Free Murder on Nob Hill by Shirley Tallman

invariably spills in boyish locks
    onto his brow. Despite the unflattering uniform relegated to San Francisco's Finest, George wore his blue long coat and bowler hat with pride. It was reassuring to know that the appalling corruption that existed in our police department had not as yet filtered down through the entire rank and file.
    One look at their faces told me that something was wrong. “What is it?” I asked without preamble. “What's happened?”
    Samuel deferred to his friend, who regarded me unhappily.
    “There's been another murder, Miss Sarah,” he blurted. “Rufus Mills was found dead last night—in Chinatown. He was, er—” George turned red, stumbling to find the right words.
    “There's no delicate way to say this, Sarah,” my brother broke in. “Rufus Mills was stabbed to death in the genitals.”

CHAPTER FOUR
    W e lunched at a nearby hotel, but I paid scant attention \ / \ / to either the food or my companions. While George and my brother discussed a story Samuel was researching for the Police Gazette , I mulled over Rufus Mills's death. According to George, the police surgeon speculated that Mills had been dead at least twenty-four hours before his body was discovered in one of Chinatown's back alleys. That meant he’d probably been killed not long after leaving Frederick's party Saturday night. Obviously his story about returning home to nurse a sick wife had been merely an excuse, since he’d gone to Chinatown instead. But why? I asked myself. What possible reason could he have had for venturing into an area considered so unsavory that even the police avoided it after dark?
    “Sarah? You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”
    I came out of my thoughts to find both men staring at me. “I’m sorry, Samuel, what—?”
    “I asked how your meeting went with Mrs. Hanaford?”
    “She's understandably distressed and anxious to get out of that awful place,” I replied, then looked at George. “Which, thankfully, shouldn’t be long now. Horrible as it is, this second murder will at least guarantee her speedy release.”
    “Second murder?” George's intelligent brown eyes, normally cheerful and eager to please, were uncharacteristically serious. “I’m afraid I don’t take your meaning.”
    “Surely it's clear enough, George,” I told him. “Regardless of the alleged evidence against Annjenett for her husband's death, she can hardly be charged with killing Rufus Mills from her jail cell. His murder proves my client's innocence.”
    George cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Miss Sarah, but we’ve found no evidence to indicate that the two deaths are connected.”
    For some reason, George always seems uncomfortable in my presence. Samuel insists it's because the man is enamored of me, a notion I find too absurd to credit. More likely, his uneasiness stems from my penchant for speaking my mind, a characteristic many men seem to find intimidating. Insecurity, however, is no excuse for pigheadedness.
    “Then you haven’t looked hard enough,” I retorted. “It defies logic that Hanaford and Mills should be murdered within weeks of each other, and in an identical manner, and not be related.”
    George winced at my reference to how the two victims had met their unfortunate ends. “It's a coincidence, I assure you, Miss Sarah. I’d like to help your client, but I’m afraid the charges against her won’t be dropped because of Mr. Mills's death. Unless you know something to link them?” He looked at me expectantly, as if hoping I might pull a rabbit out of my hat.
    It galled me to admit that I had nothing substantive to offer beyond my own intuition. “A number of possibilities present themselves,” I said, angry to detect a note of defensiveness in my voice.
    “Cornelius Hanaford and Rufus Mills might have been associated in a way we’re not yet aware. Perhaps they shared a common enemy who wished to see them dead. We also need to establish who gained from their deaths. Where were