Murder on Nob Hill

by Shirley Tallman

  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.”

  We 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?”

  Li did not flinch at my forthrightness. I believe I mentioned at the start of this narrative that I abhor dissimulation. At no time in my life had this virtue seemed more relevant than at that moment.

  Li inclined his head slightly. “That is correct, Miss Woolson. I had heard of this club at the time of its inception, but considered it a folly of youth, one to be outgrown with the advent of marriage and a family. I was mistaken. As I say, I recently discovered that although carefully hidden, the club still exists. It has become a safe harbor where the rich and powerful may go to indulge their most aberrant sexual fantasies.”

  Robert could contain himself no longer. As Li spoke, I had noticed his face suffuse with color. It had now turned crimson.

  “Curse it, Li!” he shouted, his voice so loud that sounds of activity abruptly ceased in the kitchen, and a startled Kin peeked ap-

  prehensively into the room. “This is hardly the time or the place to discuss such outrageous and despicable—”

  “It's exactly the place,” I broke in. “And it is certainly time we placed all our cards on the table. I may be a woman, but I’m not a fool. Nor am I blind or deaf. I’m aware that certain men are susceptible to perversities of a sexual nature. I agree with Mr. Li. This club obviously has a bearing on the case. It can’t be ignored just because it offends your sensibilities.”

  “My sensibilities!” he yelped. “My concerns are for you,you infuriating woman.”

  “Don’t expect me to applaud your gallantry when it is so patently misplaced.” I turned back to Li, for really there was little time to lose. Already I had begun to detect a faint light at the end of the tunnel and I was anxious to pursue it. “Tell us more about this club, Mr. Li. I presume the members pay women of a certain proclivity to participate in these—er, practices.”

  Although Robert's face remained an unhealthy shade of red, he refrained from further objections. Li looked at him with an expression I can only describe as restrained amusement, then quietly resumed his narrative.

  “Frequently that is the case. Occasionally, however, innocent young women are induced to take part, sometimes girls no older than fourteen or fifteen.”

  For all my brave words only moments before, I could not hold back a gasp of shock. “Good heavens! So young?”

  Li nodded and said with the merest trace of censure, “Chinese girls are sold into white slavery as young as seven or eight.”

  I thought of the young women—little more than children—I had seen the night of Miss Culbertson's raid. “You’re right,” I said, regretting the naivete of my remark. “I suppose it was to—er, ad-

  minister to these young women that the four partners hired Dr. Lawton. I understand that's his specialty.”

  “You are, as usual, most astute, Miss Woolson,” Li said. “Considering the other deaths, I find it too much to suppose that the doctor's demise is an isolated incidence. The dismembering of his right hand is also suggestive, don’t you think? The hand used to abort the life of an unborn child?”

  “My thoughts precisely,” I said. I was about to elaborate on this point, when Robert broke in.

  “I think you’re both jumping to conclusions. It seems to me the gravest danger facing Wylde and those other vipers was keeping their depraved club a secret. If word got out, it would destroy their reputations—and they all had a great deal to lose. Yet if someone were threatening to expose them, surely he would have been the one killed, not the partners. Another possibility—assuming Mrs. Hanaford and Peter Fowler are innocent—is that the murderer is someone who was refused admission to this club and sought revenge.”

  I stared at Robert. What he’d just said, coupled with Li Ying's revelation, turned everything upside down. For the first time I was beginning to see the case from an entirely different perspective! True, there was a great deal I still didn’t understand, but the light at the end of the tunnel seemed to glow a bit brighter.

  “What's the matter with you, Sarah?” my colleague demanded. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”

  “Oh, but I have. Every word, I assure you.” So deep was my gratitude, I had to resist the urge to throw up my arms and kiss him. Instead, I turned to Li. “Where is this club located?”

  Li handed me a piece of paper upon which was written an address. “It is on the corner of Powell and Union Streets.”

  I stared at him. “Union Street?”

  Li Ying gave a faint smile. “Interesting, is it not?”

  Robert looked appalled. “Don’t tell me you want to go there?”

  I didn’t bother to answer. Anxious to be on my way, I picked up my reticule and stood.

  “Mr. Li, your information has been exceedingly helpful. What you’ve told us today may well save another life. I find myse
lf increasingly in your debt.”

  Without waiting to see if Robert was following, I gave the tong lord a respectful bow and walked briskly from the room.

  Robert entered the carriage in a foul mood, which did not improve when I refused to answer his questions about the new “bee in my bonnet,” as he put it. After I had informed the driver where we wished to be taken, all I would say to satisfy Robert's curiosity was that we’d been looking at the case from the wrong perspective. After that I sank into my own thoughts, remaining largely oblivious to his caustic cataloguing of my numerous character flaws.

  I looked out the window as we made our way through the mostly residential neighborhood where, we’d been told, four of San Francisco's most prominent men had established a private club for the sexual gratification of themselves and a select number of their peers. It was also—as I’m certain the readers of this narrative must realize—the street where Senator Broughton's body had been found. The fact that it was so near the club he had helped establish strained the boundaries of happenstance. It also opened a Pandora's box of questions.

  The carriage stopped in front of the bakery where Broughton's

  body had been discovered. Leaving a still grumbling Robert to deal with the driver, I gave the exterior of the shop a thorough inspection. Robert soon joined me and we stepped inside to be greeted by delicious smells and a delightful array of freshly baked goods temptingly laid out upon a counter.

  A portly man, wearing a white apron and a broad smile, stepped out to serve us. As I made a show of examining some cakes, I extended my sympathies to the man on his grisly discovery. To my disappointment, the clerk said it was the baker—who came in at three A.M.—who had stumbled on the body, looking for all the world like a heap of discarded clothing. Ascertaining that the bundle was, or had been, a human being, the man summoned the police. That appeared to be the end of the story. The baker had been questioned by the police, then finally permitted to get on with his by now belated chores.