“McKenzie,” he said in voice so flat I hardly recognized it as my father’s.
At that moment, the waiter brought our meal, but my father—who dearly loves his food—hardly seemed to notice. He stared out the window, but I doubt he saw anything but his friend’s face. Perhaps he was searching for clues he had missed, signs he had failed to notice.
“I’m not surprised he would choose that name,” he said at last, absently pushing aside his meal. “Tobias dotes on that dog. And of course owning those sweatshops would explain how he and Margaret have been able to live beyond their means all these years.” His face seemed to crumple, as the full implications of Tobias Barlow’s secret life began to sink in. “Lord, what a fool I am, Sarah. I’ve been in the Barlow home hundreds of times; I’ve seen the furniture, the paintings and statues, that ridiculously expensive tapestry they bought in France. I guess I just didn’t want to know how he managed it.”
“Owning sweatshops isn’t illegal,” I pointed out, trying to lessen the blow.
“No, but the way the owners treat their workers is immoral, if not downright criminal. I suppose you realize they regularly hire children as young as six or seven years old, working them twelve to fourteen hours a day. The pay is shameful and the working conditions are wretched. I’m sure Tobias isn’t the only city official to be lured by easy money, but fair or not, judges are expected to rise above such temptations.” He ran a hand over his forehead, then looked at me with weary eyes. “So, my girl, what now?”
“Before I can file suit on Mrs. Mankin’s behalf, I first need to confirm my suspicions.”
“Yes, I suppose you do,” Papa said heavily. Then, after a pause, he went on quietly, “I’ll look into it for you, Sarah. As a judge I have connections you don’t have. Perhaps I can find your answer. And mine, too.” He sighed. “Tobias is—was—my best friend. I have to know if our relationship all these years has been based on a lie.”
“All right, Papa. I appreciate that.” Privately, I hoped whatever he found would ease the pain of what must surely seem like a cruel betrayal. “I already have more on my plate than I can possibly eat.” I looked down at my untouched lunch and gave an ironic little laugh. “Literally, it seems.”
“What are your plans?” Papa asked.
“I’ll start by interviewing the nurse who claims to have seen Pierce with Mr. Arlen at the hospital that night. Perhaps she knows more than she was willing to tell Robert. For instance, what the two men were talking about in Arlen’s office.”
“You think she might have ‘overheard’ part of their conversation?”
“I sincerely hope so.”
Robert returned to the courtroom that afternoon looking grim. “I didn’t want to get your hopes up earlier, in case nothing came of it,” he said quietly, “but I lunched with an old friend from Edinburgh. As it happens, he spent several years in New Jersey, where he occasionally attended a church where Nicholas Prescott served as minister.”
I leaned forward. “What did your friend say about him? From the look on your face, it wasn’t good.”
“Oh, Prescott was an effective enough preacher, and his services were always packed. But his reputation with the ladies—” He paused, always uncomfortable discussing delicate subjects. “Let’s just say he had no problem finding willing companions. And,” he went on as I started to speak, “after Prescott took over the church, weekly contributions began to decline. A great fuss was raised over it; even the police were called in to investigate. Unfortunately, nothing was ever proved. It may be just a coincidence, but my friend found it interesting that Prescott moved to Chicago shortly after the incident.”
“What happened to the weekly collections after he left?”
“Back to pre-Prescott days.”
“Oh, my,” I said, realizing how inadequate this sounded under the circumstances. I remembered Samuel’s report that Prescott frequently changed parishes. I was beginning to understand why these moves might have been necessary. It seemed I would have to rethink my opinion of the charismatic minister.
Before I could question Robert further, Chin was brought to the defense table. For some reason, he looked even more bad-tempered than usual.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, as he muttered under his breath in Chinese.
“Bah!” he snapped. “Food here awful. Like eating slop for pigs. I tell them, but they no listen. Just laugh. Bastards! All filthy bastards!”
“Shh, Chin, please,” I warned him, unhappy to see several nearby spectators regarding my client with unease.
