The Russian Hill Murders

by Shirley Tallman

  A tall man in his late forties, Dorr patiently went over the results of Arlen’s autopsy. Reiterating death by means of baneberry poison, he explained how the amount of toxins found in Arlen’s body, along with his height and weight, had been used to determine when the poison had likely been administered. Since nothing would be gained by cross-examining this witness, I allowed him to be excused.

  Now that they had covered the scientific aspects of Arlen’s death, the state began to lay its foundation for motive and opportunity. Dormer’s next four witnesses attested to Arlen’s successful career as an accountant, his dedication to his work, as well as his abstemious and laudable character. I cross-examined each witness, but accomplished little for our case.

  Before Dormer could call his next witness, Judge Carlton announced court would be adjourned until the following morning. I turned to give Chin words of encouragement, but he had already risen, without a word to me, and was being led back to his jail cell.

  Determined not to allow my client’s discourteous behavior to dampen my efforts to set him free, I started gathering up papers when a commotion broke out at the rear of the chamber, and Eddie Cooper fairly flew into me.

  “I found him, miss, I found him!” he cried, as a clerk tried to grab him by the collar.

  Informing the dubious clerk that Eddie was one of my assistants, I took my briefcase and hurriedly led the boy out the same back door Robert and I had used during the noon recess.

  “Now, who did you find?” I said once we were outside.

  “Killy Doyle,” he said breathlessly. “You know, the gent who run off with that Corrigan fellow. He came outta the shop on Sansone. First time I seen hide or hair of either of them blokes.”

  A wave of guilt washed through me. With all the pressure of preparing for Chin’s trial, I’d completely forgotten Lily Mankin and her lawsuit. I was astonished to realize that although I had let the widow down, Eddie had adhered to his promise, faithfully keeping watch over the shop.

  “Eddie, you’re a remarkable lad,” I told him. “Far better than I deserve. Please, tell me everything you saw.”

  The boy beamed. “Well, Doyle walked around fer a while, like he wasn’t goin’ no place special. Then he met up with another gent, a proper gentleman an’ all. The two of ’em talked fer a minute, then caught a hack to that house on California Street, you know, where Doyle lives.”

  He tugged me toward his brougham parked across the street. “Come on, miss, hurry! Maybe they’re still there.”

  When I was seated in the carriage, Eddie urged his horse into a quick trot. Indignant shouts and expletives from other drivers followed us as he dodged in and out of traffic with little regard for life or limb. By the time we turned onto California Street, my heart was lodged in my throat and my knuckles were white from grasping the seat. Eddie parked a safe distance from Killy’s house, then hopped down from his perch and joined me inside the cab.

  “How long ago did they go into the house?” I asked as we kept our eyes fastened on Doyle’s front door.

  “Maybe an hour. Soon as they went inside, I come straight to the courthouse.”

  “You’ve done very well, Eddie,” I said, meaning every word. “Hopefully, they’re still inside.”

  The sun had set over the Bay and night was rapidly approaching when Doyle’s door finally opened. The unpleasant housekeeper Robert and I had encountered on our first visit stepped out and, under the pretext of shaking a blanket, looked suspiciously up and down the street. Satisfied no one was watching, she went back inside, and a moment later two men hurried out and started walking briskly in our direction.

  I recognized Killy Doyle as the younger of the two figures. The second man took a moment longer to identify. Perhaps it was because my mind balked at the information my eyes were transmitting to it. In truth I had to blink twice before I could truly grasp who I was seeing.

  Although the older man wore a long dark overcoat and a hat pulled low over his face, there was no mistaking the self-assured demeanor or the familiar tilt of that proud head.

  Both Eddie and I instinctively ducked down as the two men hurried past our carriage, but I raised my head just far enough to make certain I had not mistaken him.

  I had not. As impossible as it seemed, the man walking with Killy Doyle was none other than Judge Tobias Barlow.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I arrived home eager to tell Samuel what I had seen. To my frustration, Edis informed me that my brother had gone out earlier and was not expected back until the following evening. Mama and Celia were at home, but I was not yet ready to tell them my news. Papa would have to be informed first, a task I frankly dreaded. It would have to be done, of course, but I’d counted on talking it over with Samuel first.

