“I’m not a patient.” Nick showed his badge, worn beneath his coat. The motion also revealed the holstered revolver slung near his hip. “Detective Greaves.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “You have the wrong address. No one here sent for the police.”
“I’m not here because somebody sent for me, ma’am,” he replied. “I need to talk to the doctor about information he might have concerning a police matter.”
“Dr. Brown has done nothing wrong. He’s an honest and decent man. Better than some doctors I’ve worked for,” she added. Not that anybody had asked her for that detail.
“I didn’t say he had done anything wrong, ma’am,” said Nick. “My questions have to do with a Mr. Smith.”
She pursed her lips. “That fellow. Oh, he tried to see the doctor, but I turned him out. Just like I do to anybody without an appointment.”
“What about a man named Griffin?” asked Nick. “Has he ever tried to get past your redoubt?”
“My what?”
“A Mr. Griffin. Wears a red vest. Hard to miss,” said Nick. “In fact, he was seen standing across the street about an hour or so ago. Watching the surgery.”
“Oh my!”
“But he’s never come in here to talk to the doctor.”
“No. Absolutely not!” She peered at him. “Is this about those letters?”
“Maybe you could tell me what letters you mean, and then I’ll decide.”
She paused for a moment. Debating, no doubt, whether to backtrack on what she’d already blurted out or to be honest with the detective standing in front of her.
She chose wisely. “I didn’t see what they said or who sent them,” she answered. “But they upset Dr. Brown greatly. Both times he got one, he immediately shut down the surgery and left.”
“He didn’t share their contents.”
“Not with me. Not a word of explanation,” she said. “Frankly, I’ve never seen him so agitated. It’s usually not very easy to fluster him. Not for as long as I’ve known the doctor, at least.”
“When did these letters begin to arrive?”
Her heavy, graying brows knitted. “The first one showed up around . . . the twentieth or twenty-first, I’d say. And the second one a handful of days later,” she said. “I’ve heard the doctor has also received one at his house a few days ago.”
Interesting timing. “Did they arrive through the mail or by messenger?”
“I don’t know about the one at the house, but the ones we received were pushed through the slot in the door.” She gestured at the flapped slot cut into the wood. “They didn’t come with the regular mail. As I said, there wasn’t any indication on the outside who they’d come from. Just a folded and sealed piece of paper with the doctor’s name written on them. Terrible handwriting, by the way, like the fellow had never been taught proper penmanship.”
“Why do you think it was a fellow?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” she asked, lifting her eyebrows. “What woman would be so careless with her script?”
Nick could personally name a few. “Has Dr. Brown gone home? I’d like to ask him about those letters.”
“He closed the surgery early today and decided to go to the Roman-Turkish baths on Pacific,” she said. “To give himself a ‘treat.’ That’s exactly what he called it. A treat.”
Chapter 9
The Roman-Turkish baths were located two short blocks north of City Hall and the police station. The structure, topped by a pair of cupolas, stood next to the empty lot reserved for traveling circuses. This past May, the clowns and trick horses of the New York Circus had put on their show in that lot. Nick wondered what sort of show Dr. Brown might treat him to inside the adjacent building.
He pushed open the door and was met by a wave of damp heat.
The entry area was spartan and empty, except for several chairs, a small table, and a pedestal in the center of the room propping up a Chinese vase.
A fellow materialized from behind a curtained doorway to greet Nick. “Ah, good sir. Welcome! Are you here today to partake of the Roman-Turkish baths or our Russian baths?”
“Neither. I’m here to speak with Dr. Arthur Brown. I was told I could find him here.” He went through the same motion of showing his badge as he’d done at the doctor’s surgery.
The greeter looked just as alarmed. “I don’t understand. Don’t the police conduct interviews at the station?”
“Couldn’t wait.”
“But the doctor is relaxing in the frigidarium,” he said, sounding horrified at the idea of Nick intruding on the man. “He arrived the moment the hours for gentlemen bathers began. If we disturb him now, the genial benefits of his treatment will be disturbed.”
“I’m happy to follow you.” Nick extended his hand toward what he presumed was the main part of the baths.
Reluctantly, the fellow led the way. “Have you been here before, Detective?”
“No.”
“Well, this first room is our apodyterium,” said the man, having concluded that rambling about the baths was better than silence.
A fellow swathed in loose, vaguely Oriental clothing sat upon a bench with a stack of clean towels and sandals at his side. He must be there to help visitors disrobe and put on their bathing outfits. He looked bored. Maybe the doctor was their only customer that afternoon.
“Next we shall enter the tepidarium, where the temperature is very carefully maintained at between eighty-eight and one hundred ten degrees.”
They strode into the cavernous space, its vaulted ceiling overtopped by one of the cupolas. Sunshine spilled through its colored glass, throwing light on the seats along the walls. A customer with a hairy back lay prone on a bench in the center of the room while another man—dressed like the bored fellow in the previous room—rubbed and pounded him with his fists. A steady stream of hot air puffed through the slotted floor beneath their feet. Sweat trickled down Nick’s spine.