“Didn’t you learn anything this morning?” Robert told him in a harsh whisper. “You can’t go around calling everyone you don’t like a filthy bastard.”
Chin opened his mouth to say something as Judge Carlton entered the court but quickly fell silent when Robert poked him hard in the ribs with his elbow. We all stood and the judge brought the afternoon session to order.
Dormer called several hospital nurses to the stand to describe arguments they’d witnessed between Arlen and Chin. Thinking the women might react better to a man, I asked Robert, as second chair, to conduct the cross-examinations. The testimony of one of the young women in particular was especially damaging. With wide, frightened eyes, she told of a particularly rancorous fight in which Arlen vowed to see Chin thrown out on his ear. According to the nurse, my acerbic client yelled back that he would see the accountant in his coffin before he’d permit any such thing. I noticed several jurors directing accusing glances at Chin, who sat, still disgruntled, by my side.
Although Robert used care when he cross-examined the last young woman—who tended toward hysterics—he was unable to shake her testimony in any significant way. Fearful that further questioning would be perceived as badgering by the already sympathetic jurors, he allowed the girl to return to her seat.
Mr. Richard Palen was next called to the stand. A stout man of middle age, Palen had slightly protruding teeth that gave him a noticeable lisp when he spoke. Dormer quickly established that Palen had been Chin’s employer at a popular restaurant on Market Street.
“Can you tell us why Mr. Chin left your establishment, Mr. Palen?” Dormer asked.
Palen smiled with natural good humor. “Chin was a good enough cook, but he had a foul temper. We had to let him go when he threatened to poison Shaw, our pastry chef.”
This created an uproar in the courtroom, and it was several minutes before Judge Carlton could restore order.
“My, my, Mr. Palen,” Dormer said in mock horror. “Why do you suppose Mr. Chin would say such a thing?”
“There were bad feelings between the two cooks,” Palen answered. “At one point, Chin warned Shaw to watch what he ate because he knew more than one way to poison a rat.”
Again, there were exclamations of surprise, but before Judge Carlton was forced to intercede, Dormer announced that he had finished with the witness.
Chin tugged my arm as I stood to cross-examine the witness. “Ask what that pig Shaw do to me.”
I gave a little nod, then turned to the witness. “Mr. Palen, do you know the reason for the chef’s animosity?”
“Sure, it was over a gambling debt. Chin claimed Shaw owed him a hundred dollars.” Palen smiled. “Shaw got back at him by putting a tarantula in Chin’s boot. That was when Chin warned him to watch what he ate.”
I glanced at the jury, pleased to see several jurors nodding their heads as if in sympathy with my client. There probably wasn’t a man among them who hadn’t had someone welsh on a gambling debt at one time or another.
“To the best of your knowledge, did Mr. Chin carry through on his threat?” I asked.
“Naw. Chin was always making threats; it was nothing but talk. When their fighting started bothering the customers, though, we had to fire them both.”
“I see. So you never feared that Mr. Chin might actually take Mr. Shaw’s life.”
His dark eyes twinkled as if I’d made a good joke. “No, ma’am. Never.”
“Thank you, Mr. Palen. That will be all.”
Dormer started to rise from his chair to reexamine his witness, then thought better of it. Instead, he called another employee of the same restaurant, who gave more or less the same testimony as his predecessor. When it was my turn to cross-examine, I spent only a few minutes reestablishing that no one took Chin’s threats seriously, then allowed the witness to be excused.
The moment Palen stood down from the stand, Judge Carlton abruptly adjourned court for the day.
“Finally,” I said to Robert, hurriedly placing my papers in my briefcase. “There’s something I’ve been trying to tell you all day.”
As we left the courtroom, I told Robert about seeing Judge Barlow with Killy Doyle the day before, as well as Papa’s disclosures about Margaret Barlow being the child of her mother’s first husband. I was disappointed by my colleague’s response.