  As it turned out, my brother had left me a note, presumably an update on the information he’d been able to glean from newspaper files and other sources that he vigilantly guarded from what he termed my “prying nose.” Waiting until I had reached the privacy of my bedroom, I eagerly slit open the envelope. I was disappointed to find only a single piece of paper inside.

  He’d found precious little new information, Samuel admitted in his untidy scrawl. But while he’d been digging up information on everyone involved in the case, he’d learned that Adelina and Nigel French had been married some twenty-eight years earlier. Given that Margaret French Barlow had passed her fortieth birthday, he considered the discovery puzzling enough to pass along. Oh, and he’d been unable to find any record of Margaret Barlow’s birth. Was I certain she’d been born in San Francisco?

  He went on to write that he’d found no skeletons in the Godfrey brothers’ closets, apart from the ones we’d already unearthed. According to newspaper files, Margaret Barlow and Adelina French had led lives as pure as the driven snow. He was still looking into Judge Barlow’s past but doubted he’d find any scandal there, either. He was waiting for his sources back east to send him more information about Reverend Prescott and would let me know as soon as it arrived.

  I read the note through twice, then decided that the disparity between the Frenches’ marriage and Margaret’s birth could have little, if anything, to do with my case. Still, the circumstances were peculiar. It was possible, of course, that Margaret had been born before the couple legalized their union. But if that were so, surely I would have heard rumors of it years ago. Society has a very long memory for such indiscretions.

  As I changed for dinner, I wished Samuel was here so I could inform him how far off the mark he was about Judge Barlow’s scandal-free life. I especially longed to ask his advice on how to tell Papa that his best friend might not be the man he supposed him to be. Waiting until he returned tomorrow night seemed like an eternity.

  Mama and Celia smiled at me as I entered the courtroom the next morning. I noticed they had taken seats closer to the defense table today, and I found their presence comforting. Instead of Samuel, who, of course, was out of town, I was delighted to find my brother Charles seated next to them. I felt a glow of reassurance; their support went a long way toward bracing me for the upcoming ordeal.

  The two Chinese men I was sure had been sent by Li Ying occupied the same seats at the rear of the room, while Shepard’s scout sat grumpily across the aisle.

  Robert was already ensconced at the defense table. He wore the same suit as the day before—which could have benefited from the use of a flatiron—and as usual his thick red hair was tousled, his cravat askew and the papers on the table before him in disarray. For all that, I was delighted to see him. By now I was fairly bursting to tell someone about finally finding Killy Doyle—and in the company of Judge Tobias Barlow, of all people!

  Before I could get out a word, Robert said solemnly, “You’re not going to like this, Sarah, but Pierce Godfrey was seen at the hospital the night Arlen was poisoned.”

  I stared at him, mouth agape. “Are you sure?” was all I could manage.

  “Of course I’m sure. I wouldn’t tell you if I weren’t. It w
as pure luck that I stumbled upon a nurse who saw them together in Arlen’s office a little after seven o’clock.”

  I was still struggling to make sense of this revelation when Chin arrived at our table wearing, I was relieved to note, a Mandarin jacket and loose-fitting black pants. His hair was shaved and neatly braided into a long queue. The one discordant note was the pair of heavy brown boots on his feet. Oh, well, I consoled myself, they were unlikely to be noticed beneath the table.

  The prosecution called George Lewis as its first witness of the morning. For a change, the policeman’s unruly hair lay neatly combed back from his high forehead, and his uniform was carefully pressed. As if aware his testimony was going to be damaging to my client’s case, he avoided looking in my direction.

  George soberly answered each of Dormer’s questions, but added little that was not specifically asked of him. The gist of his story was that he’d been summoned to Arlen’s boardinghouse, where he’d found the victim lying in his bed close to death. George had dispatched one of his men to summon a doctor, but it had been too late. He concluded by verifying that Lucius Arlen had indeed insisted to the end that he’d been poisoned.

