The Body Snatchers Affair

by Marcia Muller

  To forestall anything further in that vein, Sabina asked, “Have you seen Mrs. Scarlett in the past twenty-four hours?”

  “Last evening about eight-thirty. That why you’re here?”

  “What happened at eight-thirty?”

  There was a pause. Then the eye disappeared, the chain rattled, and the door popped open to reveal the rest of the woman’s middle-aged face. It was as amazing as the black-ringed eye. Pale blond hair pulled to the top of her head, from where it frizzled down like champagne from a fountain. Bright orange rouge on both cheeks and smeared over a thick-lipped mouth. Around her neck was a multicolored feather boa, and in one hand she held the gaudiest, ugliest hat Sabina had ever seen.

  Her expression must have betrayed her surprise, for the woman said, “Don’t mind the way I look, honey. I’m a performer at the Hermann’s Gaiety. Me and some other girls do a comic singing act … matinees this week. I was just about to leave for the theatre.”

  “I see.”

  “Astrid Allegra’s my stage name. My husband’s a famous magician, the Great Santini, you probably heard of him.”

  “No, I’m sorry, I haven’t. About last night, Mrs. Santini—”

  “Jones. Agnes Jones. Santini, that’s Hiram’s stage name.”

  “About last evening. What happened?”

  The orange-rouged lips thinned. “Some damn hoodlum fired off a gun right out front, that’s what happened. Came within a whisper of hitting poor Mrs. Scarlett. Scared her half to death.”

  Eight-thirty last evening. It had been nearly midnight when John came; he hadn’t mentioned the bullet hole, so he must have missed seeing it in the darkness.

  Sabina asked, “Did you witness the shooting?”

  “No. I heard the report and ran out just as she came in.”

  “Did she see who fired the shot?”

  “Didn’t say so if she did. Too shaken up to say much of anything, poor lamb.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Well, I tried to coax her to come in for some, ah, tea to settle herself down, but she refused. Didn’t go upstairs to her rooms, either. Just said, ‘I can’t stay here,’ and ran out the back way. Never came back, far as I know.”

  “So you have no idea where she went?”

  “Maybe to find her husband. If she didn’t find him, he must’ve been real surprised when he got home and she wasn’t there.”

  “She may also have gone to be with a friend,” Sabina said. “Do you know any of her intimates?”

  The woman considered, nibbling at her rouged upper lip. “Well, I don’t know her all that well. But we got to passing the time of day once, just after her and her husband moved in, and found out we have a bit in common. She was never a performer, but before she married Mr. Scarlett she worked as a seamstress sewing costumes at the Bella Union. It was a friend of hers, the wardrobe mistress, who got her the job there, she said.”

  “Do you remember the friend’s name?”

  “Just her given name—Delilah. Unusual, that’s why I remember it. Girlhood chums, as I recall.”

  It seemed a tenuous lead, but any at this point was worth pursuing. Sabina thanked Astrid Allegra née Agnes Jones, wished her and the Great Santini well in their professional careers, and took her leave.

  * * *

  The Bella Union, on the north side of Washington Street off Portsmouth Square, was the city’s most popular purveyor of variety, minstrel, and burlesque shows. Originally, Sabina had been told, it had been a gambling saloon, then a melodeon, and now, in addition to its main attractions, it housed both a small waxworks and a penny arcade. Although it was located in the Barbary Coast, it catered to all strata of local society and featured all manner of high and low performances. The highest: Lotta Crabtree entertaining during the Gold Rush era with such skill and “incredible innocence,” as pundits of the day had termed it, that wealthy miners were said to have tossed gold nuggets at her feet. The lowest: a famously ludicrous attempt to portray the male lead in Romeo and Juliet by Oofty Goofty—a local character who had once billed himself as “The Wild Man of Borneo” by covering his body with a mixture of tar and horsehair and fiercely yelling “Oofty goofty!” while eating raw meat in a locked cage in a Market Street sideshow.

