Murder on Nob Hill (29 page)

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 pulled 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.

Charles looked uncomfortable. “If it's all the same with you, Sarah, I’d prefer to leave it at that. The particulars aren’t important. Certainly it can have nothing to do with Mrs. Hanaford.”

“We can’t know that until you tell me. Was it a disagreement with the school administration? Did he falsify a grade? Or perhaps he published a controversial paper?” I was struck by a sudden thought that would explain my brother's embarrassment. “Was he by any chance caught performing an abortion?”

There was no need for Charles to reply. The answer was written clearly on his face, which was flushed.

“It was the lady friend of one of his students,” he admitted. “When the boy failed to abort the girl's pregnancy himself, he came to Lawton. The girl's parents found out and informed the university. Lawton was dismissed, but in an effort to avoid adverse publicity, no formal charges were filed against him.”

“He's in general practice now?”

“Yes. Although I’ve heard rumors that he still performs the procedure. For a price.” “I see.”

“That's why I find Wylde an unlikely patient. For obvious reasons, Lawton doesn’t attract a prestigious clientele. I’ve also heard he's taken to drink, which makes him even less appealing to reputable clients.”

“But what if Wylde did require Lawton's services?” I was ashamed for even thinking such a thing, but felt compelled to push on. “He has a daughter visiting him from France.”

“Are you suggesting the girl came over here to terminate a pregnancy?” Charles asked, looking shocked.

“I don’t want to think so, but it might explain why a prominent attorney is associating with a man like Lawton.”

“That's a serious accusation, Sarah. If even a hint of what you

suspect gets out, it could do irreparable damage to Miss Wylde's reputation. And to her father's, as well.”

I didn’t give a fig for Wylde's reputation, but I realized I did care a great deal what was said about his lovely daughter. On the other hand, time was running out and I simply could not afford to ignore any possibility, no matter how remote. I also knew I would have to share my discovery, at least with Samuel.

Once again my plans were thwarted. Samuel had already left the house when I came downstairs the following morning. As I ate a solitary breakfast, I decided it would be best to turn the divorce case I’d been working on over to Mr. Ackroyd, then spend the rest of the day following this latest lead. I was, in fact, about to board a horsecar when Samuel's brougham pulled up beside me. One look at his grim face told me this was not a chance meeting.

“I was hoping to catch you before you left for the office,” he began as I settled into my seat, then said bluntly, “Senator Broughton's dead. They found his body in front of a confectioner's shop on Union Street. And yes, before you ask, he was stabbed in the genitals. I’ve just left George. He says Broughton was killed sometime during the night.” He gave me a sheepish look. “It pains me to admit it, but it seems that—”

“I was right,” I finished, without the least satisfaction. For the first time in this wretched affair, I wished with all my heart that my instincts had been wrong. “I don’t understand, Samuel. I’m sure he feared for his life. I have reason to believe he even hired a bodyguard. Why would he go out without him, especially at night?”

“You’re right, Sarah, he did hire a man for protection, a fellow by the name of Mick Preed. According to Preed, a street urchin delivered a letter to the senator shortly before eleven last night. Broughton read the message, then sent Preed on an errand—a bo-

gus one, he now believes. According to the butler, Broughton left soon after Preed, without saying where he was going.”

“Or, presumably, why.” The carriage hit a pothole in the street and Samuel and I were jostled against one another. So lost was I in this latest tragedy, I was only vaguely aware of the driver swearing loudly at someone, then taking a corner faster than was prudent. “I’d give a great deal to know what was in that letter. I don’t suppose it was found on the body?”

He shook his head. “Either Broughton destroyed it before he left his house, or the killer took it from him.”

“Either way, it must be incriminating. Yet assuming Wylde wrote this mysterious letter, surely the senator would never agree to meet him so late at night—and alone in the bargain.”

“Not if he considered him a murderer.” He paused. “But what if someone else wrote the letter? You said Li Ying was blackmailing the partners. Maybe he demanded Broughton meet him with a payment. You said he’d sent a similar message to Hanaford.”

I nodded reluctantly, annoyed to realize how much I did not want the murderer to be Li. I, who took pride in my objectivity!

“I’ve come across several perfectly charming murderers,” my brother said, reading my mind.

I grimaced, embarrassed my thoughts were so transparent. “Four murders, Samuel. When is it going to end?”

After promising to keep me apprised of any further developments he might learn from George, Samuel dropped me at the law firm. My own plans were unformed. I’d give Ackroyd the divorce paperwork, but my original plan to go to the Yoot Hong Low restaurant was now less certain. Despite my ability to judge character, I realized it would be foolish in the extreme to meet with Li Ying alone.

But what if I weren’t alone?

After a short meeting with Eugene Ackroyd, I found Robert in his cubicle, head buried beneath the usual disorderly pile of books and papers. Ignoring his complaints at being disturbed, I tersely informed him of Broughton's death, as well as the call I’d paid on the senator earlier in the week.