  George’s testimony was no more than I’d expected. Dormer’s next line of questioning went straight for the jugular. Looking pointedly at the jury, the prosecutor asked Lewis to recount Chin’s behavior during his police interrogation.

  “Mr. Chin was surly and uncooperative,” George said.

  “Did he mention his feelings toward the victim?”

  “Yes, sir. He made no bones about how much he hated Mr. Arlen.”

  “Did the defendant demonstrate any remorse over Mr. Arlen’s painful death?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, did he at least comment upon it?”

  “Yes, sir. He, er—” George face turned pink, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to say.

  “He what, Mr. Lewis?” Dormer prodded. “Please answer the question.”

  Looking embarrassed, George blurted, “He said it was no more than the filthy bastard deserved.”

  A shocked murmur swept through the courtroom.

  “I’ll thank you to watch your language, Sergeant Lewis,” Judge Carlton warned him severely. “This is a court of law, not a saloon.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” George answered meekly. His boyishly handsome face had by now turned the color of a boiled lobster.

  “Mr. Lewis,” Dormer continued, watching the jury’s outraged response to Chin’s statement with ill-concealed delight. “Will you please tell the court what you discovered in Mr. Chin’s kitchen?”

  George described finding the baneberry roots and berries hidden at the back of one of Chin’s cupboards. When Lewis finished, the prosecutor looked pointedly in my direction, then declared he had no more questions for this witness.

  Rising to my feet, I smiled at George. “You say that Mr. Chin acknowledged his animosity toward Mr. Arlen. Did he indicate this dislike was so intense he wished to kill him?”

  George blinked at this blunt question. “No, Miss Sar—I mean, no ma’am.”

  “Did you ask the defendant if he poisoned Mr. Arlen?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And what was his response?”

  “He laughed. Said he wouldn’t waste perfectly good poison on such a fool.”

  Noise filled the gallery, which Judge Carlton subdued with his gavel.

  “So, Mr. Chin denied any responsibility for Mr. Arlen’s death.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Very good. Now, about the baneberries you discovered in the hospital kitchen. Isn’t it true, Mr. Lewis, that the door to this room is never locked? Indeed, that it isn’t even equipped with a lock?”

  “That’s right, ma’am, there’s no lock on that door.”

  “Then it is perfectly possible that anyone could have placed those berries in the kitchen cupboard, isn’t that right?”

  George looked doubtful. “Yes, I suppose it is, but—”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lewis,” I said, cutting him off. “I have no further questions for this witness, Your Honor.”

  Miles Dormer was instantly on his feet. “Mr. Lewis, did you or your men attempt to ascertain whether anyone else hid the baneberries in the kitchen?”

  “Yes, sir, we did. No one reported seeing anything suspicious. We were told that Mr. Chin spends most of his time in the kitchen, so it would have been hard for anyone to hide something there without his seeing them.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lewis. One last question, if you please. In your experience, how common is it for a murder suspect to willingly admit his guilt?”

  For the first time, George smiled. “It’s not at all common, sir. In fact, most of them never do.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lewis.” Dormer smiled conspiratorially at the jury. “I have no further questions.”

  The prosecution called an elderly gentleman, reportedly an expert on poisonous plants, as their next witness. He testified that baneberry could be found in most wooded areas along the Pacific Coast. He also described in lurid detail the excruciating pain Arlen must have suffered during his prolonged and violent death. Not surprisingly, this testimony elicited outcries from several women seated behind me in the gallery. Since there seemed little to be gained by cross-examination, I allowed the man to be excused.

  Banging his gavel, Judge Carlton tersely announced the noon recess. As I watched the jury leave the room, I was dismayed to see several men nod approvingly to Dormer. With just the right hint of solemnity, the prosecutor returned their nods, then, with a sympathetic smile in my direction, exited the courtroom.