“What in God’s name does that have to do with anything?” was his clipped reply. “The way you bounce about from one suspect to another makes me dizzy—and gets you nowhere, by the way. Only one thing matters, Sarah: who was in the kitchen with Arlen the night he was poisoned?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I exclaimed. “That’s exactly what we’re going to try to find out.”
Ignoring his protests, I signaled to a passing hansom.
“Do hurry, Robert. We want to catch this nurse of yours before she goes off duty for the day.”
We found the nurse in question, Emily Harbetter, assisting the midwife in a difficult delivery. We were met at the door to the maternity ward by Lily Mankin, who was bustling about delivering fresh water, clean cloths and various other supplies in a remarkably efficient manner. Robert paled at the sight and sounds of the women grouped around the expectant mother and hastily departed for the kitchen, claiming he wanted to find a cup of coffee.
As I had never before witnessed a woman giving birth, I must confess I was tempted to join him, especially when the poor young mother-to-be began screaming most alarmingly. I’m pleased to report that I quickly banished this cowardly impulse and, bracing myself, boldly advanced into the ward.
“I know what the poor soul’s goin‘through,” Lily said, nodding sympathetically toward the woman’s bed. “It’s gonna be all right, though. The baby’s head is finally showin’. Mark my words, the babe will soon be out and testin’ its lungs for all to hear.”
Barely five minutes later, Lily was proven right as a healthy baby girl made her very vocal entrance into the world. Not long afterward, Miss Harbetter, Robert and I sat in the kitchen drinking fresh coffee brewed by Lily, before she discreetly left us to talk.
Miss Harbetter, a gray-haired, hardy-looking woman in her mid fifties was, I discovered, the head nurse. Her intelligent brown eyes and no-nonsense manner announced that she did not suffer fools easily. On his earlier visit, she’d informed Robert that she had served with Florence Nightingale during the Crimean War, which, I thought, explained her outspoken air and self-confidence.
“Why didn’t you tell the police about seeing Mr. Pierce Godfrey that evening, Miss Harbetter?” I asked.
“The police,” she said dismissively. “Pack of fools! Tried to tell them what I saw, but they were so sure they had their killer, they wouldn’t listen. Just kept asking if Chin had been in the kitchen with Arlen. Since I was upstairs sorting supplies, I couldn’t answer that one way or the other. It was while I was working in the linen room that I saw Mr. Godfrey go into Mr. Arlen’s office.”
“You’re certain it was Pierce Godfrey?” Robert asked.
“Of course I’m sure.” She sounded offended that he would doubt her word. “He was here the day the hospital opened. Caused a ruckus with the nurses, I’ll tell you. You’d think they’d never seen a man before—fawning all over him like silly schoolgirls.”
Eager to get back to that fatal Monday night, I asked, “Did you happen to hear what Mr. Godfrey and Mr. Arlen were discussing in the accountant’s office?” At her injured look, I quickly added, “I’m not suggesting you would eavesdrop, Miss Harbetter. I just thought perhaps you might have overheard something in passing.”
“I’m not blessed with ears that can hear through closed doors,” she replied shortly. She seemed to think of something and added, “You might ask Mrs. Barlow. She was here that night. Maybe she knows what Arlen and Godfrey were talking about.”
Robert and I stared at her.
“Mrs. Barlow was here that evening?” I asked her. “Are you quite sure?”
Again, I received what I was coming to regard as the look. “Of course I’m sure. Saw her just as she was going into the kitchen. After that, who knows where she went?”
“What time did you see her?” Robert inquired.
She considered this. “It must have been fifteen or twenty minutes after seven. I remember because I’d just gone downstairs to fix Mrs. Hall’s seven-thirty medicine.”
“Did you happen to speak to Mrs. Barlow?” I pressed.
“Only saw her for a second before I went into the ward.” She looked at each of us in turn. “Why are you asking all these questions, anyway? It isn’t unusual for Mrs. Barlow to be here some evenings. You act as if my seeing her that night is somehow important.”
“Yes, Miss Harbetter,” I told her. “It may be very important indeed.”
