hanaford's clients or acquaintances wished to see him dead, and who among them has no alibi for the night he was killed.” I waved Hanaford's file. “I can also attempt to discover why the owner of one of the largest financial institutions in the city would keep a fortune in someone else's bank”

This brought the troublesome man up short. Without so much as a by-your-leave, he yanked the papers out of my hand and scanned them skeptically, stopping at the final, puzzling entry.

“There must be a reasonable explanation for this.”

“Oh, really? Is there also a reasonable explanation why Rufus Mills, Senator Broughton, and—” I rifled through Wylde's file, then gave a little cry of triumph—”Benjamin Wylde should have matching deposits at the
same
bank?”

“I neither know, nor do I care. It certainly can’t have anything to do with Mrs. Hanaford's case.”

“We won’t know that until I’ve had time to investigate. The logical place to start, of course, is with Cornelius Hanaford, since his account at a competing bank is—”

“Investigate! When will you get it through your head that Mrs. Hanaford's case is none of your confounded business? Furthermore—”

It was as well that I’d tuned him out, for as he blathered on, I heard footsteps in the hall, then the sound of Joseph Shepard's voice. I grabbed the file from Campbell's hand and threw it, along with the others, into the nearest file cabinet. I had just slammed the drawer shut and gone to stand by the startled attorney when the senior partner appeared, Perkins, the annoying clerk from the front office, at his heels. Shepard scowled.

“So you
are
here, Miss Woolson.” His voice and his gaze were frosty. “May I ask what you’re doing in this room?”

I sensed Campbell's quick intake of breath, but before he could speak, I gave the dour senior attorney my brightest smile.

“Mr. Campbell graciously offered to give me a tour of the office. This is an impressive collection of records.”

“It is a
confidential
collection, Miss Woolson. No one is allowed in this room without permission from one of the partners.” His glare went to the Scot. “You should know better, Campbell.”

The younger man colored but I rushed in before he could reply.

“Please, it's entirely my fault. In my enthusiasm to see everything, I’m afraid I opened this door by mistake.”

Shepard glared at my fuming accomplice but had little choice but to accept my apology. To do otherwise would make him seem churlish if the story reached my father. He forced a smile which, unfortunately, made him resemble a man with a toothache.

“See that it doesn’t happen again,” he told me sharply, then turned to the junior attorney. “I want to see you in my office, Campbell. Now!”

Before he could leave, I reminded the senior partner that the money from Annjenett's separate account was due that day. When he protested that Mrs. Hanaford's incarceration prevented him from carrying out this promise, I presented the note Annjenett had signed in her cell, assigning me power of attorney. His cheeks flamed and for a moment I feared we were in for one of his tiresome outbursts. Then he seemed to realize the futility of further argument and ungraciously gave in to my request.

When I left the office some half hour later, Mr. Shepard's bank draft for ten thousand dollars was safely tucked inside my reticule. I was understandably anxious to deposit it as quickly as possible and made directly for Hanaford's bank. There was, however, a second reason for my visit: I hoped for a word with Eban Potter. Perhaps he would know why his late employer had kept money at a rival bank. In this matter, however, I was disappointed.

“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-