The Russian Hill Murders (9 page)
Read The Russian Hill Murders Online
Authors: Shirley Tallman
Chin snapped impatiently at her in rapid Chinese, then in broken English. “Lazy good-for-nothing. Bring pots. Now!”
The girl turned sullen eyes on the cook, then, without hurrying, handed the pans to Chin. Muttering angrily beneath his breath, the cook stood on a stool and hung each pan carefully above the cast-iron stove.
“That stove is Chin’s pride and joy,” Mrs. French explained, in an obvious attempt to draw attention away from the kitchen maid, who continued to stare openly at the minister. “Woe be it if anyone else so much as touches it.”
“He’s a splendid cook, so you must forgive us if we humor him,” Margaret said.
One woman in the group commented that she didn’t blame the cook one bit. “If I had a stove like that, I’d protect it with my husband’s pistol,” she exclaimed, her expression indicating she was only half joking.
“Shall we proceed?” Margaret asked.
She led us up a flight of stairs to the second floor, where the original warehouse offices had been located. Eventually, she told us, they would house not only the hospital’s administrative staff, but also a chapel and the promised playroom for hospitalized children and for the offspring of women who had given birth. The third, uppermost floor would be reserved for surgical operations, storage and a temporary morgue.
Not surprisingly, Reverend Prescott showed particular interest in the chapel, and he looked around the room approvingly. I admit I’d been keeping an eye on Prescott since the tour began, curious to see if I’d imagined his amazing charisma. My interest turned to embarrassment when I realized every female eye in our group was also fastened on him. Margaret Barlow deferred to him as if he were a visiting potentate, while Adelina French hung on
his every word. Prescott appeared to be unaware of his appeal, but I suspected this was largely feigned. Behind those smiling eyes, I guessed he was conscious of every glance, every sigh, every whisper.
his every word. Prescott appeared to be unaware of his appeal, but I suspected this was largely feigned. Behind those smiling eyes, I guessed he was conscious of every glance, every sigh, every whisper.
Our next stop was the room—actually two small rooms joined by a connecting door—that Lily Mankin and her children would soon occupy. I admit I’d been concerned about the arrangement, fearing the board’s promise to house the Mankin family might have been forgotten in the excitement of opening the hospital. I’d even put off informing the widow of the planned accommodation in case it didn’t materialize. I now realized that, far from breaking their word, Margaret and her mother had given the family’s housing needs thoughtful consideration.
“We chose these rooms for Mrs. Mankin because they catch the morning sun,” Adelina said, pleased by my delighted expression. “And they’re located close to the children’s playroom.”
I was already picturing the rooms filled with Lily’s homey touches. “She’ll be so pleased, Mrs. French. And exceedingly relieved. I can’t thank you enough for your efforts.”
Several more rooms on the second floor were also ready for occupancy or were already being used by staff members. Margaret showed us her own office overlooking Pacific Street, which was large and tastefully furnished.
“This is only temporary,” she explained. “We’re in the process of hiring a hospital administrator, but it’s proving more difficult than we anticipated. When we do hire someone, this will be his office.”
We were startled by the sound of loud voices erupting from the next room. When they turned into full-scale shouts, Mrs. Barlow excused herself and went out into the hall.
“Kwei-chan!”
I heard a male voice scream. “Villain! How you expect me cook without proper supplies?”
I heard a male voice scream. “Villain! How you expect me cook without proper supplies?”
I followed Margaret out of the office to find Chin Lee Fong facing off against Lucius Arlen, the hospital’s accountant. Although Arlen towered over him, Chin showed no fear. He glared up at Arlen as if he would have liked nothing better than to engage the accountant in physical combat.
“I’m not a fool, Chin,” Arlen shouted. “I know well enough that a good portion of the money I’ve given you has ended up in your pocket.”
“You call me thief?” the cook exploded, shaking his fist and exploding into a torrent of Chinese.
“I’m stating the facts as I see them,” Arlen retorted. “This is a charity hospital, Chin, not the Palace Hotel.”
Margaret bravely stepped between the two men. “Stop it, please! Mr. Arlen, you know I authorized Mr. Chin’s expenses. I’m sure he hasn’t taken any money for himself.”
Arlen’s look was pitying. After all, what could a poor, trusting woman know of such things? “With due respect, I’ve had a great deal of experience with this sort of pilfering. I have attempted to warn you, madam, but you seem loath to listen. Chinamen are not to be trusted!”