“Our visitors usually spend around a half hour in this room. This allows their sweat to clear their pores and provides sufficient time for our attendant to scrub away their dead epidermis,” explained the man leading Nick. “Dr. Brown must have decided he required less time, since he’s already moved on to our final room.”
On the other side of a curtain, they entered a space hotter and more cramped than the last one.
“The sudatorium,” said Nick’s verbose companion. “Where the salutary effects of strong heat are the greatest. We also have a heated sand bath to assist in opening the pores, if such measures are required.”
“Wonderful,” replied Nick, his shirt sticking to his skin. He could have waited to talk to Dr. Brown in more comfortable surroundings, and now he was paying for his impatience.
“One more room before we reach Dr. Brown. The lavacrum.”
Two customers were in here, having water tipped over their nearly naked bodies by attendants. One glanced at a fully dressed Nick with annoyance.
“Ah, here we are. The frigidarium.” Nick’s companion stepped aside to allow Nick to enter. The only occupant was wrapped in sheets and reclined on a cane-bottomed couch. At least the temperature in the room was tolerable.
“Dr. Brown, I have brought a policeman to speak with you.”
Dr. Brown, his whiskered face pink from the baths, flushed red. “In here?”
“I’ll . . . I’ll just leave you two gentlemen to it,” said the bath’s greeter, scuttling off as fast as his skinny legs would take him.
The doctor sat up, swinging his bare legs over the edge of the couch.
“I can’t conceive what you could possibly want with me, Officer,” he said in a steady, deep voice. The sort of voice that might soothe a desperate patient.
“Detective Greaves.” More flashing of his badge. The doctor was considerably less impressed than the others had been. “I’ve come to ask you about a séance you attended. And a suspicious death.”
• • •
“No one has seen Patrick
at his usual haunts, Addie.” Celia dropped onto the chair by the front door to remove her half boots. The chair that sat right below the landscape painting her husband had bought, a reminder of England’s green hills and cloud-dotted skies. A reminder of him. “I checked his favorite saloon along with a rooming house one of the men at the tavern suggested.”
Addie took Celia’s boots and handed off the soft leather mules she usually wore inside the house. “Maybe he isna alive, ma’am. ’Twas a bogle you saw.”
“I’d rather it was a bogle than Patrick Davies.” Celia stood. “I left my card at both establishments I visited. Perhaps someone there will encounter Patrick and inform me. If he is alive, he has returned to San Francisco for a reason. We shall discover why sooner or later.”
“The divil,” muttered Addie. “By the bye, you have a visitor. I told her it’s past your usual hours, but she insisted.”
“Is it Mrs. Wheaton?” Celia hoped the woman would return. She was worried about her, beyond the damage caused by the wound upon her neck.
“No, ma’am.”
“Ah,” she said. “And take that painting down, will you, Addie?”
“Master Patrick’s landscape?”
“Yes.”
Celia entered her examination room, and the young woman inside hastily set down the ceramic mortar and pestle she’d been inspecting.
“I’m sorry to be bothering you, ma’am.”
“I never turn away a patient,” said Celia, shutting the door behind her. “No matter the hour.”
The girl—for she was no more than a girl, possibly only Barbara’s age—looked about the room as though she’d never seen anything more amazing than a clinic operated by a woman. Her large, deep-set eyes fixed on Celia. “This place is for ladies?”
“Yes. I help women who cannot afford the services of physicians.”
“That’s awful nice of you, ma’am.”
“Thank you for saying so.” Celia smiled at her. “How might I help you?”
“You left a card with Madame.”
“Madame Durand, you mean.”
“Yes. I’m her assistant,” she said. “Though she doesn’t always let me work with her customers direct, or anything like that. I’m still learning.” She leaned toward Celia and lowered her voice. She had clear, honest eyes. “She’s not really French, you know. She says the name brings in the customers, though, so what harm is there?”
“None, I suppose.”
“I can tell you about Dr. Brown, ma’am,” she said. “That’s what you were talking with Madame about. I heard you.”
Celia indicated the chair in the corner. “Please take a seat.” She pulled over her desk chair to sit across from the girl. “Your mistress left me with the impression that the doctor has been troubled lately, and perhaps is being investigated. She has made me question my decision to make use of his medical experience.”
“I’m surprised you’d need the help of a doctor, ma’am. Seeing how you run a clinic and all.”
An intelligent observation.
“I was seeking a second opinion,” said Celia. “However, I am also curious about Dr. Brown because he and his sister are friends of someone I care about. She is concerned that Dr. Brown has become involved in a situation that could harm him or his family.”
“That’s exactly right, ma’am. He has been acting awful strange lately,” she said. “He started to act even stranger after that investigator fellow came by.”
“Madame Durand mentioned that, as well,” said Celia.
“Mr. Smith was his name. He left his card with one of the girls who works at the dry goods store two doors down from the doc’s. He asked a lot of questions about Dr. Brown. Where he’d come from. If there’d been any rumors whispered about him.” She shook her head. “I never have much cared for the doc. He’s a bit too friendly with the girls who work near his office. If you know what I mean.”
Indeed, she did.
