“That was a waste of time,” Robert said as we left the shop.
“On the contrary,” I replied, noting the time on my lapel watch and setting off at a brisk pace. “We’ve accomplished two things. First, doesn’t it strike you as significant that Senator Broughton's body was found in such close proximity to his club?”
“A coincidence,” he grunted with a remarkable lack of acumen.
I sighed in exasperation. “If you and the authorities are to be believed, this case is riddled with coincidences. It defies reality to presume that three out of four mining partners should be murdered within a three-month period. And dispatched in the same, distinctly unusual manner. Or that the last victim was discovered only a few minutes from a secret club the four men had been operating for years. Don’t you see, Robert? This explains how the murderer was able to lure Broughton out of his house, despite the senator's obvious fear for his life.”
“And just how do you arrive at that—?”
“Oh, for heaven's sake, man, use your head! What was the one pretext Broughton could not ignore, no matter the risk?”
“I—” he stumbled, taken aback by my vehemence.
“Fear of exposure! You said yourself that each of the four partners had a great deal to lose if their sexual hideaway became known. The note Broughton received last night must have alluded to some problem at the club, or perhaps a threat of discovery. That was the one place he couldn’t risk taking his bodyguard. It was the perfect ploy to entice him out of his house alone.”
“You spoke of two things,” he grumbled. I was sure my logic had led him to change the subject. “What's the second?”
“The lack of blood in the doorway, of course. The baker's boy was undoubtedly set to scrubbing the entryway after the police completed their investigation, but blood is difficult to wipe clean. Yet I was able to detect only one or two stains consistent with dried blood, hardly typical of the site of a stabbing, especially one that resulted in the victim bleeding to death.”
“What are you saying? That Broughton was killed elsewhere and left to be found at that shop?”
“Exactly. If my theory is correct, the killer wouldn’t have wanted the body found too close to the club. Which is why we’re completing the remainder of our journey on foot.” I stopped and looked at the street sign, then again at my watch. “Only see. We’re there. A short five-minute walk.”
“Not if you’re carrying a dead body!”
“It's barely two blocks. And who's to say the murderer didn’t have a carriage?”
But Robert wasn’t listening. He was staring at the only building—save two small shops on opposite corners—to grace the intersection of Union and Powell. I stared as well. The structure
was a church, a neat brick building with an old bell tower and a pious wooden cross. Without a word, I crossed the street and tried the church's heavy oaken doors. They were locked.
“Admit it, Sarah,” Robert said from behind me. “We’ve been sent on a wild goose chase.”
I can’t deny that for a moment I shared his doubt. Had Li received faulty information? Or was he, for some reason of his own, trying to lead us astray? Then I had a thought.
“Wait, Robert! What better place to hide such a sordid establishment than a church? It would be the last place anyone would think to look.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. No pastor would allow that kind of club on church property.”
“He might,” I said slowly. “If the minister himself were a member.”
Robert stared at me. “Good god, woman! Think what you’re saying!”
“I’m saying that a clerical collar doesn’t automatically bestow virtue upon its wearer. I’m not ready to reject Li's informants until we’ve conducted a thorough search of the premises.”
“But the doors are locked.”
“In the front, yes. We haven’t tried the back. You stay here in case someone comes out while I go around the side.”
“You’ll do no such thing. You wait here. I’ll see if there's a back door.”
I wasn’t pleased with this arrangement, but didn’t care to attract attention by engaging in a public argument. “Very well,” I agreed. “But make a good job of it. The entrance may be hidden.”
Throwing a pained look over his shoulder, Robert trudged around the church. Feeling conspicuous standing in front of the building, I crossed the street and took up a position beside the shop
on the opposite corner. Two women passed, small children in tow, then a man hurried by. No one paid any attention to the church.
So intent was I on my watch, that I gasped when I was suddenly grabbed around the waist and pulled into the narrow alley between the shop and the adjoining building.
“Damn it, woman! How in hell did you find this place?”
I twisted my head to find Benjamin Wylde's face looming over mine, his expression of loathing so intense it made me shudder.
“Let go of me!” I cried with a bravado I didn’t feel.
His hand closed over my mouth. “I gave you fair warning, but you wouldn’t listen. Now you’ve left me no choice but to take care of you once and for all.”
The tone of his voice chilled me. I had no doubt he meant to kill me. Unless I came up with a plan—and quickly—he might succeed!
Then, without warning, I had my chance. A howling cat came flying through the alley, a dog hard on its heels, distracting Wylde just long enough for me to bite down hard on the fingers pressed against my lips. As he cursed in pain, I pushed against him and broke lose of his grasp. I wasted no time crying out, but ran as fast as I could back down the alley toward the street. I heard him take off after me, then felt his hand brush my shoulder.
This time I did cry out, praying Robert would hear me. Then I was free of the buildings. On the other side of the street a man and woman were passing the church and I ran toward them. I had gone only a few steps when I collided with a muscular man who seemed to materialize out of nowhere. Without a word, he pulled me tightly into his chest, muffling any cry I might have managed.
“Watch her teeth,” Wylde told the man, wrapping a handkerchief around his bleeding fingers. “She bites like a wildcat.”
Admonishing the man not to attract attention, they held me
wedged between them and walked across the street to the church. The stranger kept my head pressed against his shoulder preventing me from calling for help. Robert! I thought wildly. Where was Robert?
“What are you doing here anyway?” Wylde asked the man as we reached the church. “I told you never to come here during the day.”
“Somethin's happened,” the stranger said in a rough voice.
“Well, what is it, man?” Wylde demanded, pulling a key from his pocket and inserting it into the lock.
“Yer daughter's been took,” the man blurted, obviously fearing Wylde's reaction. “Yer butler, Mr. Bateman, sent me t’ fetch yer.”
Wylde froze, then spun on the man. His voice was tight with alarm. “Yvette? What do you mean she's been taken?”
“That's all I know,” the man said defensively. “Mr. Bateman says she went out this mornin’ and a while later he got a note sayin’ she’d been taken. “He says for you t’ hurry home.”
“My god, Will! Why didn’t you tell me?” Wylde pushed open the church doors, seeming not to care now who saw us. “Tie this woman up in the storage room. I’ll attend to her later.”
Grunting his assent, the man called Will dragged me inside the darkened church. I heard Wylde's rapidly receding footsteps before the door slammed shut behind us. The only sound now was the echo of Will's shoes as he hoisted me over 4is shoulder and carried me, kicking and demanding to be released, down a flight of stairs.
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 tryin
g 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!”
Murder on Nob Hill Page 24
