Murder on Nob Hill (31 page)

At the bottom of the stairs he entered a room whose only illumination came from a slit of a window, high on one wall. Despite the gloom he made his way through several equally murky rooms without so much as a hesitation. For my part, I was too busy pum-meling his back with my fists and trying to impale him with my boots to notice where we were going. I might have been a pesky fly for all the notice he gave me. Only once, when he shifted my

weight and the tip of one boot happened to hit him in the groin, did he cry out, and I was rewarded with a hard smack on my backside.

“No more of that!” he snapped. “Or it’ll go even harder on ya.”

We passed through a room with a belching black furnace, then the man kicked open the door to what must have been the storeroom and dumped me unceremoniously onto the floor. I cried out as my tailbone hit the hard ground, but had no time to rub the afflicted area as my hands were painfully jerked behind my back and bound with a length of rope.

“This’ll keep yer yap shut,” he grunted, pulling a smelly cloth across my mouth. Without another word, he turned and left the room, slamming the door shut behind him and leaving me in total and terrifying darkness.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I
don’t know how long I sat in the awful silence hoping, foolishly I know, that my captor might somehow change his mind and come back to free me. Then, when I could no longer hear his retreating footsteps, I knew my fate lay in my own hands. Where was Robert? I kept asking myself, aware of the awful irony. He who for weeks had made a nuisance of himself following me everywhere was, when I needed him most, nowhere to be found!

I strained to see in the windowless room, but it was useless. Now that it was too late, I bitterly regretted not paying more attention to the storeroom when I’d had a chance. About all I could be grateful for was that my legs hadn’t been bound along with my arms. As it was I retained some movement, however slight. Gingerly, I began scooting my body across the floor—feeling before me with my feet and behind me with my bound hands—for anything that might loosen the ropes, or tug off the filthy gag that prevented me from crying out. My progress was exasperatingly slow; I banged

into walls and knocked over several cans from shelves above my head. The contents of one of the cans spread along the floor and I knew by the smell and the sticky feel that it must be paint.

I have no idea how long I went on in this undignified manner, when suddenly my feet brushed against a broom hanging on the wall. Energized by this discovery, I managed to struggle to my feet, but the nail from which the broom hung was too high up to be of any use in ripping off either my gag or my bonds. Cursing mentally, I continued to feel along the wall, but succeeded only in knocking down more cans of paint, and heaven knows what else, onto the floor.

Frustrated, I stopped to collect my breath, and my wits. It was then that I heard it—the voice I had never expected to welcome with such fervor. I tried to call out—for of course the booming sound had come from Robert—but all I could manage was a muted grunt. Fearing he would never find my isolated prison, I fell back onto the floor and, heedless of the sticky paint and broken glass from toppled jars piercing my skin, began banging on the walls with my boots. I was rewarded by the sound of approaching footsteps and the familiar bellow of Robert's curses as he made his stumbling way through the darkened rooms, stopping at last at my door.

It jerked open with a bang. There before me, filling the door with his towering frame, stood the inimitable Scot, a lighted candelabra he must have pilfered from the altar in one hand, a wriggling boy of about twelve in the other.

“So, this is where you’ve got to,” he said, squinting through the dim light. He stepped into the room, banged the candleholder down on a shelf, then, retaining his hold on the boy, used his free hand to yank off my gag. “I should have known you couldn’t be

left alone for five minutes without getting into trouble. How did you manage to get yourself trussed up like a Christmas goose and locked in here, anyway? And why are you bleeding?” he added before I could catch my breath to answer.

“I was trying to free myself, of course,” I retorted, beginning to wonder why I’d been so pleased to see him. I nodded my head at the squirming boy. “Who's that?”

Robert looked down at the lad as if he’d forgotten he was there.

“Oh, him. He was coming out the back door. When I tried to ask him a few civil questions, he took off like a frightened hare. By the time I caught him, I discovered you’d disappeared and guessed you’d been foolish enough to enter the church on your own. I was in the process of looking for you when I heard a godawful clamor down here.” He regarded the terrified boy. “This young scoundrel obviously knows something, but for the life of me I can’t get him to open his mouth.”