Chin bristled with rage. “You no better than boo how doy,” he yelled, referring to the thugs in some of the more violent tongs. “You lie, try get me fired!”
“That’s where I’d like to see you, all right, out on the street where you belong—where all you yellow devils be—”
Arlen stopped in mid-sentence as an authoritative voice boomed, “Arlen! Chin! You heard Mrs. Barlow. That is enough out of both of you.”
The two men fell into startled silence as Judge Barlow’s commanding figure strode down the hall. Chin’s bravado changed to sulky deference, while Arlen’s face flushed a blotchy red.
“I’ll deal with you later, Chin,” the accountant snapped, dismissing the cook with an angry gesture. “Now get back to the kitchen.”
Chin started to speak, then took in Judge Barlow’s stern face and seemed to think better of it. Spinning on his heels, he stalked in silent fury toward the stairs.
Mrs. Barlow looked mortally embarrassed. “I apologize for this outbreak. With all the confusion going on, I’m afraid our tempers have become a bit frayed.”
“Don’t make excuses for them, my dear,” Barlow said, watching Chin’s departing back. “They’re grown men and should know better than to behave like squabbling children.”
“Judge Barlow, I assure you—” the accountant’s face darkened an even deeper red as he choked off the words, obviously deciding there were times when silence truly was golden. Turning to Margaret, he said, “Actually, I’m glad to see you, Mrs. Barlow. There’s an urgent matter I must discuss with you before you leave for the day.” He entered his office and picked up one of his black ledgers. His demeanor now seemed more agitated than angry, as if something were seriously amiss.
“Mr. Arlen,” Margaret said, following him to his desk. “Can we postpone this until I’ve finished with my tour?”
“I would prefer to do it now, Mrs. Barlow,” Arlen persisted. “It really can’t wait.”
“I’m afraid it’s going to have to wait, Mr. Arlen,” Judge Barlow interrupted. “If you recall, Margaret, we have an appointment with Mr. Peterson this afternoon.”
“Oh, it slipped my mind.” Margaret turned to our group. “I’m afraid we must meet with our architect,” she explained. “We’re building a home in Menlo Park, you see.”
“Whatever the problem is, you can speak to my wife about it
tomorrow,” Barlow told Arlen and, without waiting for a reply, marched out of the accountant’s office.
tomorrow,” Barlow told Arlen and, without waiting for a reply, marched out of the accountant’s office.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Arlen,” Margaret said after her husband’s abrupt departure. “Will tomorrow morning do?” She glanced at her mother. “Or perhaps you could speak to Mrs. French in my stead? She knows nearly as much about the hospital as I do.”
The accountant hesitated, then shook his head. “No, I’m sorry, I prefer to speak to you.”
“Are you sure?” Mrs. French offered kindly. “If there is anything I can do—”
“Thank you, Mrs. French,” he said, “but it’s a matter best kept between myself and Mrs. Barlow.”
“Mr. Arlen seemed upset,” Mama said quietly as Margaret led us down the hallway. “I hope it’s nothing serious. It would be awful if we had to stop work on the hospital now.”
I had no time to reply, as Margaret had stopped in front of a storeroom where dozens of old, rusty paint cans were piled everywhere. As she went on about projected occupancy, I’m afraid my mind wandered. Mama was right; Arlen appeared unusually upset. Moreover, I was sure it had something to do with the books. Raising money for a project of this magnitude was always a challenge, but I’d heard that thus far donations had been generous. What could be wrong?
Mama gave me a little nudge, and I came out of my thoughts to find the group trooping up the stairs to the top story. As we climbed, I glanced out a dirty window, surprised to see how dark it had become outside. Clouds blotted out the sun, and streaks of fog billowed in from the Bay to grip the streets with long, ghostly fingers.
I shivered and realized it had nothing to do with the chill warehouse or the gathering fog. Whatever Lucius Arlen was so anxious
to tell Mrs. Barlow, I had an ominous feeling it did not portend well for the new hospital.
to tell Mrs. Barlow, I had an ominous feeling it did not portend well for the new hospital.
