No Quiet among the Shadows

by Nancy Herriman

  “Not surprised you could hear them.” Taylor paused to select a different pick from the ones suspended from the ring he held. “There had to be at least twenty displays all alight. They had rockets that shed stars and streamers and this fountain sort of thing that cascaded sparks and an American eagle all lit up and roman candles. Everybody thought they were downright amazing. Even Miss . . . uh, even my companions agreed.”

  Nick eyed his assistant. He was blushing again. “You took Miss Ferguson, after all.”

  “Hey, lookee here.” Straightening, Taylor turned the knob and pushed open the door. “After you, sir.”

  Mr. Smith’s office was small and cramped, jammed full with chairs and cabinets fighting a Franklin stove for floor space. It was probably the largest office Smith could afford to rent. The room was tidily kept, the surface of the fellow’s desk cleared of everything except for a pad of paper, a green paperboard-bound appointment book, some pencils, and an ashtray holding a half-smoked stub of a cigarillo. Tidier than the detectives’ office back at the station, although Nick always blamed that mess on the other detective who shared the room with Nick and was a slob.

  “Sir, looks like this cabinet’s been opened,” said Taylor, moving aside so Nick could see. Papers had been crammed into the cabinet’s cubbyholes and onto the shelves as though the person doing the cramming had been in a hurry to stuff them inside. A handful slid onto the floor. “Somebody must’ve been searching for something.”

  “Wonder if they found what they were looking for.” Nick rattled the drawers in the desk. “Still locked.”

  “Maybe whoever took Mr. Smith’s keys didn’t get a chance to use them on it.”

  Maybe Mrs. Davies’s pounding on the door had startled them. “Do you have the proper pick for the drawer?”

  “You bet I do, sir.”

  Nick strolled over to the window to open the blinds and let in more light. The fellow at the tobacconist’s met Nick’s gaze and quickly refocused on completing his chore with the bunting. He was someone to question, once they were finished in here. An equally curious knot of boys stood together on the sidewalk, murmuring and pointing, causing pedestrians to shout at them to move out of the way. Nick shut the blinds.

  “Got it, Mr. Greaves.” Taylor pocketed his lockpicks and slid open the center drawer. He started removing papers covered with notes scribbled in a wobbly hand. “These are probably useful, right, sir?”

  “Right, Taylor.”

  Nick pulled out Smith’s chair and sat. The paperwork was a mix of case notes and bills, both money Smith owed and money owed to him. He pushed half the notes at Taylor, who’d taken a seat across from him.

  “Look at the most recent items first,” he said.

  “What exactly are we looking for?” asked Taylor.

  A lucky clue. “Anything that justifies me spending time doing this instead of searching for a woman who’s never going to be found.”

  Taylor’s brow furrowed. “Sir?”

  “Motives to kill Smith, Taylor.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Nick set aside all the various bills—Smith was partial to a nearby oyster house and had run up a substantial list of charges—and sorted through the man’s notes. The task was slowed by the need to figure out the abbreviations Smith liked to use.

  “Looks like a lot of requests to find missing folks,” said Taylor. He waved a piece of paper. “Did you know that Owen Cassidy was having the fellow search for his parents? And that Mrs. Davies was paying him?”

  “I’d heard.”

  Nick shuffled papers. A dispute over a will. Possible insurance fraud. Smith had a lengthy list of clients, although most of his investigations looked to be months old. Nothing recent that might trigger a desire in somebody to suddenly shove Smith out of a window.

  He dragged Smith’s appointment book over and thumbed through it. Most dates were empty. Business not going well? He had noted an appointment with a Miss Brown in early June, though, and another with her last week.

  “Not much to see, sir.” Taylor waved a piece of paper he’d found. “Would you shove a man out a window over an inheritance claim you were trying to prove?”

  Nick closed the appointment book. “I wouldn’t.”

  “Hey, wait. Look at this.” Taylor handed a thin folder containing some papers to Nick. “Dated a week ago.” The same day he’d had an appointment with Miss Brown, to be exact.

  A note was affixed to a larger piece of paper. On it was written a name, date, time, and address. “Mrs. Ruth Loveland. Spiritualist,” Nick read aloud. “Seven in the evening at an address on Powell not far from Union Square.”

