Murder on Nob Hill (16 page)

“For three hours?” Robert didn’t bother to hide his skepticism. “The police waited at your boardinghouse until two in the morning, man. That was a very long walk.”

Peter stared at Robert. Even he must realize how feeble this sounded. For all his acting skills, he was a poor liar.

“I was upset. About Ann—Mrs. Hanaford.” Despite the cell's frosty temperature, the man's face was wet with perspiration. “The police wasted no time portraying our relationship as something sordid and cheap. I needed time to sort things out. I paid no attention to the time. I just kept walking.”

For a moment, no one spoke, but Robert's expression left no doubt what he thought of the actor's story. “You’d better hope the police don’t connect the two murders, Fowler. If they do, your story won’t hold up for two minutes.” He looked at me in exasperation. “We can learn nothing more from this man if he refuses to tell us the truth.”

“One minute,” I said, making one last attempt to get at the real story. “Did you meet anyone during the course of this walk? Someone who could corroborate your story?”

“No,” he answered. “At least I don’t think so. It was dark and very late. As I say, I was lost in my thoughts.”

“Of all the fool nonsense—”

I rose to my feet, cutting off my colleague's diatribe. “Thank you for seeing us, Mr. Fowler. Mr. Campbell, would you call for the jailer?”

Robert glowered, but turned to bang on the door and call out for the guard. After a moment, a burly man appeared and without a word let us out of Peter Fowler's cell.

W
e’d barely taken a dozen steps before my companion erupted. “Of all the bald-faced liars, that man beats the Dutch! Make no mistake about it, Sarah, there's your murderer.”

“Calm down,” I said perfunctorily. “I agree he's lying. Whether or not he's the killer remains to be seen.”

“Confound it, woman, he had guilt written all over his face.” “Something was written on his face,” I admitted thoughtfully. “His reaction to the news of Mills's death was quite extraordinary. You’re right, Robert. That young man is clearly hiding something.”

When we reached the bedraggled anteroom, I informed my testy associate that I planned to visit Annjenett before we took our leave of the jail. I wasn’t surprised when he insisted on accompanying me, but I was convinced she’d speak more freely if we were alone. I left him muttering something largely unrepeatable as I was led to Annjenett's cell.

“Sarah, it's so good of you to come,” she exclaimed, rushing to take my hands. “The hours drag on interminably.”

I could well imagine they did. Just the thought of being confined to such a place made my blood turn to ice.

“I’ve been to see your Mr. Fowler,” I said, settling down beside her on the cot.

Her strained face brightened. “Oh, Sarah, how is he? I’ve heard nothing of him since I entered this wretched cell.”

“He's holding up well enough,” I told her, then paused. I had no wish to add to her worries, yet time was running out and the subject must be broached. “This may seem a strange question, but
have you any idea where Peter may have gone after his performance at the California Theater last Saturday night?”

Annjenett looked surprise. “Saturday night? You mean the night I was arrested? Surely that's no mystery. Peter himself was arrested shortly after he left the theater.”

“Actually, he wasn’t apprehended until several hours later. We need to establish where he went during the intervening time.”

The small crease between her eyes deepened. “I’m sorry, Sarah, but I don’t understand why that should be important.”

I sighed. It seemed I had no choice but to tell her the whole story after all. “You’ve heard of Rufus Mills, the industrialist?”

She nodded.

“I’m afraid he was murdered that night—sometime after midnight.”

The bewilderment I saw in her eyes had to be genuine. If, however unlikely, Peter Fowler turned out to be responsible for Mills's murder, I was convinced Annjenett hadn’t been involved.

“Years ago Mr. Mills was my husband's partner,” she said, still looking perplexed. “I’m shocked to hear he's been killed. But what can it have to do with Peter?”

“Unfortunately, the circumstances of the two deaths are nearly identical. As yet, no one has thought to connect the two murders, but we must be prepared in the likely event that they do.”

What little color was left in her face drained and I feared she might faint. Then an angry flush appeared in each cheek.

“That would be monstrous!” she cried indignantly. “Peter did not even know Mr. Mills.”

“Can you be absolutely sure of that?” I laid my hand on her arm. “Think, Annjenett. You may be Peter's best hope. Have you any idea where he might have gone after the theater that night?”

