Marcia Muller - The Body Snatchers Affair

“Fowler Alley? No, but I will.”

“Yes. Right now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I believe I know what it is.”

“You do?” He peered at her with his head tipped forward like a crane’s. “What? How?”

“You’ll know when I tell you the solution to the Blanchford crime. The details make it apparent.”

Sabina proceeded to do so, not taking time to savor her prowess as he might have done in a reversed role; her explanation was specifically brief and to the point. When she revealed the gaffe, he saw immediately how it related to James Scarlett’s last words. He smote himself on the forehead. “By Jove, that must be the answer! I’m a rattlepate for not seeing it myself.”

“Well, those are your words, not mine.”

Quincannon bounced to his feet, favored her with a radiant smile as he clamped on his derby. “Sabina, my dear, you’re truly wonderful. I could kiss you.”

“If you try, I’ll box your ears until they bleed.”

He laughed, impudently blew her a kiss anyway from a safe distance, and then went haring out the door.

It was a few minutes before noon when Sabina arrived at the Blanchfords’ Nob Hill mansion. On the one hand she didn’t relish her mission; on the other hand she was looking forward to it. Like John, she derived satisfaction from the successful conclusion to an investigation, even one as unpleasant as this. She could only hope that the matter with Carson could be untangled satisfactorily as well, for his sake as well as hers.

The houseman, Edmund, a thin old man with the face of a mournful hound, admitted her, left her waiting in the front hall while he went to announce her, and then showed her out to the side terrace where Harriet and Bertram Blanchford were having a late breakfast or early lunch at a table overlooking the rose garden. Mrs. Blanchford no longer seemed quite so frail today; her relief was evident in the erect set of her body, the color in her cheeks, the brightness of her eyes. She offered Sabina a thin but welcoming smile.

“I take it you’re here because Blackbeard delivered my message?”

“Yes, as soon as I arrived at the office.”

“I didn’t expect you to come in person, but I’m not displeased that you did. Isn’t the news splendid?”

Indeed it was, Sabina agreed, managing to keep tartness out of her voice. She declined a cup of tea, but accepted the widow’s invitation to occupy the heavy wrought-iron chair between her and her son. Bertram was smoking an expensive cigar — evidently Mrs. Blanchford’s prejudice against tobacco didn’t extend to the outdoors — and wearing an expression of smug solemnity.

“Paying the ransom demand was absolutely the right thing to do, Mrs. Carpenter,” he said. “When I opened the mausoleum this morning, there Father was — back safe and sound in his casket. Though how he was returned is as much a mystery as how he was taken. The door was locked as before and nothing was disturbed.”

“So I understand.” Sabina shifted her gaze to his mother. “I’d like another look at the crypt, if you don’t mind.”

“Why do you find it necessary?”

“I have my reasons.”

“Very well, then.”

“Will you accompany me, Mr. Blanchford?”

Bertram shrugged. “As you wish.”

Mrs. Blanchford took the large brass key from her dress pocket, handed it to him. As before he fetched a lantern from inside the house, then he and Sabina set off to where the mausoleum squatted, cool and dark, at the foot of the garden. When the heavy bronze door was unlocked, the young man stepped back and to one side.

“I’ll wait here while you have your look inside.”

“I have no need for a look inside.”

“But you said—”

“A ruse to bring you down here alone.” Sabina fixed him with a narrowed and knowing eye. “Now, then. Where is the ransom money?”

“What?”

“Have you shared it with your confederate and debtors yet? Or is it all still in your possession?”

“I... I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, yes you do. You no more delivered the seventy-five thousand dollars to Golden Gate Park than I flew upside down in the last windstorm. The plain truth is, you’re the one who planned this body-snatching business. And wrote and ‘delivered’ the ransom demands.”

Bertram blinked, sputtered, then made an effort to draw himself up indignantly. “That’s a slanderous accusation. How dare you!”

“A copycat crime if ever there was one. Inspired by the newspaper accounts of the Chinese tong leader’s stolen remains that appeared just after your father’s death. There’s no use denying it.”

“I do deny it. You know full well that I had no access to the key, no way of getting inside the crypt—”

“Nonsense,” Sabina said. “All that mystification was designed to cloud the truth, keep your mother from becoming suspicious, and focus attention on a nonexistent gang of body snatchers. There is no mystery about the alleged disappearance of your father’s body or its delivery last night.”

Bertram wagged his head, but not in denial. His eyes had already taken on the shine of a trapped animal’s.

“We both know the body was never in the mausoleum,” Sabina said. “It was removed from the casket at the Evergreen Chapel, after the service and before the procession here. The casket is heavy and your father was a slight man — you counted on none of the pallbearers noticing the disparity in weight and none did. Joshua Trilby did the removal work, under the guise of a faked delay with the hearse. He also cut the piece from the satin lining and removed the ring, which he then turned over to you, and stored the body at the mortuary until last night.

“Its reappearance was even more simply managed. The mausoleum key was still in your mother’s possession, though not as well cared for because of the circumstances. I expect you managed to appropriate it while she was asleep. You came down here to meet Trilby at a prearranged time, opened the crypt, helped him with the transfer, locked the door again afterward, and put the key back where you got it. Then, this morning, you pretended to discover your father’s shell.”

“How... how could you know...”

“I began to suspect the truth when I examined the empty casket,” Sabina said. “If a gang of genuine body snatchers had been at work, all the heavy silver handles and other valuable silver trim would have been stolen as well. The casket’s pillow bed was just as telltale. If a body had lain there for even a short length of time, the satin would have retained some impression of it. But there was none; it was completely smooth.”

Bertram said desperately, “If Trilby is guilty, he acted alone. I’m a wealthy man, I have no need for a large sum of cash...”

“You’re not a wealthy man. The estate your father left is not nearly as large as has been generally assumed, and as you no doubt knew; the Blanchford Investment Foundation drained away much of your father’s wealth, and ill-advised stock-market purchases depleted it further.” This information had come from the financial wizard Matthew Wainwright. What she went on to say was courtesy of Slewfoot. “Your own funds you depleted with large bets on slow horses and your impulsive investment in the Ingleside racetrack. You’re presently in debt to Billy the Bookie and other sure-thing operators, and you have no means of borrowing enough to pay the markers. Your mother controls the family purse strings and she doesn’t approve of your passion for horse racing and your penchant for consorting with touts and bookmakers. Don’t bother to deny any of that, either. I know it all for a fact.”

Bertram’s mouth hinged open, clamped shut again. His face had paled to the color of tallow.