Never 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.
“For god's sake, Potter, let her go. She's an innocent child.”
Potter started to answer, then caught sight of Robert and me as we stepped out from behind the bushes.
“Miss Woolson,” he cried out, looking confused. “What are you doing here? This business does not concern you.”
Wylde whirled around at Potter's word, and it was a shock to see his controlled, arrogant face utterly devoid of color. His skin had a sickly sheen to it, and the eyes that had looked upon me with so much malevolence little more than an hour ago, were wild with desperation. For the moment at least, I thought, recognizing the irony, mutual concern for Yvette's safety had made us allies.
“But it does concern us, Mr. Potter,” I said, struggling to keep my voice calm. “Yvette doesn’t deserve to suffer for her father's sins.”
Potter's eyes darted from Wylde to me, and the hand wielding the knife trembled so violently I feared it would inadvertently pierce the girl's skin.
“What of my Louisa?” he cried. “She was barely eighteen! What did she know of life? Or the evils of such men? Yet Hanaford and the others raped and defiled her, robbed her of her innocence. Then, when they discovered she was with child, they took her to Dr. Lawton. Those four devils are as responsible for her death as that drunken butcher.”
Potter's face suffused with rage. He glared at Wylde as if the man were a messenger from hell. “You’re no better than an animal,” he spat. “All you and the others cared about was your own vile gratification and greed. When my wife became ill, I begged Cornelius to advancemethemoneynecessarytoprovideherwithpropermedical care. I was one of his oldest friends—I had gladly lent him my life's savings when he went to the mines—yet he refused my pleas. Can youbegintoimaginewhatitfeelsliketowatchyourwifedieslowly and painfully before your eyes and be powerless to save her? He let her die rather than part with one dime of his miserable fortune.”
Once again the knife jerked in Potter's hand and I started forward, only to be stopped by Robert's hand on my arm.
“Don’t push him,” he whispered urgently. “He's unstable. There's no telling what he might do.”
Robert was right, we couldn’t risk any rash movement. Our best hope was to keep Potter's attention on something else until help arrived.
“What of Mrs. Broughton,” I said hastily. “Surely you didn’t hold her responsible for harming your wife and child.”
A look of pain crossed Potter's face, and his eyes filled with regret.
“That was a mistake. I meant to revenge myself on Broughton privately, but that became impossible after the coward hired a bodyguard. When my first attempt failed, I was forced to seek him out in public. Even then I would have succeeded if he hadn’t pulled his wife in front of my carriage. Her soul is on my conscience and I’ll carry it to my grave. But it is on theirs as well. The evil spread by those four vipers infected innocent lives like a plague. Hanaford was a cruel, malicious husband. He mistreated his poor wife with impunity. Who would dare call such a respectable man to task for his brutish behavior? Mills was a weak, sniveling coward. After Louisa's death, he appeased his conscience with an opium pipe and sought refuge with the dregs of society. As for Broughton, he was the worst kind of hypocrite. He preached abstinence and family values, while he helped run the most vile, contemptible club in San Francisco.”
He turned his gaze full onto Wylde, tightening his grip on the terrified girl and pressing the gleaming knife against her fragile white throat.
“But you were worst of the lot,” he spat at the lawyer, his voice a bitter indictment. “You were the leader, the evil mind from
which sprung the venom the others embraced. It was your idea to go to Virginia City. Your scheme to defraud Li of his mine. Yes, yes, I’ve long known the source of your ill-gotten gains,” he went on, at Wylde's startled look. “You preyed on your partners’ greed and weakness, then rewarded their loyalty by providing young, innocent girls for their amusement—an unholy pimp, indifferent to the suffering you wrought.
“That's why I’ve left you until last,Wylde. I meant to dispose of you as I had the others, but that no longer seemed adequate payment for such iniquity. Night after night I thought of what you had done to Louisa, fantasizing how you would feel if you lost your only child, the daughter you held so close to your heart. Then, when Yvette arrived from France, I finally had the means to
make you suffer as I have.”