I
had not invited Robert to join me on my visit to Lily Mankin the following afternoon. As a matter of fact, I had actively opposed it. But of course the redoubtable Scot was not easily discouraged. He’d discovered where Lily Mankin lived, and he flatly refused to allow me to travel alone to this—according to him—less than reputable district. Ever since Joseph Shepard had bribed him into dogging my steps during the Nob Hill murders, he seemed to consider my safety his personal concern. In all fairness, this attitude had, upon occasion, proved useful. At the moment, it was simply annoying.
had not invited Robert to join me on my visit to Lily Mankin the following afternoon. As a matter of fact, I had actively opposed it. But of course the redoubtable Scot was not easily discouraged. He’d discovered where Lily Mankin lived, and he flatly refused to allow me to travel alone to this—according to him—less than reputable district. Ever since Joseph Shepard had bribed him into dogging my steps during the Nob Hill murders, he seemed to consider my safety his personal concern. In all fairness, this attitude had, upon occasion, proved useful. At the moment, it was simply annoying.
“What do you really know about Lily Mankin?” he demanded. “You’ve spoken to her what, twice? Yet here you go butting into her life. I can tell you who they’re going to blame if this little arrangement doesn’t work out.”
“Oh, Robert, do be quiet.”
“Blast it, woman, if I’ve said it once I’ve said it—”
“Far too many times. If you dare say it again, I’ll scream. I’m not interfering, Robert. I’m simply bringing Mrs. Mankin and the hospital together for their mutual benefit. And that is all I care to say on the subject.”
We drove the rest of the way in silence, contemplative on my part, sulky on Robert’s. Ever since I’d toured the warehouse the day before, I’d been eager to give the widow the good news. Adelina French said Lily could move into her new rooms as soon as they’d been given a fresh coat of paint. The timing was perfect, as Lily had less than a week before she’d have to vacate her current premises.
When our clarence—a brougham converted into an extension-front hack capable of carrying four instead of the usual two
passengers—drew up before a frame house several blocks south of the Slot (that is, south of the Market Street cable car line), I was pleasantly surprised. The neighborhood, though poor and unpretentious, was hardly the disreputable district of Robert’s imagination. In fact, San Francisco teemed with areas like this, where hardworking men and women eked out a modest livelihood in the fastest growing city on the West Coast.
passengers—drew up before a frame house several blocks south of the Slot (that is, south of the Market Street cable car line), I was pleasantly surprised. The neighborhood, though poor and unpretentious, was hardly the disreputable district of Robert’s imagination. In fact, San Francisco teemed with areas like this, where hardworking men and women eked out a modest livelihood in the fastest growing city on the West Coast.
Lily, appearing weary and somewhat disheveled as she tried to calm the child squirming in her arms, seemed genuinely delighted to see us. Turning the toddler over to her daughter, she led us into a room that evidently served as kitchen and parlor for the family. Through an open door, I spied a second, smaller room, furnished with a small bed and several cots. Toys were scattered about, but otherwise the room appeared spotlessly clean. The dingy walls were hung with prints—most of a religious nature—as well as several beautifully executed embroideries, which I assumed the widow had done herself. Beside the room’s only overstuffed chair sat a basket of mending, most of it, I’m sure, sent over by Mama and her friends.
Lily insisted I take this chair, then bustled to the stove to fetch tea. She returned bearing a pretty, though slightly chipped, porcelain pot and several matching cups, along with a modest selection of cookies, which the children eyed eagerly. Despite the widow’s objections, Robert and I professed not to be hungry and urged her offspring to help themselves to the unexpected treat.
While they munched happily in a corner, I informed Lily of the board’s decision to allow her rooms in the new hospital. As I spoke, her eyes filled with tears and, to my embarrassment, she impulsively threw her arms about my neck.
“Oh, miss, I don’t know how to thank you. You and your mother have been that good to us. And now this, when I thought for sure we’d be thrown out onto the street.”
“Mrs. Mankin, there’s no need to—” I stopped for air and to extract several strands of her hair from my mouth.
As if realizing from my choked voice that she was impeding my breath, she drew back a step. I was unnerved to see that her expression bordered on adulation.
“You’re too modest, miss, and that’s a fact. You’ve done more for us than you’ll ever—”
“Then you’re agreeable to the board’s offer of a room at the hospital?” Robert broke in. His tone, although abrupt, was not unkind. I had to smile. Like most men, he was embarrassed by such an unabashed display of emotion.
“Yes, sir, I surely will. And I won’t let the hospital down, neither. I’ve heard of that woman with the lamp—I forget her name—what nursed them soldiers in the Crimean—”
“Florence Nightingale,” I told her.
“Yes, ma’am, Miss Nightingale.” Her face glowed. “Do you think—? I mean, is there a chance I could learn enough to be like her? You know, nurse sick people and all?”
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