  “A séance?”

  “Seems like it.” Nick turned to the paper underneath the note. A list of names beneath an underlined word. “Blackmail.”

  Smith had circled one of the names—Dr. Arthur Brown. His main suspect in the blackmail, or the victim? Or just a man he found interesting?

  “What’s blackmail go to do with a séance, sir?”

  “I suppose that’s what we need to figure out, Taylor.”

  His assistant jabbed the paper with a forefinger. “Have you noticed the name at the very bottom?”

  Nick’s mouth twisted into a frown as he read. “Well, well.”

  “Mr. Greaves,” announced a woman, striding through the doorway. “I went to the station this morning and was told I could find you here.”

  “Perfect timing, Mrs. Davies,” said Nick, lowering the paper.

  She glanced at Taylor, who greeted her by doffing his hat. “Why is my timing so perfect?”

  “Do you know any reason why Mr. Smith might’ve scrawled a message to remember to thank Jane Hutchinson on this note?” He slid the list of names toward her.

  “Unless . . .” She read quickly. “Miss Brown must have come to see him, after all.”

  Nick craned his neck to read upside-down. “Miss Brown is on this list and in Smith’s appointment book. Twice. What’s her connection to Jane Hutchinson?”

  “Jane gave her Mr. Smith’s name. Miss Brown apparently needed the services of an investigator.” She frowned over the list. “How intriguing that these people sought the services of a spiritualist. A patient of mine mentioned séances only the other day.”

  Nick leaned back in Smith’s chair. “Did Mrs. Hutchinson happen to mention blackmail when she told you about Miss Brown’s wish to hire an investigator?”

  “No. She has no idea what Miss Brown wanted. Only that she appeared distressed when Jane crossed paths with her again last week.”

  “Who do you want me to talk to first, sir?” asked Taylor, who’d been quietly scribbling notes.

  “We don’t know that any of these people had anything to do with Smith’s death, Taylor.”

  “Perhaps we do, Mr. Greaves,” said Celia Davies.

  “We do?” he asked.

  She glanced between Nick and Taylor, delaying what she had to say; she did have a sense of the dramatic. Maybe it came from all the Shakespeare she liked to read. Why she hadn’t spouted a quote yet was another mystery.

  “Two days before Mr. Smith fell from his window, Owen saw him arguing with a gentleman outside this office. A gentleman who may be a doctor, if Owen heard Mr. Smith correctly.” She tapped a name on the paper, the one that had been circled. “Just like this man here.”

  • • •

  “Thank you, Hetty,” said Jane to her domestic, closing the parlor’s pocket doors behind the departing girl. “Another suspicious death of someone you know, Celia. Why does this keep happening to you?”

  “I frequently ask myself the same question, Jane,” said Celia, wandering deeper into the stillness and peace of the Hutchinsons’ parlor. The walnut tambour clock on the mantel graciously chimed the half hour, and daylight warmly glinted off the mahogany wood furniture and the gilt edging of a Chinese urn. The room breathed the comfort and security brought by prosperity. A world apart from that inhabited by people like Celia’s patients and Mr. Smith.
>
  “Was Mr. Smith killed?” asked Jane.

  “It is a very distinct possibility.” Celia set down her reticule and loosened her bonnet ties. “Has Barbara heard?”

  Jane glanced toward the closed doors. From the direction of the music room came the muted sound of a piano. “No. I’ve kept today’s newspapers from her. Frank keeps asking where I’m hiding the Daily Alta, though.”

  “I appreciate that, Jane. Barbara will be upset when she hears the news,” she said. “Not because of any attachment to Mr. Smith, of course.”

  “But because she expects you’ll want to become involved in discovering who’s responsible.”

  Celia took a seat on the silk-covered settee. “Precisely.”

  “I’m having some of our cider. Would you like a glass?” She gestured at a heavy crystal pitcher waiting on the table placed between the settee and a pair of chairs. “There’s nutmeg mixed in.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jane poured out some. The nuggets of imported Alaskan ice within the lemonade clinked as they landed in the glasses. “Celia, you haven’t come just to announce Mr. Smith’s death or to swap pleasantries, though you know I love having you here. You’re usually so busy with your patients.”