She wrung her hands in distress. “I can’t think of any errand

that would keep him out that late. Unless—?” She seemed struck by a sudden idea.

“What is it?” I urged.

“It's probably nothing, but about a week ago when Peter and I were on our way to the theater, we stopped at a house in an unpleasant part of town. He said he was visiting a friend who was ill, an actor down on his luck. Because the house was so seedy, he insisted I wait in the carriage.” She looked hopeful. “Perhaps that's where he went, to visit his sick friend.”

I thought this explanation unlikely. If Peter had gone to visit an ailing friend after Saturday night's performance, why not simply say so, instead of inventing that preposterous story of walking the streets half the night?

“I’ll look into it,” I promised, hiding my skepticism. “I don’t suppose you remember the address?”

“Actually, I do. The numbers were faded, but I had little else to do but study the house while I waited for Peter.”

I jotted down the address, then chatted for several minutes of more pleasant things. When it was time to leave, I promised to do everything possible to prove Peter had nothing to do with Rufus Mills's death. I only prayed it was a promise I could keep.

R
obert was pacing restlessly outside the cell block when I returned. “What have you been doing all this time?” he demanded.

“If you feel restless and claustrophobic after thirty minutes,” I said, eyeing him reproachfully, “just imagine how that poor woman must feel locked inside that cell, day in and day out.”

Although he guffawed and turned away, I could see that my

words had found their mark. Unable to find a suitable retort, he predictably changed the subject.

“We’ve wasted the entire morning on this fool's errand. I have to get to the office.”

“Fine,” I replied, as we exited the bleak, ever damp building. “When you report back to Mr. Shepard, please don’t mention our visit with Peter Fowler. The fewer people who guess our suspicions, the better.” I turned and started walking toward the corner, where I hoped to find an unoccupied cab.

“Wait!” With several long strides he caught up with me and took hold of my arm. “Where are you off to now?”

“That needn’t concern you. I’ve taken up too much of your time already.” I tried to pull free of his grasp, but his hands seemed made of steel. “Release my arm at once!”

He muttered something I didn’t catch, then let go his hold, if not his determination to get his way.

“I don’t see why you can’t cease your infernal meddling for one day. This morning's interview with Fowler proves we needn’t look any farther than that jail cell to find Hanaford's, and possibly Rufus Mills's, murderer. It's past time I attended to the stack of work piling up on my desk.”

“Attend to it then, by all means,” I replied tersely.

I turned my back to him, well pleased to set off on my own. Flagging down an approaching brougham, I gave the man the address Annjenett had provided then took my seat inside the carriage. We had barely started when the cab suddenly jerked to a stop and my watchdog clamored aboard, dropping into the seat next to mine.

“You must be very determined to earn Shepard's carrot to neglect all that important work piling up on your desk,” I remarked,

freeing the edge of my skirt, which had become entangled beneath his boot.

His only answer was a disdainful grunt. For the rest of the brief ride, he sullenly kept his head turned away from me and stared fixedly out the window.

T
he house I sought was located in the Barbary Coast district. I’d heard unsavory stories about the city's infamous waterfront, but since no self-respecting San Franciscan would venture onto those vice-ridden streets, I had no first-hand knowledge of the place. As our cab passed Powell Street, the neighborhood became increasingly rundown and dissolute. From the muttered comments of our driver, I knew he was as unhappy with our destination as my silent companion, whose grumbling increased with every street.

“Where are we going?” he demanded, curiosity at last getting the better of his ill temper.

“We’re going to attempt to discover Peter Fowler's whereabouts the night of Rufus Mills's death.”

“We already know where he was. In Chinatown—committing a—”

“It was your idea to tag along,” I interrupted sharply. “The least you can do is make an effort to keep an open mind.”

Robert's answer to this sensible suggestion was to turn away with a rude grunt and continue his vigil out the carriage window. The neighborhood was becoming more rundown by the block. We passed cheap hotels, pawn shops, saloons, dance halls and frame houses, the red lights outside their doors blatantly advertising their sordid trade. At this hour the streets were all but deserted, the inhabitants too weary, or too hung over, to be up and about.

