Marcia Muller - The Body Snatchers Affair

“The Wanderer’s Rest,” Madame Louella said. “Number one-twenty Davis Street, room three.”

“Using his real name?”

“Yes.”

“How long has he resided there?”

“Not long, according to my friend. Less than two weeks.”

“And how long has he been out of prison?”

“About the same length of time. Paroled for good behavior.” Madame Louella cackled, a sound that made her seem even more witchlike.

“What is he doing for money?”

“He told my friend he had irons in the fire.”

“Irons in the fire, that’s all?”

“Wouldn’t admit to anything else.”

“In which deadfall did your friend encounter him?”

“He didn’t say. I’ll ask him... for another two dollars.”

“Greed is the devil’s handmaiden, Louella.”

“Phooey. Shall I ask him?”

“Only if it becomes necessary.”

Sabina got to her feet. Madame Louella remained seated, peering up at her. “Will you bring the other five dollars tonight?”

“If I can. More likely it will be tomorrow.”

“Are you heading off to find Sneed now? Yes? Well, be careful, dearie. Very careful in that neighborhood at night. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Or your five dollars.”

“Ah, you know me so well. Or my five dollars.”

The driver of the hack Sabina hailed on Market Street was dubious about her destination. “Are you sure that’s where you want to go, lady? Davis Street’s a fair rough place after dark.”

“I’m sure. I may or may not be there long. Will you agree to wait for me?”

It was plain that he disliked the idea, but the offer of double the amount of the fare convinced him and brought his reluctant promise. She sat back as he cracked his whip and set them in motion, her bag with the derringer’s comforting weight on her lap.

Both the cabbie and Madame Louella were right about the neighborhood, though it was not as rough as it had once been. Part of the section of the northern waterfront stretching from Pacific Avenue to Filbert Street, it contained warehouses and lodging places that had once catered exclusively to sailors off, or awaiting service on, the multitude of ships anchored in the Bay. During the Gold Rush era and for many years afterward, John had once told her, the area had been second only to the Barbary Coast as a hotbed of shanghaiing; crimps and boardinghouse masters had worked hand in hand to drug, rob, and consign hundreds of sailors to venal ship captains who then forced them to labor at sea under harsh conditions for no pay. One of the most notorious of the shanghaiers, an evil old woman named Miss Piggott, had operated a saloon and lodging house on Davis Street, Sabina remembered. Nowadays, with the practice of shanghaiing on the wane owing in part to the activities of the Sailors’ Union of the Pacific, the rooming houses in the district were no longer such treacherous places, though they accommodated riffraff such as Artemas Sneed as well as able-bodied seamen.

John would have had a howling fit if he knew she was on her way to Davis Street, alone after dark, in the hope of confronting a likely dangerous ex-convict. A fool’s errand, he would have called it. Stephen would have agreed; he had often chastised her for being fearless to the point of recklessness at times. Well, perhaps this was something of a reckless undertaking, but she was determined to get to the bottom of the business with Carson and Artemas Sneed as quickly as possible.

John’s protectiveness toward her was not the same as her dear late husband’s, of course. Or was it? Neither underestimated her ability to take care of herself, or possessed the old-fashioned chivalrous notion that women should at all times be kept out of harm’s way; and John, too, genuinely cared for her. Once she’d believed his feelings were motivated by seduction alone, but she was no longer convinced of it. It was entirely possible that he fancied himself in love with her, that he yearned to occupy the empty space in her heart Stephen’s death had created — a prospect which made her uncomfortable in the extreme...

She forced her mind free of such speculation as the hansom rattled onto the Embarcadero and north past the Ferry House. John and their complicated relationship seemed to be creeping into her thoughts more and more of late, but this was hardly the time to be worrying about such matters.

Another ten minutes had passed when the driver made the turn onto Davis Street. This was the first Sabina had seen of the area at night and it did indeed appear mean and dreary. It was lighted by street lamps, some with broken globes, but so palely that the shadows beyond their reach were thick and black as ebony. The long bulky shape of a warehouse loomed along one side; on the other stood rows of two- and three-story board-and-batten structures, all lodging houses except for a saloon on the corner of the next block — rat-infested firetraps dating back to the Gold Rush era. Lamplight glowed behind a few windows, diffused and dulled by grime- and salt-caked glass. The street was deserted, only a scattered few pedestrians abroad on the boardwalks.

The Wanderer’s Rest turned out to be the third rooming house beyond the saloon. When the driver drew up in front, he stayed on the box; not for him the gentlemanly act of helping a lady passenger alight in this neighborhood. He leaned down as Sabina stepped out into a shivery wind off the Bay, nervously asked for half the agreed-upon fare. She refused; if she paid him the half, he might not wait for her.

She turned away from his protest, drawing her cape tightly around her shoulders, and hurried along a cracked brick path leading to the Wanderer’s Rest. The faint, tinny sound of a badly played piano came from the corner saloon; a pair of angry voices rose briefly inside the lodging house next door. Otherwise the night was quiet. A scrawny cat darted across in front of her and disappeared into the shadows as she mounted rickety steps to the entrance.

The door, fortunately, was unlatched. Sabina stepped into a gloomy, gaslit vestibule heavy with damp, stale air; two closed doors faced each other on either side of a staircase leading to the upper floors. Sneed’s room, number 3, would be on the second floor. She lifted her skirts and made the climb slowly to minimize the creak of warped stair risers.

The hallway was so poorly lit that she had to peer closely at the first door she encountered to make out a crudely painted numeral 3. A thin strip of lamplight shone at the bottom of the door, indicating that the room was occupied. She slid her hand inside her bag, grasped the derringer’s handle, then laid her ear close to the door to listen. No sounds came from within. She drew the Remington and tapped its short barrel on the panel.

The door was off its latch; she heard a faint creak and another thin strip of light appeared along its vertical edge. There was no response to the knock, nor to a second. Sabina held a deep breath, raised the derringer, and pushed the door inward with her free hand.

What she saw brought a sharp release of the held breath. Yes, the room was occupied, but not in the way she’d expected. The man lying curled on his side on the bare floor, a patch of blood gleaming on the front of his linsey-woolsey shirt and eyes open wide in a sightless stare, was quite plainly dead.

Sabina stepped quickly inside, easing the door shut behind her. This was not the first time she’d encountered a victim of lethal violence, but the suddenness of her discovery and the stench of death that permeated the sparsely furnished room caused her gorge to rise. She locked her throat muscles and took several deep breaths to steady herself before she approached the body.

She had never seen the man before. He had been in his forties, partially bald, his craggy face pale-skinned beneath a thin growth of reddish whiskers. Roughly dressed, although the boots he wore looked to be new and fairly expensive. Artemas Sneed? The pale skin prison pallor?