Murder on Nob Hill (12 page)

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 the 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.

T
hat 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.

Celia broke into my thoughts. “Do you think she's his wife?”

“I don’t think he's married,” I said, continuing to study the girl.

“I don’t remember seeing her before,” Celia mused. “I doubt I could forget anyone so exquisite.”

I had no time to reply as the house lights dimmed and the drop curtain—also new and depicting the majesty of Yosemite Park— rose. As it did, I forgot Benjamin Wylde and his mysterious companion and felt the familiar tingle of anticipation I always experience as a play is about to begin.

Tonight, I wasn’t disappointed. Farquhar's writing, as usual, was crisp and witty, the acting first-rate. Living in the city, I appreciated the play's rural setting, but I was especially interested in the playwright's concern, subtly woven into the comic fabric of the play, with the social and moral problems of his day, issues that continue to plague us even now. As one character so aptly expresses, “There is no scandal like rags, nor any crime so shameful as poverty.”

Once or twice I caught my escort glancing at me with an expression of curiosity and frank disapproval. I smiled to myself. Somehow I didn’t think I would be forced to endure many more dreary evenings in the good doctor's company.

As we stood in the lounge during the first intermission, I knew

the time had come to tell my brother the real reason I’d suggested we attend the California Theater. Dr. Ferris was at the bar ordering whiskeys for Charles and himself while Celia and I sipped cold lemonades. Taking advantage of his absence, I began, “Charles, you’ve treated Mr. Carstairs, haven’t you?” I referred, of course, to the play's lead actor.

“For a fever, yes.” He looked at me curiously. “Why?”

“I thought perhaps he might receive you, and your guests of course, backstage after the play?”

I caught Celia's eye and she quickly put in, “What a splendid idea. Do try, Charles.”

“Try what?” Dr. Ferris asked, returning from the bar.

“We’re going to go backstage after the play,” Celia told him. “Isn’t that exciting?”

Dr. Ferris seemed to consider this a somewhat dubious honor, but he had little choice but to go along with it. As we returned to our seats for Act Two, I whispered my thanks in Celia's ear.

“It's nothing,” she said with a conspiratorial smile. “I can hardly wait to hear what you are up to.”

The remainder of the play was as delightful as the first act, and the theater echoed with applause as our foursome made its way backstage. Michael Carstairs, it turned out, was delighted to greet my brother, who had treated him at a time when the actor was down on his luck and unable to adequately pay for Charles's services. The actor gave us an animated tour of the backstage area, introducing us to other cast members and explaining the use of various lights and mechanical contraptions.

“If I’m not mistaken, you appeared in a production of
Henry V
at the Tripoli Theater several years ago,” I said as we ended the tour in Carstairs's dressing room. His Chinese manservant waited pa
tiently at the dressing table, a jar of cold cream in hand to remove his master's makeup. After the actor took his seat, the man placed a cloth around his neck and adroitly set to work.