  I’d hoped to discuss Judge Barlow and Killy Doyle with Robert over luncheon. Before I could broach the subject, he announced he was meeting a colleague and would rejoin me for the afternoon session. Without waiting for a response, he strode out the side door we’d been using to avoid reporters and was gone.

  I started to follow when I felt a hand on my shoulder. Turning, I found my father.

  “Papa, this is a surprise,” I said with delight.

  “One of my cases was canceled this morning, so I thought I’d drop in and see how you’re doing.” His face sobered. “Looks like you’re having a rough time of it.”

  I nodded grimly. “Let’s get out of here before the reporters find us.”

  We lunched at the same small restaurant Robert and I had discovered the day before. Once we’d placed our order, I told him about Pierce’s alleged encounter with Arlen the night he was poisoned.

  “I just wish I knew why they met,” I finished.

  “Yes, so do I,” he said thoughtfully. “An extraordinary coincidence, isn’t it?”

  “If it is a coincidence. Pierce is the last person I’d have expected to meet with Arlen. He acted as if he hardly knew the accountant.”

  “You never know, do you?” Papa studied me curiously, and I guessed he was wondering just how friendly I’d become with the younger Godfrey brother. “Do you know any reason why Mr. Godfrey might want to see Arlen dead?”

  I had to stop myself from flinching at this. “No, Papa. I have no more cause to suspect him than anyone else involved in this affair. Actually, less than some.”

  I waited until the waiter served our antipasto, then said, “I don’t think it will be long before Dormer winds up the prosecution’s case, and I still haven’t come up with a viable defense. At least, not one strong enough to convince an all-white jury of a Chinaman’s innocence. My best hope is to try to draw things out until the weekend, but even if I somehow manage that, it hardly solves my problem. Unless we’re blessed with a miracle, Papa, I haven’t a chance of winning this case and saving Mr. Chin.”

  Papa pursed his lips but said nothing. Reaching into my briefcase, I pulled out Samuel’s note and handed it to him. “What do you make of this?”

  Papa scanned the message. “There’s no mystery here, my girl. Actually, Margaret Barlow was born in New Jersey, not San Francisco. At the time, I believe her mother
was married to a man named Radley, a chemist, as I recall. After Radley died, Adelina took Margaret and moved to San Francisco. I think the child was about eleven or twelve. Evidently Mrs. French was quite a beauty in her day, because she had no trouble catching Nigel French’s eye. They were married within the year, and Mr. French adopted Margaret. I believe he was quite fond of the girl.”

  “Oh,” I said, somewhat deflated. I never seriously supposed the matter of Margaret’s birth had anything to do with the murders, but I was at a point where I was willing—nay, eager—to grasp at any clue, no matter how tenuous.

  I hesitated, wishing again that I could speak to Samuel before I broke my news to Papa. Yet what was to be gained by putting it off? There was never going to be a good time to break my father’s heart. Before I lost my nerve, I blurted, “Speaking of Judge Barlow—”

  I went on to tell him about spotting Judge Barlow with Killy Doyle the previous afternoon.

  Papa didn’t immediately make the connection. “Killy Doyle? Isn’t he the man you’re hoping will lead you to the owner of the sweatshop that burned?”

  “Yes,” I said, then watched him as the significance of this slowly sank in.

  His face paled. “Sarah, are you suggesting Tobias Barlow has something to with that sweatshop?”

  “Actually, I think he may be the owner.”

  “Why? Because you saw him walking with Doyle? It was probably nothing more than a chance meeting.”

  “No, Papa, it was a good deal more than that. It was obvious they weren’t strangers. Remember, Doyle regularly visited the sweatshop to check that production was up to schedule. He has to report back to someone. My guess is that someone is Judge Barlow.”

  I paused, as a plethora of expressions crossed my father’s face. I hated myself for having to plunge the knife in even deeper. “That’s not all. According to city records, McKenzie Properties is the official title holder, not only of the sweatshop that caught fire but of a dozen similar properties. Of course it’s just a fictitious company set up to shelter the real owner, but Judge Barlow owns a little terrier named—”