“You can’t mean to stop here!” exclaimed Robert as our cab halted in front of a dilapidated house close to the waterfront. The sign in front boldly featured a large rooster with a red light for a beak. “This is a broth—that is to say, it's a—”

“I know what it is,” I broke in. To be honest, I found the neighborhood, and this house, as off-putting as my disgruntled companion. I checked the address Annjenett had given me. There was no mistake, at least on my part. I was, however, beginning to question the accuracy of my client's memory.

“Sarah, I demand you tell me why we’ve come to this place.”

Briefly I related my conversation with Annjenett. His reaction didn’t surprise me, since it so closely mirrored my own.

“She must be mistaken. Even an actor wouldn’t stoop so low as to bring a respectable woman to a place like this.”

My sentiments exactly, although I didn’t say so. Distasteful as it was, we had little choice but to give the place a try.

Gathering my skirts, and my nerve, I stepped down from the carriage. Grumbling, Robert followed. We asked our nervous driver to wait, then walked to the front door where I rang the rusty bell. When there was no response, Robert pounded his fist on the splintering wood. This time I heard the sounds of approaching footsteps and in a moment the door was flung open by a tired-looking woman dressed in a faded robe, her hard, pinched face framed by a mop of unkempt gray hair. I suspected we had awakened her, since her pale eyes were puffy and rimmed with red. She stared myopically at us, making no effort to hide her annoyance.

“Whatcher want?” she barked. “We don’t open till three.”

I felt Robert stiffen beside me, but I gave the woman my brightest smile. “We’re looking for a Mr. Peter Fowler. We were told he might be here.”

“Well, you was told wrong,” she snapped. “The old woman's

asleep. No need for him to be here when she ain’t kickin’ up a fuss, is there?”

She started to slam the door, but I pressed inside. I heard Robert step in behind me, but kept my eyes fixed on the woman.

“Would it be possible for us to see her?” I improvised. “The old woman, I mean. I’m sure it would mean a great deal to Mr. Fowler.” This was a stab in the dark, but apparently the woman saw nothing unusual in my request.

“Just told ya she's sleepin’, didn’t I? If you think I’m gonna wake her up, yer crazier than you look.”

Holding tightly to my smile, I ignored the insult. “There's no need to awaken her. If we could just take a peek.”

Before she could answer, I heard shuffling footsteps in the hallway behind her. Through the dim light, I could make out an elderly, painfully thin woman, a shabby gray shawl draped over her nightdress. The old woman's face was ravaged by age and intemperance, but her wide-set eyes and finely chiseled bones attested to the fact that she’d once been a beauty. She hobbled closer to stare at us in obvious agitation.

“Is it Peter, Bertha? Has he come to get me?”

The woman at the door glared at us. “Now look what you’ve gone and done. I won’t have any peace now for the rest of the day.” Angrily, she snapped at the old lady, “Just a couple of busybodies, Mrs. Gooding. No need to go gettin’ yerself upset.”

Ignoring her, the old woman continued toward the door. Bertha, if that was her name, hastened to intercept her, taking Mrs. Gooding's arm and trying to pull her back down the hall. The old woman must have been stronger than she appeared, for despite Bertha's bullying efforts, she refused to budge.

“Why isn’t my Peter here?” she demanded, beginning to cry. “Why doesn’t he come to take me home?”

“For god's sake, quit yer whining,” Bertha ordered, giving the old woman a shake. “Yer gonna wake the whole house.”

“I need my medicine, Bertha,” the old woman whimpered. “Please, can I have my bottle now?”

“Get back to bed and I’ll bring it to ya. Just be quiet.” Bertha shot us a sharp look. “You two, get yerselves out of here before she takes one of her turns and I have to send for her son. He's the only one can quiet her down when she gets like that.”

With a final glare, Bertha led Mrs. Gooding away. Robert touched my arm and I allowed him to lead me outside. Neither of us spoke until we were back inside the carriage and the driver was urging his horse out of the Barbary Coast with jarring alacrity.

“Fowler told us he was an orphan,” Robert said, breaking the silence that had fallen upon us since leaving the Red Rooster. “Yet another of his lies. I’m beginning to think the man is incapable of telling the truth.”