Forestalling the predictable tide of criticism, I reached for his topcoat. “Here, put this on. For once, I’m requesting your company. Please hurry. We have little time to lose.”

W
e rode in silence to Chinatown. Mercifully, Robert did not subject me to his usual tirade about impetuous females, nor did he question the need for immediate action. Broughton's death had obviously sobered him. The situation was desperate; we would have to accept assistance from wherever and whomever we could, even if the helping hand came from an infamous tong lord.

The Yoot Hong Low restaurant differed little from other shops crowding Waverly Place. It displayed one or two signs covered with Chinese characters, and several brightly colored lanterns. My request to speak to Kin Lee was silently received by a waiter wearing a loose, white cotton tunic and black pants. He gave a low bow, then retreated behind a screen at the back of the room.

Moments later an older man emerged from behind the screen, his quiet air of authority instantly proclaiming him to be the proprietor. He bowed, and in passably good English introduced himself as Kin Lee. He did not seem surprised when I requested an audience with Li Ying, leading me to suspect our visit was expected. Nodding his head, he said, “Please, you come.”

Without waiting for us to agree, he turned back toward the screen. When I started to follow, Robert took hold of my arm. “I don’t like this,” he told me darkly.

“We have little choice,” I said softly. “If Li has information about the case, we must meet with him on his own terms.”

Robert grumbled, but without letting go of my arm moved behind the screen after Kin Lee into a private, and currently unoccupied, eating area. Nearby, I heard sounds of cooking utensils being slammed about and men laughing and conversing in Chinese. Kin pulled out a chair for me at one of the tables and motioned for us to be seated. Never taking his eyes off the man, my wary watchdog reluctantly took the chair opposite me.

“Mr. Li arrive soon,” Kin told us. “You have tea.”

The proprietor slipped away, returning a moment later with a pot of hot tea and two dainty cups.

“What is this?” Robert demanded, looking at the beverage as if he suspected it contained arsenic.

I lifted the cup to my lips, smelled its delicate, slightly flowery fragrance, then took a sip. It was delicious.

“It's some sort of Chinese tea. Try it. It's quite good.”

Suspiciously, Robert took up his cup, which was nearly dwarfed in his large hand, and brought it to his mouth. Naturally, he was too stubborn to admit he liked it, but he drained the liquid in one gulp and was refilling both our cups from the daintily painted pot when I realized we were no longer alone. Like a wraith, Li Ying had noiselessly appeared at our table.

“Miss Woolson,” he said with a polite bow. “It is a pleasure to meet you again.”

“Mr. Li,” I responded. I turned to introduce Robert, but Li was already bowing to my companion.

“Mr. Campbell,” he said courteously. “We meet at last.” With a brief nod, he accepted the seat and the cup of tea that Kin offered him with bowing deference.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Robert taking Li's measure as I thanked the tong lord for sending the note. “You suggested in your message that you might have information regarding the four recent murders.”

“That is correct, Miss Woolson,” Li Ying answered gravely. “I have, of course, heard of Senator Broughton's unfortunate demise. There is, however, an additional death that may have escaped your notice.”

“What?” Robert said suspiciously. “Who else is dead?”

Li regarded him enigmatically, but his words were for me. “The man you saw in Mr. Wylde's company last night was Dr. Howard Lawton, a physician of somewhat dubious reputation. He was found dead this morning in his room on Bay Street.

I stared at Li, finding it difficult to digest this latest bombshell. “How did you know I had seen Dr. Lawton last—”

“How was he killed?” Robert broke in, regarding the Chinese distrustfully.

“He was stabbed, Mr. Campbell. No, not like the others. Dr. Lawton was knifed in the heart. His right hand, however, had been severed from his arm.”

I grimaced involuntarily at this gruesome detail, but again Robert spoke first.

“What makes you think Lawton's death has anything to do with the other murders?”

“I do not, of course, know that with certainty,” Li answered. “However, Dr. Lawton had long been associated with Cornelius Hanaford and his three associates.” He held up a hand as Robert started to ask another question. “Perhaps it would clarify the situ-

ation if I related another discovery I have made in recent days. Or perhaps I should say rediscovery.”

“Yes?” I asked, leaning forward expectantly.

The tong lord looked from me to Robert. “As you know, after their time in Virginia City, the four partners returned to San Francisco wealthy men. This money gave them freedom to indulge in behaviors not uncommon to other young men in San Francisco at that time. With the passing years, however, their appetites became increasingly insatiable. One might even say, jaded.”

“What are you implying, Li?” Robert demanded.

Li regarded him calmly. “Mr. Hanaford and his friends found an ingenious way to satisfy these cravings. They formed a club, for themselves and for other like-minded young men.

“What kind of club?” I asked. I sensed that Robert was about to object and kicked his shin beneath the table. He shot me an aggrieved look, but I ignored him, giving Li my complete attention. “I assume you refer to sexual predilections?”