He allowed the knife to scrape Yvette's neck, drawing a thin line of blood. I stifled a cry and Robert instinctively moved beside me. Wylde cursed and started forward, then stopped as Potter readied the knife for another strike. None of us dared breathe; all eyes were on the incongruous little man who held a beautiful young girl's fate in his hands. His focus was completely on Wylde now. It was as if Robert and I were no longer there. He seemed to draw strength from his adversary's terror, and I watched Potter's agitation grow as he steeled himself to strike. Time was running out! Somehow I had to find a way to divert his attention until help finally arrived.
“How could you allow Mrs. Hanaford to be arrested for your crimes?” I cried without thinking. “You, who claim to be her friend.”
Robert shot me an alarmed look and I belatedly realized this was too abrupt. Such an accusation was more likely to add to his agitation than to pacify it. But it had been the first thought to cross
my mind. And I realized I wanted an answer. Potter had appeared genuinely grieved by Annjenett's arrest. Had his concern been a facade—a ploy to deflect guilt from himself? Did he honestly not care that he was the reason she had been incarcerated?
“I never meant for Mrs. Hanaford—or that actor—to be blamed for Cornelius's death,” he cried, looking wildly from Robert to me. Against my better judgment—and after all he had done—I found myself believing the man. Either he was a talented liar, or his anguish at Annjenett's ordeal really had been sincere. “I’d no idea of their relationship, or that Fowler was even in the house that night. The possibility that the authorities might believe a woman capable of such an act never entered my mind. I was certain the police would realize their folly and release her, especially after Mills was killed. How was I to know that Peter Fowler was Rufus's son? Or that he and his mother had their own reasons for wanting to see the brute dead?”
His voice grew shrill as he pleaded for me to understand. Anguish was etched on his thin face, now completely drained of blood and expression. For a dizzying moment I had the surreal feeling that I was looking at a death mask. Then, the white lips moved and the awful image was replaced by the tragic visage of a desperate man who had become consumed by the need for revenge.
“The only thing I could see to do was finish the business as quickly as possible, then inform the police of their mistake.” The man was breathing hard now from emotional strain. “I have dispatched a letter to the authorities explaining why I found it necessary to take justice into my own hands. It clearly lays blame where it belongs. I’ve made certain that Benjamin Wylde will be ruined; everyone will know of his vile past and the dishonorable way he and the others acquired their fortunes. I’ve described their repulsive club, and listed as many members as I could obtain. I’ve also
supplied the name of the infamous doctor they employed to take care of their ‘accidents.’ Rest assured, Miss Woolson, I have made certain that Mrs. Hanaford and her actor friend will go free. My only regret is that I became, however unintentionally, an instrument to cause her pain.”
Yvette was staring at her captor, eyes wide in disbelief. So intent was she on the banker's terrible accusations against her father, she seemed to have temporarily forgotten her own dilemma and the knife against her throat. Wylde's pale face had suffused with blood as he stared at his beloved daughter. The shock and revulsion he read on her face must have come as a terrible blow. He glared at Potter with such naked fury that, for a moment, I feared he might attack the banker regardless of the consequences to Yvette.
Then, suddenly, the anger faded and I watched all the fight drain out of him like a deflated balloon. For the first time he seemed to appreciate the complete helplessness of his situation. Potter was right, I thought, the attorney would be ruined. Far more devastating, he had lost his daughter's respect—perhaps even her love. As I watched these thoughts cross his face, the man seemed to age before my eyes.
“Potter, I beg you,” he pleaded, the resignation in his voice rendering it nearly unrecognizable. “Put down the knife. I have money. You can go away—live comfortably in any country you choose. Think of it, man! You need never work again.”
Potter gazed incredulously at the lawyer, his face a twisted mask of loathing and disgust.
“You think that's what I want—money? You fool! At one time money might have saved my wife's life, but it can’t bring her back to me now. Nor can it return the daughter you and your depraved partners snatched from my arms. No, it's not money I’m after. I want you to know what it feels like to lose the only person you
love in this life. I want you to experience the anguish, the terrible, final devastation of realizing she’ll never grow to be a woman, that she’ll never marry and have children, or comfort you in your old age. That's what you stole from me, Wylde. Now I mean to take it from you!”
Wylde was desperate. He looked frantically about for help, but for once in his life there was no one to do his bidding, no protection he could purchase, no courtroom in which to plead his case. Eban Potter had become his judge, jury and executioner.