Robert fumbled in his pocket for a knife, then struggled to open it with one hand while keeping hold on the boy with the other. As he bent to cut the rope binding my hands, the villainous child kicked him in the face with his boot, causing Robert to howl and drop the knife and his captive at the same time. The boy bolted away so quickly I doubted anyone could have stopped him, much less a man holding a severely bleeding nose.

“Damn it!” Robert swore. “The little hellion broke my nose.”

“I doubt that. But if you’ll free my hands, I’ll have a look at it.”

Awkwardly, he worked to cut my ropes while trying to staunch the blood flowing from his injured appendage. When I was free, I got to my feet and rubbed my fingers to regain circulation, then examined Robert's nose by the light of the altar candelabra.

“I can’t feel any broken bones,” I told him, ignoring his howls

of protest when I touched his rapidly swelling beak. I handed him a handkerchief. “I’ll have my brother Charles look at it later. Now we must hurry. Benjamin Wylde may be back any minute.”

Robert's face darkened. “Wylde did this to you?” His voice trembled with rage. “Why that cowardly bastard! When I get my hands on him, I’ll—”

“I have no doubt you will,” I said, cutting him short. “Come on, I want to search this place while we have the chance. I was too preoccupied on my way in to notice anything but the muscles of my abductor's back. Not Wylde's,” I hastened to explain, as he sucked in breath to launch another outburst. “The man who came to tell Wylde that his daughter's been kidnapped.”

“What? Stop!” Robert placed firm hands on my shoulders before I could get halfway to the door. “We’re not stepping another foot until you tell me exactly what happened to you, as well as this business with Wylde's daughter.”

In as few words as possible, I described the events of the past half-hour. “So you see why haste is of the essence. I don’t know why the girl was taken, but I’m sure it has something to do with the murders, and probably with this place as well. Now come on. We’ve wasted too much time already.”

With the help of the candles, I was able to make out much more of the church basement than on my way in. After we had passed through the furnace room, we came to a larger chamber whose reason for existence soon became shockingly clear. The room was windowless, and on three of the four walls were hung what could only be a variety of sexual paraphernalia that, until now, I had not known existed. Some of the more obvious implements struck me as being decidedly unpleasant, others merely silly. The purpose of one or two pieces eluded my imagination altogether.

On the fourth wall hung a mirror and dozens of assorted costumes, some extremely skimpy, some with cutouts in what seemed very inappropriate places. I caught sight of Robert's face in the mirror and, despite the circumstances, very nearly laughed out loud. The eyes above the handkerchief he held pressed to his nose were wide with mortification.

“You’re the one who was in such a hurry,” he said, nudging me toward the door. “Let's finish this confounded inspection and get out of here.”

We passed through several smaller, also windowless rooms, each containing a bed, one or two chairs, and a table laden with water pitchers and bowls. The purpose of these rooms was also readily apparent and required no verbal speculation on our parts.

Finally, we came to a room considerably larger than the others, and my first impression was that it was a meeting hall of some sort. High windows along two of the walls allowed in sufficient afternoon light so that we could clearly view the framed oil paintings hung to either side of the chamber. Each picture featured one or more voluptuous, mostly nude women, some of them arranged in poses so lewd I couldn’t help but gasp.

“We’ve seen enough,” Robert said, placing his hand on my arm. “If this really is Wylde's club, he's a very sick man.”

“Wait.” I said, resisting his efforts to lead me away. At the front of the room was an oversized picture—more like an emblem—of a masked Satan. Below the leering devil's head were four pick axes stacked together, blades facing down.

“That's the illustration on the partners’ cards,” I murmured, unable to take my eyes off the image, made many times more horrible by its overblown size. Then, as I continued to stare, I suddenly remembered a forgotten conversation. For a moment I thought I

must have misremembered, but on further reflection I knew I had not. My memory is excellent. It was, moreover, a discussion I was unlikely to forget.

“He would have known, of course,” I said, more to myself than to my companion.