  A hansom delivered Sabina to the Bella Union shortly before eleven-thirty. The two-story building had a brick façade strung with electric lights that glittered with a starlike effect after dark, an advertising decoration that had become fashionable at the better gaiety palaces. Its main entrance was closed at this hour. An alleyway along one side led to the stage door at the rear, which was presided over, just inside, by an elderly twig of a man wearing flowered galluses and a clashing green eyeshade. Despite his age, his memory for faces was obviously keen—clearly one of the reasons, if not the primary one, that he had been given his job.

  “Help you, miss?” he asked in crisp tones.

  Sabina favored him with her brightest smile. “I’d like to see Delilah if she’s here.”

  “Delilah? You mean Miz Brown, the wardrobe mistress?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “She expecting you?”

  “No, but it’s important that I speak with her.”

  “What about?”

  “A mutual friend. My name is Sabina Carpenter.”

  She handed him one of her cards, which he frowned over and which made him even more wary and not a little scornful. “Woman detective. What’s the world coming to?”

  Sabina was used to this kind of reaction from the general male population. At one time it had made her furious and more often than not she had responded with a tart comment or two, but she had learned to control herself; now it merely rankled. Times, after all, were changing. Too slowly to suit her, but changing nonetheless. Women had been granted the right to vote in New Zealand, Sweden, and Finland, and women’s suffrage organizations were gaining popularity in eastern portions of the United States. It was only a matter of time until members of her sex finally achieved at least a measure of the equality they were entitled to. Until then, she would have to continue to suffer, as stoically as possible, the narrow-minded attitudes of men such as this one.

  She managed to hold most of her smile in place as she said, “Would you please deliver my card and my message to Delilah,” making it a firm statement rather than a question.

  He made grumbling noises, but didn’t decline or argue. He got slowly to his feet, said, “Wait here, missus,” and hobbled away into the depths of the theatre’s backstage area.

  Not more than two minutes had elapsed when he returned with a slender young woman whose dark hair was bound up in a snood. The woman was clearly nervous; her smile wobbled a bit and she plucked at a thimble covering the tip of one forefinger as she approached. Sabina’s demeanor seemed to reassure her. Even before she spoke, Sabina knew that Agnes Jones’s lead had proven not to be tenuous after all, for there was relief as well as anxiety in Delilah Brown’s steady gaze.

  “I’m so glad you’ve come, Mrs. Carpenter. Our … mutual friend will be glad to see you, too. She told me so much about you.”

  “Is she here?”

  “No.” Delilah glanced at the old man, who had sat down again and was watching them. “Shall we talk outside? I could do with a breath of fresh air.”

  When they were alone together in the alley, Sabina asked, “You do know where I can find Andrea Scarlett?”

  “Oh, yes. But how did you know to come to me?”

  “A stroke of good fortune. Where is she?”

  “At my rooming house, not far from here. Seven forty-two Pine Street, second floor front.”

  “She spent the night with you?”

  “Yes. She was afraid to go to the police.” Delilah’s hands continued to fret against each other, continually removing and replacing the thimble. “Someone … last night someone tried to murder her, too.”

  “So I understand. She knows about her husband, then?”

  “From the newspapers
this morning. Poor Andrea, she’s terribly upset and frightened. She wants desperately to see you, but she couldn’t bring herself to go out into the streets again even in daylight.”

  “Does anyone else know she’s there?”

  “No, I’m sure not. She’s welcome to stay—”

  “That won’t be necessary. I’ll make arrangements for her safety and protection.”

  “She’ll be so relieved.” Then, with sudden vehemence, “Andrea may be sorry James is dead, but I’m not. I hope he roasts in the fires of hell for all he put her through.”

  * * *

  The overnight change in Andrea Scarlett was shocking. Yesterday at the agency she had been neatly coiffed and stylishly dressed, and despite her fears, in rigid control of her emotions. Today, she wore a borrowed housecoat and a look of naked terror. She sat hugging herself in one of the chairs in Delilah Brown’s parlor, her narrow, high-cheekboned face the color of whey, her auburn hair uncombed and lusterless, her eyes red-rimmed from weeping, lack of sleep, or a combination of both. But she was less distraught now than she had been when Sabina first arrived, Sabina’s calming influence having shored up her courage.