  “I need your help.”

  Jane set down the pitcher and lowered herself onto one of the deeply cushioned armchairs across from Celia. “My help?”

  “I wonder what you can tell me about the people listed on a piece of paper Mr. Greaves found in Mr. Smith’s office.” Celia retrieved the copy she’d made, which was tucked within her reticule. She handed it over.

  “Justina did go to see Mr. Smith,” said Jane. “And Mr. Smith wished to thank me for recommending him. That was nice.”

  “Her case was the only one he appeared to be currently working on, Jane,” said Celia. “It is very possible one of the people on this list is responsible for his death. Especially given that Owen saw a doctor arguing with Mr. Smith two days before he died.”

  Jane glanced at the sheet. “Her brother, Arthur, is listed. But he can’t be involved, Celia. That’s impossible.”

  “Mr. Smith had circled Dr. Brown’s name on the original list.” Celia had neglected to copy that particular detail. “And we have been surprised before by what an otherwise sensible person might do out of fear or desperation, Jane.”

  She scowled as she studied the list. “Yes, we have.”

  “What can you tell me about Dr. Brown?”

  “Well . . . he’s been at several events I’ve also attended,” she said. “He’s a handsome man, robust, intelligent eyes. Which might be expected for a physician.”

  “Does he have a goatee?”

  Jane screwed up her face as she thought. “Yes. He’s lately taken to wearing one,” she said. “He dresses impeccably and likes to carry a silver-headed walking stick, although I’ve never noticed that he actually needs it. I think it’s just an affectation, I’m afraid to say.”

  “Your description matches the man Owen saw arguing with Mr. Smith.”

  “But Dr. Brown has never been anything but pleasant on the occasions I’ve spoken with him, Celia,” said Jane. “Honestly, he doesn’t strike me as a violent man. Not that I’m a judge of such things.”

  “Yes, you are, Jane. You are very perceptive.”

  “People do put on their best behavior at parties and galas, I suppose,” she said. “He supports the Ladies’ Society of Christian Aid. As does Justina and the doctor’s fiancée, whose name is also on this list, I see.”

  Celia set down her glass and leaned forward to examine the paper in Jane’s hand. “Which one is she?”

  “Miss Adler. Genevieve Adler, although everyone calls her Vivi.” Jane pointed her out. “I hear that she’s related to one of the East Coast families who own mansions in Newport.”

  “The Vanderbilts?” Even Celia had heard of the fabulously wealthy Vanderbilt family.

  “Not them. Someone less famous but nearly as well off. Dr. Brown is very lucky. Vivi is not only rich, she’s young and lovely. Their love blossomed so quickly. She and her father haven’t been in San Francisco long.” Jane returned to examining the list. “I don’t know the others. Although I have heard of Mrs. Loveland. In fact, Frank and I were at a party a few weeks ago where her name came up. How interesting, don’t you think? I remember someone at the party talking about attending a séance to contact a family member lost in the war.” She frowned. “I wonder if they ever did.”

  “Do you recall who mentioned Mrs. Loveland?”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t. The subject was painful—so many people lost sons and husbands in the war—and one of the other guests quickly changed the topic,” said Jane. “I’m surprised that Justina attended a séance. She doesn’t seem the type.”

  “Mr. Smith also made a notation on his original list about blackmail. Have you heard any rumors associating the Browns with such a situation?”

  Girls’ laughter tumbled through the passageway as Barbara and Grace hurried past the parlor, delaying Jane’s reply. She waited for the sound to fade before answering.

  “No, never,” she said, her voice lowered. “Do you suppose somebody is blackmailing Justina or her brother and that’s the reason she hired Mr. Smith?”

  “Or someone is blackmailing the wealthy Miss Adler,” suggested Celia.

  “True,” said Jane. “If that’s the case, though, none of them can be accused of killing him, Celia. They would’ve wanted him to find the blackmailer, not pushed Mr. Smith out of a window to his death.”

  “But how do we explain the argument between Dr. Brown and Mr. Smith that Owen witnessed?”

