Marcia Muller - The Body Snatchers Affair

She bent to gingerly place two fingers against a none too clean neck. The flesh was pliant, still warm. Not long dead, she judged, no more than two hours, perhaps as little as one.

A pistol was loosely gripped in his right hand, but the absence of a gunpowder smell told Sabina that it hadn’t been fired. And that he hadn’t been shot. She peered more closely at the chest wound, and saw then with some surprise that there was a similar wound in his back. Slits, both of them, thin and half an inch in width. Neither had bled much; death must have been instantaneous. No knife of any sort had made those slits, but rather something long and thin that had been thrust into him with enough force to pass all the way through his body. Not so much stabbed as skewered.

By what type of weapon? A saber, possibly, but hardly anyone carried one in San Francisco, not even the officers stationed at the Presidio. A sword cane, more likely. Many men carried such instruments, respectable citizens for self-protection (John had one that had served him on more than one occasion), the more sophisticated breed of criminal for intimidation and assault.

There was no sign of the weapon in any case; the murderer had wiped it off on the linsey-woolsey shirt — bloody smears on one shoulder attested to that — and taken it away with him. An overturned chair and a cot askew against one wall indicated a brief struggle before the fatal blow was struck. Some sort of confrontation, perhaps over money? Possibly, but not between Sneed and another man of his ilk. Pistols and knives and coshes were their weapons of choice.

Sabina steeled herself, breathing through her mouth, and knelt to search the man’s clothing. In one trouser pocket she found a purse, inside of which was a small wad of greenbacks and two five-dollar gold pieces — a total of more than sixty dollars. Robbery hadn’t figured in the killing, then. Which likely meant that the murderer was someone other than a Barbary Coast felon.

There was nothing on the body to identify the dead man. A small wardrobe contained an inexpensive sack coat, a pair of trousers, and two shirts; the pockets in all were empty. A cloth travel bag under the cot yielded nothing, either, and the only items on a low table beside the cot were a packet of matches and another of cheroots.

Was the victim Artemas Sneed? It seemed probable, since this was his room. If so, a man with Sneed’s background and propensities might have more than a few enemies. Any one of them might have ended his life, for any of a hundred reasons. He was also an alleged blackmailer, and blackmailers often preyed on more than one victim. Blackmail could have been the source of the sixty dollars he carried. But then so could gambling, and such crimes as petty theft, armed robbery, and fraud.

And then there was the type of weapon that had been used...

Carson? Oh, Lord, could Carson have done this?

The thought opened a hollow feeling inside Sabina. He didn’t seem the type of man capable of killing another in such a brutal fashion as this, even in self-defense, but then neither did he seem the type to have been involved in a gold-stealing scheme that left him open to extortion. She simply didn’t know him well enough to make an accurate judgment. One thing she did know: The type of long, slender stick he carried could conceal a deadly piece of steel.

The time had come to face him with her suspicions; she couldn’t put it off any longer. Whether he was innocent or guilty of any magnitude of wrongdoing, she would be able to tell it from his responses and his demeanor. No man had ever successfully lied to her about an important issue such as this. She fervently hoped Carson would not try.

The Nob Hill mansion owned by Carson’s father occupied most of a steep block of California Street not far from Huntington Park, on the opposite slope from the Blanchford estate. It was similar in style to the grand French Second Empire — style home built by Leland Stanford, one of the “Big Four” tycoons and architect of the Union Pacific Railroad, though smaller and not quite as elaborately designed. Even at night, illuminated by street lamps and a scattering of electric lights, the three-story, mansard-roofed edifice and its surrounding gardens were impressive.

After alighting from the hansom, Sabina once again asked the driver to wait for her. The cab fare was already substantial; a few dollars more wouldn’t and didn’t matter. The driver was as happy to bring her here as he had been to depart Davis Street and its dismal environs. The fact that his passenger had chosen to travel from squalor to the height of wealth obviously puzzled him, but to his credit he held his tongue.

Sabina hurried through a gate in the spike-tipped iron fence that enclosed the Montgomery property, then through a considerable amount of greenery to the house. A heavy bronze lion’s head knocker made a booming noise when she lifted it and let it fall. The door was opened after a short wait by a middle-aged butler in full dress livery. If he was surprised to see a comely young woman calling alone at this late hour, he didn’t show it.

“Yes, madam?”

“I’m an acquaintance of Mr. Carson Montgomery,” she said, and presented her card along with her name. “I’d like to speak to him if he’s home.”

“I’m afraid he isn’t.”

Damn! “Gone out for the evening at what time?”

“To my knowledge, he has been away since early this morning.”

“I see. Do you know where I might find him?”

“I do not. Nor when he might return.”

“Then I’ll leave a message for him.”

“As you wish.”

“A written message.” Frustration sharpened Sabina’s voice. “In a sealed envelope.”

The butler was unperturbed. “Certainly, madam. Would you like me to supply stationery and a pen?”

“A sheet of paper and an envelope, yes. I have a pen.”

“Very good.” He studied her for a moment, apparently decided she was respectable and not likely to steal anything if left alone, and said as if bestowing a favor, “You may enter and wait in the drawing room.”

The high-ceilinged drawing room was empty except for heavy Victorian furnishings and several large paintings of members of the Montgomery clan, most of them done at advanced ages and rather forbiddingly austere. Sabina fancied the multitude of eyes appraising her as she stood waiting. None of the chairs and settees looked the least bit comfortable.

When the butler returned, she took to a secretary desk the letter-sized sheet of vellum and matching envelope he handed her. Both pieces of stationery bore an embossed Montgomery family crest. She wrote Carson’s name on the envelope, checked the time on the grandfather clock across the room, and then proceeded to write her message.

Thursday, 9:20 P.M.

Carson:

I must speak with you on a matter of considerable urgency. Will you be so good as to meet me tomorrow at one P.M. in the Grand Central Court at the Palace Hotel? If you are unable to do so, please let me know at my office by telephone or messenger, but I sincerely hope that will not be necessary.

She folded the paper and sealed it into the envelope, which she then gave to the butler. “Please put this where Carson will be certain to see it when he comes home.”

“Very well, madam.” He held the envelope gingerly between thumb and forefinger as he ushered her out, as if he couldn’t wait to be rid of it.

Sabina gave the waiting hack driver her home address and settled back on the cushions. She felt almost relieved that Carson had not been at home tonight. Coming here had been an impetuous act; it would have been awkward and unpleasant confronting him, implying criminal guilt if not actually accusing him of it, in his own home. A public place such as the Palace Hotel was more suitable for the task.