Free Murder on Nob Hill by Shirley Tallman Page A

the two surviving partners that night? What was Rufus Mills doing in Chinatown, of all places? And so late at night. Was he alone or was he meeting someone? What time was he murdered? Were there any witnesses? Was the weapon recovered? Who found the—?”
    Samuel had the poor grace to laugh. “Sarah, have pity on George.”
    I turned to our companion, who was staring at me as if he’d been hit by a runaway train. “You have given serious thought to these questions, haven’t you, George?”
    George opened and closed his mouth, but did not answer.
    “I presume you haven’t been assigned to the case or you wouldn’t be wasting time dawdling over lunch,” I went on. “But that shouldn’t preclude you from offering sensible suggestions to those in charge. If the investigating detectives mean to turn a blind eye to the obvious similarities between the two cases, you’ll need to speak up. A woman's life may depend on the three of us keeping our heads.”
    “Wait a minute,” protested Samuel. “What do I have to do with this?”
    “You have some influence with the local newspapers,” I pointed out. “You can use their files to learn more about the four mining partners. I can’t help thinking the answer to all this lies in the past. So that seems the most logical place to begin.”
    George continued to stare at me with his mouth open. If he weren’t such a fine-looking young man, he would have reminded me of a large, floundering fish.
    “Surely you aren’t suggesting that Mr. Wylde or Senator Broughton has anything to do with these murders?”
    “That's exactly what we need to find out. Really, George, you can’t expect me to do all your thinking for you. You’re a member of the police. They must teach you something about criminal investigation.” The smile had returned to my brother's face. “I fail to see anything amusing about this tragic affair, Samuel,” I told him hotly.
    My brother regarded me over his coffee. “Your defense of Mrs. Hanaford is admirable, Sarah. But you can’t order the police about as if it's your private corps of investigators. Besides, I heard at the jail that Augustus Paulson would be handling Mrs. Hanaford's defense. I think, little sister, you may be about to lose your first and only client.”
    “That remains to be seen.” I wasn’t pleased with his tone. “I had occasion to meet Mr. Paulson after my interview with Mrs. Hanaford. I have no reason to suppose he resents my collaboration.”
    Again Samuel laughed out loud. “Well, if he doesn’t, Joseph Shepard certainly will.”
    George continued to look worried. “Samuel's right, Miss Sarah. I know you mean well, but the evidence against Mrs. Hanaford and Peter Fowler is compelling.”
    “We’ll see about that.” I’d had enough of cynics and naysayers for one morning. Pushing back my chair, I stood and rearranged my skirts. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have pressing business to attend to.”
    I turned and made my way through the restaurant without a backward glance at my startled companions.
     
    I would be lying if I pretended I wasn’t unsettled by the official reaction to Mills's death. Could the police really be so blind—
    or pigheaded—that they failed to recognize the similarities between the two murders?
    Consulting my lapel watch, I saw that my meeting with Paulson would not begin for another five hours, far too long to sit idly about twiddling my thumbs. Since no one else seemed inclined to ask the questions I’d posed to George, I decided I must do it myself. Annjenett's freedom—perhaps her very life—might depend on the answers!
    Lacking a better place to commence my inquiries, I returned to Cornelius Hanaford's bank to speak to Eban Potter. He had known his employer since childhood, I reasoned, and Annjenett mentioned he had also been acquainted with Hanaford's mining partners. If the motives for the two crimes did lie in the past, I hoped the bank manager might at least be able to