Robert and I spent the next hour going over Arlen’s office. Everything was neat and well organized, yet we found nothing to indicate why the accountant met with Pierce that night. We went through Arlen’s files and even examined a dozen or so accounting books arranged on a shelf behind his desk, along with an address book and a small silver salver filled with business cards.
While Robert inspected the address book, I glanced through the cards. Most were from the contractors, plumbers and painters engaged in renovating the warehouse. There were also cards from various board members and one printed with the name Matthew Grady, of the First National Gold Bank of San Francisco. Someone, I presumed Arlen, had penned the initials “PG” on the card, along with the notation “Tues. 3:30.” Not very helpful, I thought in frustration. If Arlen and Pierce really did meet that night, the accountant hadn’t seen fit to keep a written record of what transpired.
On impulse, I placed the business cards inside my briefcase before we finally gave up the search. At least, I thought, I wouldn’t go home empty-handed.
That evening, Papa, Samuel, Robert and I gathered in my father’s study in yet another attempt to formulate a defense strategy. I brought my brother up to date on our latest findings, then said, “This afternoon Robert and I questioned the nurse who saw Pierce Godfrey at the hospital the night Arlen was poisoned. She claims she also saw Mrs. Barlow there that evening. She seems certain of her story, although I question how the Barlows could have returned from Menlo Park so early.”
“They were never in Menlo Park,” Papa said quietly.
“What?” Samuel and I said simultaneously
It was obvious Papa took no pleasure in this revelation. “We assumed the Barlows were meeting their architect, Harold Peterson, in Menlo Park, because that’s the location of their new home. If you remember, the police report stated they left the architect’s office shortly after six o’clock. What the report failed to mention is that Peterson’s office is here, in the city.”
“Oh my,” I said, considering how this news changed things. “I was sure the Barlows had an alibi for that evening. Now—”
“Now we have to reexamine their movements that night,” Papa put in.
My heart went out to my father. The discovery of his best friend’s secret life seemed to have aged him overnight. “Oh, Papa, I’m so sorry.”
“No need to apologize, Sarah. Tobias knew what he was doing when he got into the sweatshop business. Once the news becomes public it will destroy his career, of course. But that was a risk he accepted when he chose to exploit children and poor immigrants with no other means to support their families.”
“So,” Samuel asked, “
where do we go from here?”
“Now that we know there’s no good reason the Barlows couldn’t have been at the hospital that evening, it seems to me we have five main suspects: Leonard and Pierce Godfrey, Reverend Prescott and, of course, Margaret and Tobias Barlow. Each of them, either individually or working together, had motive and probably opportunity to kill all four victims.
“Yes,” I continued before I was interrupted, “I’m including Caroline Godfrey and Josiah Halsey with Arlen and Dora Clemens. It’s the only theory that makes any sense. Burying our heads in the sand will only insure that the killer goes free.”
This prompted a lively discussion that went on for the next half hour. Who knows when it might have ended, if Edis hadn’t brought in a fresh pot of coffee.
“Please!” I interjected, as Papa poured hot coffee into our cups. “This is getting us nowhere. We have five primary suspects. You can debate all night whether or not the crimes are connected, but the fact remains that these five people are all we have to work with. The prosecution may rest its case as early as tomorrow afternoon. After that, I’m going to have to stand up in front of the jury and present my defense. We must come up with a plan.”
“I’ve spent days trying to dig up dirt on these so-called suspects of yours,” Samuel said, looking bleak. “It hasn’t gotten us very far.”
“I agree, Sarah,” put in Robert testily. “As usual, you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. I warned you not to take this case in the first place, but you were too obstinate to listen. Now you’re paying the price for being so confounded stubborn.”
“Calm down, everyone,” Papa admonished, silencing Robert with a look. “Recriminations aren’t going to help. We’re here to decide how best to construct Chin’s defense. Sarah’s right; she’s the one who’s going to be in the line of fire. For her sake, we must stop arguing and settle on a strategy.”
The Russian Hill Murders Page 20