  “No, Mrs. Carpenter,” she said, “I didn’t have a clear look at the man who tried to kill me last night. He was waiting in shadows across from the entrance when I returned from an errand. I managed to duck inside before he could fire again and he ran off into the darkness. All I can tell you is that he was short and wore white man’s clothing.”

  “What sort of clothing?”

  “A hat and a dark-colored suit.”

  “Type of hat?”

  “I’m not sure. I think it had a broad brim pulled down low.”

  “Such as the slouch type Chinese wear?”

  “No, not like that.” Andrea Scarlett hugged herself more tightly. “But he must have been Chinese. It was one of those dreadful highbinders who shot James, wasn’t it? That’s what the newspapers said…”

  “One dressed as a food seller outside the opium resort, yes.”

  There was a little silence. When the woman spoke again, her tone was bitter. “James and his opium. James and his greed and his lust.”

  “Lust, Mrs. Scarlett?”

  “For Chinese women. I didn’t say anything about that to you and Mr. Quincannon yesterday because I was too ashamed.”

  More ashamed of her husband’s infidelity than of his drug addiction. People could be perplexingly and irritatingly inconsistent.

  “Was there any woman in particular?” Sabina asked.

  “Yes. One named Dongmei.”

  “Who is she?”

  “A courtesan, I suppose … that’s the polite term. She introduced James to opium.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Fairly sure.”

  “Before or after he became involved with the Hip Sing?”

  “Before, I think. Not long before.”

  “How do you know her name?”

  “He spoke it in his sleep, more than once. Admitted his affair with her when I confronted him.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us about Dongmei yesterday? Didn’t you think your husband might have been with her instead of in an opium resort?”

  “No. James never spent the night with her or any of his other women. Opium was his only true love.”

  “Yet despite his vices, you stayed with him. Why?”

  Andrea Scarlett released a stuttery breath. “I’ve asked myself that question dozens of times. The truth is, I don’t know why. I stopped loving James long before he became involved with the Hip Sing. The money he made, the better life for us it provided … that had something to do with it, I won’t deny that. So did the fact that he needed me. In spite of his other women, in spite of his addiction, he needed me…”

  Sabina made no comment. She had encountered many women who felt as Mrs. Scarlett did toward a philandering husband, and while she didn’t blame them for their weakness, neither did she condone it. She herself had too much pride, too much self-reliance to put up with any sort of spousal betrayal, even from a man she had loved as much as Stephen. Not that she had ever had to deal with such unfaithfulness, or would have had if he were still alive; he had been a fiercely loyal and honorable man, his love for her as steadfast as hers for him.

  She redirected the conversation by asking, “Do you know where Dongmei resides?”

  “Somewhere in Chinatown, that’s all.”

  “Or anything else about her?”

  “No. I didn’t want to know anything about her. I still don’t.”

  “You told us yesterday that your husband never confided in you about his connection with the Hip Sing tong. Is that completely true? You have no knowledge at all?”

  “None. I swear it.”

  “Did he ever mention Fowler Alley to you?”

  “Fowler Alley? No. Why do you ask that?”

  “He spoke the words last night before he was shot.”

  “That’s not significant, is it? It may be where one of his opium dens is located.”

  “Perhaps,” Sabina said. “He spoke two other words as well. ‘Blue shadow.’ Does that phrase mean anything to you?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “He never used it in your hearing?”

  “Never.”

  “His offices were searched sometime last evening. By you?”

  “Of course not. What reason would I have?”

  “Where were you before your return home at eight-thirty?”

  “At the apothecary shop round the corner. I … needed something to help me sleep.”

  “One more question. Did your husband keep files or other private papers, anything that might pertain to his Hip Sing activities, someplace other than his office?”