  Jane’s slim shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I don’t know Dr. Brown well enough to introduce you to him so you can get his side of the story, but I can take you to meet Justina. I can also arrange a meeting with Miss Adler.”

  “Jane, I do not wish to involve you in an investigation beyond having you tell me about these people.” Celia folded the list and tucked it inside her reticule. “It may be dangerous.”

  “I’m only proposing we visit two acquaintances of mine,” she said, a smile curling her lips. “How dangerous could that be?”

  Chapter 6

  Nick stepped inside the tobacconist’s shop, the outdoor tang of horse manure and coal smoke replaced by the sweet, spicy scent escaping bins of tobacco. Taylor’s cigar never smelled this nice.

  He shut the door behind him. The signal bell clacked like its flapper was broken, the noise alerting the tobacconist. With a smile, the man looked over from the counter stretched along one wall.

  “Hello, sir.” The tobacconist—a Mr. Friedman, according to the sign on his shop window—wiped his hands down his apron and gestured at the various tins and boxes filling shelves. “Glad you’ve come in. We just got in a supply of tobacco from our personal and excellent manufactory in Virginia. Gentlemen’s Delight. Nectar of Roses. Horn of Plenty. Just to name a few,” he announced. “Of course, if it’s Havana cigars you’re looking for, we’ve got you covered right here.” He tapped one of the open boxes crowding the countertop, cigars lined up inside in a neat row.

  “I’m not here for tobacco,” said Nick.

  The man’s smile faded when he recognized Nick. “I didn’t mean to be nosy, Officer,” he said. “Just curious about poor Mr. Smith.”

  “‘Poor’ Mr. Smith?” asked Nick, lifting the lid on a box of Manila cheroots and taking one out. He wondered if Taylor smoked cheroots or just cigars.

  “Uh . . . heard he died sorta sudden-like yesterday.”

  Nick raised the cheroot to his nose and inhaled. Not bad. “Know anything about it?”

  The tobacconist frowned. “Are you going to buy that?”

  “I’ll take four,” he answered, setting the one he’d been handling on the countertop. “Like I asked, do you know anything about Mr. Smith’s death?”

  The man glanced at the shop door as if hoping another customer would step through. “Just some talk about S
mith finally getting what he deserved. Not always nice folks going in and out over there.”

  “Have you noticed anybody especially not nice hanging around his office recently?”

  “That’s sorta like asking if I’ve ever noticed rats hanging around a sewer!” Friedman guffawed. When Nick didn’t join in, he stopped. “It’s actually been quieter than normal over there. You interested in somebody in particular?”

  “A few days ago, a man was spotted quarreling with Smith. A man with a goatee beard and a fancy cane,” said Nick. “Did you see this fight?”

  “Nope, can’t say I did,” he replied, wrapping four cheroots in a length of brown paper. “But there has been a fellow in a cardinal-red plaid vest skulking about. Don’t like the looks of him one bit.”

  “What exactly was he doing?”

  “Mostly just skulking. Trying to look through Smith’s window. Lounging outside the saloon next door and staring at Smith’s office.” Friedman laid the bundle of cheroots on the counter. Nick retrieved some coins to pay him. “Saw him again last night.”

  “Last night?” asked Nick. “You sure?”

  He collected Nick’s money and dropped it into his till. “Sure as I’m standing here, Officer.”

  • • •

  Celia closed her patient’s folder and set it atop her examination room desk to join the other folders waiting there. She missed Barbara’s help; her cousin was responsible for keeping her clinic files in order. Truth be told, she was missing Barbara—her conversation, her rare laughter, even her tears—more than she’d expected. In the years since she’d become her cousin’s guardian, they had never been apart for more than a few hours.

  How surprised she would be to hear that I enjoy her company.

  Celia retrieved her reticule and withdrew the piece of paper she’d tucked inside. She spread her copy of Mr. Smith’s list flat on her desk and considered the word Mr. Smith had written at the top of the paper—blackmail. As she’d said to Jane, the victim had to be one of the Browns or Miss Adler, for Celia could fathom no other reason that Miss Brown would have sought to hire Mr. Smith to investigate. If strangers at a séance or the spiritualist hosting the event were being blackmailed, she would hardly be aware of or concerned about that.