“Do what you want with me,” he pleaded. “Just please, I beg you, don’t harm my daughter!”
Potter's smile chilled my heart. This sudden calm was far more alarming than his previous agitation. Robert was right—the man was mentally unbalanced. It was easy to see how it had happened. For a sensitive, lonely man like Potter, losing his wife and child must have been unbearable. Blame rested squarely on Benjamin Wylde's shoulders. But no amount of culpability justified the punishment Potter was about to inflict, especially when it was directed toward an innocent child!
“It's gratifying to hear you beg,” the banker was saying to Wylde. “But it changes nothing. Don’t you see, justice demands that you pay for your sins?” He raised the knife, holding it poised, point down, over the girl's heart.
“No, wait!” I cried, pushing Robert's restraining hand off my arm.
“Sarah!” he said, starting after me. “Don’t be a fool.” “Robert, no!” I called, not taking my eyes off Potter. “Stay back.”
Time seemed to hang suspended. There was no sound in the grotto; even the birds seemed to have been struck mute. Yvette's
lovely blue eyes stared, as if mesmerized, at the knife that inched toward her breast. Tears coursed down her white face, but she did not move so much as a muscle.
“You don’t want to do this, Eban,” I said softly, carefully making my way closer to the tableau frozen before me. “You’re a good person. And this would be a terrible thing to do.”
“Stop where you are!” Potter pulled the girl back toward the rocks that rose up behind them. “Don’t come any closer.”
“If you harm Yvette, Eban,” I went on in a voice that seemed to belong to another person, “you’ll be no better than they are, these selfish men who have inflicted so much pain and suffering on others. Save one, the lives you’ve taken thus far haven’t been without blame. But this child is. She's like your own Louisa—”
“No!” he cried. “She is nothing like Louisa—”
“Yes,” I insisted, rounding the pond. “She, too, is an innocent. Don’t spare her for Wylde's sake. He doesn’t deserve mercy. Do it for her sake. Don’t cut short the promise of a life scarcely begun.”
“Stand back!” he screamed, pressing back against the rocks until he could go no further.
“I can’t let you do this,” I told him. “It would be an act every bit as reprehensible as the crimes those monsters committed.” I’d drawn abreast of the two figures. Taking a deep breath, I reached my hand out for the knife.
I heard the two men behind me gasp, but neither spoke for fear of breaking the fragile spell that had fallen upon the grotto. For one of the longest moments of my life I stared into Eban Potter's eyes, fighting to keep my gaze off that terrible blade, praying I could somehow reach the gentle, unassuming soul I knew dwelt inside the shell of this broken human being.
Then, moving so suddenly I was
taken completely unawares,
Potter thrust the girl at me. I staggered back beneath the unexpected weight, then watched in shock as, in one quick motion, he plunged the knife into his own heart. The girl had fainted and was a dead weight in my arms. Laying her aside, I rushed to the dying banker.
“Hold on, Eban,” I whispered against his ear. “Help is on its way.”
“There's nothing they can do for me,” he gasped. His thin voice had grown husky and he formed the words with difficulty. “I go to face my own judge now. I only pray He will let me see my wife—and my Louisa—before—”
“I’msureHewill,”Isaid, tearsfillingmyeyes. Buthewas no longer listening. As quietly as he had lived his life, Eban Potter had slipped from this world into the next. Gently, I closed his eyes and lowered his head to the ground. Only then did I realize the police had arrived, and with them, George Lewis and my brother Samuel.
“They know what happened,” Robert said, stooping down to where I still knelt by the dead man's side. “Potter's letter reached them by afternoon post. He must have intended from the start to do away with himself once he’d wrought his revenge.”
With surprising tenderness, he helped me to my feet. “It's over, Sarah. You did everything you could. It's better that it end this way.”
I looked at the man who lay crumpled at my feet. In death he appeared smaller and even more insignificant than he had in life, a victim rather than the villain who had taken the lives of five human beings. The tears that had formed in my eyes now coursed unimpeded down my face.
“They took everything from him,” I said, the words catching in
my throat. “Their poison infected him, too, and he answered evil with evil. It was all he knew how to do.” “I know,” Robert said softly.
One powerful arm circled my waist. “Come, Sarah, it's time to go home.”
Murder on Nob Hill Page 25