  “If he did, it wasn’t in our home. He was closemouthed, as I told you … about everything, including his addiction and his Chinese whore.” Andrea Scarlett shifted position, shivering as if with a sudden chill. “That’s what makes the attempt on my life so … so senseless. I’m no threat to anyone in Chinatown … anyone anywhere. What am I going to do, Mrs. Carpenter? I can’t go home, I’m afraid to go out in public.…”

  “You’re safe here for the time being, until I can make arrangements for an even more secure refuge.”

  “When will that be?”

  “Soon. Long before nightfall. You’ll be well protected.”

  “Well protected.” Bitterness had crept back into the woman’s voice. “Your partner wasn’t able to protect James last night, was he?”

  “That’s uncalled for, Mrs. Scarlett. He had to carry your husband out of the resort and was taking him to your home when the highbinder struck. Burdened as he was, he had no time to prevent what happened. He was almost killed himself.”

  There were several seconds of silence. Then, “Yes, you’re right, I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m so frightened. I don’t want to die as James did, and for something I had nothing to do with and know nothing about.…”

  * * *

  Hunger gnawed at Sabina when she left the rooming house. Except for the months following Stephen’s death, she had always had a prodigious appetite and all she’d had to eat today were an egg and two slices of bread with marmalade for breakfast. She’d have liked to stop into a café or teashop for a quick bite, but she would have to wait to fill the hollow in her stomach. Wait, too, to contact Elizabeth Petrie, a former police matron who could be counted on to keep a sharp protective eye on their client; Andrea Scarlett would be safe enough where she was for another few daylight hours. As it was, Sabina had just enough time to get to the Blanchford estate on Nob Hill and punctually keep her one-thirty appointment with the financier’s widow.

  6

  SABINA

  “No, no, no.” Harriet Blanchford leaned forward to tap Sabina smartly on the knee with a bony forefinger. “Infernal devices, telephones. Bad connections are the norm, so everything gets mixed up. I did not say I wished to hire your agency because my husband has been kidnapped.
I said I wished to hire you because my husband’s body has been kidnapped.”

  “His … body?”

  “From the family mausoleum, though neither Bertram nor I can imagine how it was done. Quite impossible, and yet there you are. They’re demanding seventy-five thousand dollars.”

  “Who is?”

  An impatient frown creased Mrs. Blanchford’s crepelike countenance. “The scoundrels responsible, of course,” she said. “Perhaps it wasn’t the telephone after all. Are you hard of hearing, young woman?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Then kindly pay attention.”

  Harriet Blanchford was a somewhat frail woman in her seventies, pallid and hollow-eyed, dressed entirely in mourning black, but obviously strong-willed, determined, and in full possession of her faculties. It was also obvious that she ruled this grand Nob Hill home, now inhabited by her and her son Bertram, and no doubt had even when her husband was alive.

  Sabina said, “Yes, ma’am,” and resisted an urge to remove her jacket, loosen the tight collar of her shirtwaist, or both. The manse’s drawing room was as warm as the oven room of a bakery, with all the windows closed and a fire blazing on the hearth even though the weather today was on the balmy side. It also smelled unpleasantly of potpourri mingled with woodsmoke and fumes from the oversweet violet sachet Mrs. Blanchford favored.

  Another case of body snatching, this time for ransom.

  A bizarre coincidence, surely; it seemed inconceivable that there could be a connection between the abduction of the Chinese tong leader’s remains and the disappearance of the shell of the late Ruben Blanchford. But no matter what was behind it, Sabina found the grieving widow’s plight to be both intriguing and challenging. So would John when she told him.

  “A heinous crime, indeed,” she said. “The more so for having taken place so soon after your bereavement. You must be devastated.”

  “We are. Or at least I am,” Mrs. Blanchford added, glancing at her son.

  “Now, Mother.” Bertram Blanchford, who was seated on another of the room’s ornate and uncomfortable chairs, was a plump, balding, clean-shaven man in his forties, dressed in an expensive broadcloth suit as mourning-black as his mother’s velveteen dress. “Father and I may not have gotten along, but you know I’m as upset as you are.”