“Whatever you’re going on about we can discuss outside,” Robert said, urging me more vigorously toward the door.

I hardly heard him. My mind whirled with questions, with inconsistencies that eluded comprehension. What did it mean? Why lie about such a thing? Unless—

“Oh, my god!” I gasped as the answer came to me at last. The final, elusive pieces of the puzzle slid smoothly into place, forming a picture so monstrous that to this day I still shudder to think back upon it. It was all there, clear for anyone possessing the eye and the resolve to see it. Even Dr. Lawton's terrible role in the drama fit neatly into the deadly tapestry.

“What is it, Sarah?” Robert demanded. Then he saw my face and his impatience turned to alarm. “Good lord, you’d better sit down. You’re white as a sheet.”

I ignored the chair he pushed beneath me, although in view of my spinning head it wouldn’t have gone amiss to his advice.

“I think I know who the murderer is,” I said, my thoughts falling like hailstones, one on top of the other. “And I think I know where Wylde's daughter has been taken!”

N
ever did a ride seem to take so long. As our carriage made its way at a snail's pace through late afternoon traffic, I described to Robert the sequence of events I felt certain had led to Cornelius Hanaford's death, and inexorably to those of his partners. Robert stared at me as if I’d gone mad, but didn’t interrupt.

We would know soon enough if I were wrong. In the meantime, one, perhaps two, lives hung in the balance. Neither of us wanted them on our conscience. It was this fear, I knew, that kept Robert from daring to dispute my logic.

When we finally arrived at our destination, there was no sign of our quarry. Yet so certain was I of finding them, that I stopped several boys who were playing baseball in the street and offered them each a coin if they could locate a policeman.

“More than one, if you can,” I called out, as the boys took off at a run.

“What makes you think they’re here?” Robert asked, as we followed the nearest path into the park—the place where I was gambling we would find both the murderer, as well as his next, and probably final, victim.

“This place has special meaning for him,” I answered, my eyes taking in every tree, every bush and rock, alert for the smallest movement, the slightest sound. “Don’t you see, Robert? This last murder will be his coup de grace. Wylde is the only partner to have a daughter. The murderer will see it as poetic justice—the payment of one promising young life for another.”

“If you’re right, he must be a madman.”

“What was done to him might well drive any man mad,” I answered softly. “I deplore the act, but I can’t bring myself to condemn the man.” I stopped, straining to see between the elephantine branches of a giant sequoia tree. “Look! There's someone by the pond—in front of the grotto.”

We made our way slowly forward, until a break in the bushes confirmed my worst fears. Through the foliage we could see Eban Potter standing in front of the rocks on the opposite side of the pond. One of the banker's arms encircled Yvette Wylde's narrow waist, the other held a knife to her smooth, white throat. Benjamin

Wylde, frozen with fear and helplessness, watched this tableau from the other side of the water.

My breath caught in my throat. My suspicions had been correct! I hadn’t wanted it to be true, but of course the killer could be no one else. Why, I tortured myself, hadn’t I seen it sooner? Lord knows there had been signs, contradictions I should have grasped. As it was, my first inkling hadn’t come until Robert suggested revenge as a possible motive for the killings. Not because someone had been refused admittance to the partner's sex club, but rather the fury of a father whose daughter had been violated.

Still, the final piece of the fatal puzzle had not slipped into place until I finally comprehended the true significance of the devil's head. Potter had assured me it represented nothing more than youthful bravado. By his own admission he’d been on intimate terms with the four mining partners after their return from Virginia City; he swore he would have known if they’d had a more sinister connotation. Now, too late, I understood the peculiar look that had crossed his face when I had questioned him about the cards, as well as the mysterious evil he’d warned me of the morning of Martha Broughton's funeral. He’d understood all too well the awful meaning of the pick axes and the devil's head. The four villains who had hidden behind that terrible mask had destroyed his only child, had ripped from his arms the person—perhaps the only surviving person—who mattered to him in this world.

These thoughts flew through my mind in a heartbeat as I stood immobilized, taking in the horrifying scene before us. Then Wylde's anguished voice shook me free of my stupor.