“When I was at your shop, I noticed a man in a red plaid waistcoat watching Dr. Brown’s surgery.” The mysterious Mr. Griffin. “Have you ever seen him? I would like to speak with him.”
“That’s why I hurried here as soon as Madame let me go for the day. I wanted to warn you,” she replied. “He strolled into our shop, bold as could be, not long after you talked to Madame. He wanted to know who you were. Had some story about looking for a missing relative and thought she might be you.”
“Did you give him my name?”
“No way we would! Madame chased him out,” she said. “But after he left, she couldn’t find your card.”
A shudder danced across Celia’s skin. “Perhaps she simply misplaced my card.”
“We searched. That fellow must’ve taken it. Madame is certain she left it on the counter, but it’s gone. Thank goodness she remembered your name, though, and that you were here on Vallejo. Else I wouldn’t have found you.” The girl grabbed Celia’s hand. “I’d be scared if I was you, ma’am. Right scared.”
• • •
The baths had private rooms where guests could relax after having been heated and pounded and scrubbed. Nick’s mention of a suspicious death—or perhaps his mention of the séance—had encouraged Dr. Brown to hastily suggest retreating to one. Nick had agreed; he didn’t fancy interviewing a man who was naked beneath a towel.
After Dr. Brown donned his clothes, an attendant brought drinks. Whiskey for the doctor. Lager for Nick, which he didn’t plan to touch. The whiskey calmed Brown, who reclined against the chair he occupied and eyed Nick with a lighthearted twist of his mouth. The room’s tiny window looked to be rusted shut, and the space smelled of stale cigars and lime-scented cologne. Brown’s cologne.
“I’m happy to assist the police, Detective.” The doctor rolled his glass between his hands. The signet ring he wore clinked against the tumbler as it passed over the gold band. “But I assure you I know nothing about a suspicious death.”
Nick reached inside his coat, pulled out a copy of the names on Smith’s list, and unfolded it.
“A couple of weeks ago you attended a séance with your sister and fiancée,” he said, spreading the paper flat atop the three-legged cherrywood table between their chairs. “The man who compiled this list was an investigator we believe your sister had hired.”
The doctor set down his whiskey and scrutinized the list. Finished reading, he slid it back toward Nick. “You should be speaking with Justina about why she may have hired some investigator fellow, not me. She doesn’t ask my permission to conduct her affairs, nor does she need to.”
“Did you know that she’d hired him?”
“As I said.”
Nick reclaimed the piece of paper and returned it to his coat pocket. “He died yesterday. Maybe you read the report in the newspaper. Likely pushed to his death from the window of his rooms.”
The doctor retrieved his whiskey glass. “A situation that can’t possibly have anything to do with Justina or with me.”
“You sure? He’d circled your name on the original list,” said Nick. “And you were seen outside his office a few days ago, arguing with him.”
“Smith.” Brown’s hand shook as he raised his glass to his lips and took a swig. “He was pestering Vivi.”
“What about?”
“She wouldn’t tell me,” he said. Smoothly. “He’d come by the Adlers’ house to question her, and she became upset. I won’t allow anyone to upset her, especially not some slimy investigator. I was angry. Any man in my situation would be.”
“So you went by Mr. Smith’s office to demand he leave your fiancée alone.”
“Precisely. That’s all that happened.”
“And the argument had nothing to do with the séance.”
“Why would it?” he snapped.
Nick waited a beat; sometimes silence was a very effective tool. “You won’t mind my asking where you were yesterday morning, then.”
The doctor downed the last of his whiskey. “At home, preparing for a luncheon that
Justina had arranged. She can vouch for me, as can our housekeeper.” When he set down the tumbler, it hit the table with a thud. “So I didn’t shove Mr. Smith out a window, if that’s what you’re wanting to know.”
“How about you tell me about the evening of the séance.”
“If you insist.” Dr. Brown looked about the room—for the whiskey decanter, Nick presumed, which the attendant had taken with him—before beginning his story. “It proceeded much like what’s often described in the newspapers. I’m not interested in these sorts of things, but Vivi wanted to attend one. She thought it would be an amusing evening.”
“Was it?”
“Séances and the like are truly not to my taste, Detective, but I would never want to disappoint her.” A spark lit his eyes, which improved his otherwise average looks. Nick wondered how old he was. Forty? Forty-five? What did Miss Vivi Adler—a young woman from a well-to-do family—see in him? “We’re to be wed in September, but Vivi wants to pull it in. Says she can’t wait until then.” He gave a smile that bordered on leering. “I’m a lucky man.”
“Congratulations,” replied Nick flatly. “So, the séance . . .”
Brown exhaled. “When we arrived, the room was dark except for the flame of a single lantern. The others had already assembled. Some Griffin fellow who appeared to be acquainted with Mrs. Loveland was glad-handing everybody like he ran the place,” he said. “We greeted each other and sat at the table Mrs. Loveland had prepared. Emery seemed to be a regular, too.”
He paused, his forehead creasing.
“What is it, Dr. Brown?”
“Something about Emery that was familiar, but I can’t place him,” he said.
Nick regretted not bringing Taylor along to take notes.
No Quiet among the Shadows Page 10
