The Bohemian Murders (14 page)
Read The Bohemian Murders Online
Authors: Dianne Day
That blow might have snapped your neck!
the Voice said. And I said, “Hush up!” but I was rubbing the back of my neck unconsciously as I went back inside.
I returned to the watch room and sat down again at the typewriter. Should I work on Artemisia’s novella or Arthur Heyer’s ghost stories? I decided on the latter, due to their lack of any Artemisia connection. The title of Arthur’s manuscript was
Ghostly Tales of the Central Coast.
I prepared two title pages, inserting the word
California
on the second, as one can only suppose that many regions must have coasts that are central to them. Perhaps Arthur would be grateful for my suggestion; on the other hand, taking into account the way my luck had been running, perhaps not.
Then I typed Arthur’s long preface, in which he thanked half the population of Carmel and Monterey and every hermit in Big Sur (or so it seemed), and described his method of collecting “oral histories” in boring, pedantic terms. I had always thought titillation was the point of ghost stories, but to Arthur these tales were cultural artifacts. One could only hope the tales themselves would be less dry than the preface.
The first story, “The Little Lost Child,” got off to a less-than-promising start with a catalog of the communities and regions in which variants of this same tale appear. Then it listed the variations, thereby giving away part of the story and ruining the suspense. I made a note to suggest that he might place these bona fides, or whatever he wanted to call them, after the stories rather than before. And then I began to type “The Little Lost Child.”
A dashing
Californio
was riding his handsome horse over Carmel Hill one foggy summer night. He had been courting his
señorita,
who lived with her parents on a
rancho
in the Carmel Valley; it was late and he was tired and eager to get back to his house in Monterey.
Just as he approached the summit, he thought he heard something. What was that? He slowed his horse and listened carefully. It was the sound of … the sound of … someone sobbing!
The
Californio
walked his horse at a snail’s pace while his sharp eyes darted from one side of the road to the other, looking for the one who cried. It was a still night with no wind; the jingling of his spurs sounded clear and bright as bells. The sobbing had stopped. Perhaps he had imagined it?
But no; there it was again! With the heavy gray mist shrouding everything, the
Californio
—for the sake of convenience, shall we call him Juan?—Juan could barely see beyond his horse’s pricked ears. A sudden chill came over him, and an inexplicable desire to spur the steed to a gallop, to come down from Carmel Hill as fast as man and mount might fly.
“For shame!” He upbraided himself; then he called out more loudly: “
Hola!
Where are you?”
Ahead in the middle of the road a patch of fog swirled and cleared; the crying stopped midsob, and a child in a white nightgown was standing there.
“Pobrecito!”
said Juan, sliding down from the saddle and approaching the child, a beautiful infant of about a year old, with golden hair and big dark eyes, a button nose and rosebud mouth, and a tiny chin that trembled. “Do not cry anymore,” said Juan. “We will find your mama and papa.”
The child smiled and raised its chubby arms in a plea to be picked up, which Juan did, smiling and marveling. Just such a beautiful child would be his one day soon, when he and his
señorita
were married. Tucking the infant against his chest, with a graceful bound and a jingle of spurs Juan leapt back into the saddle.
The horse, which was a strong animal with a brave heart, whinnied and reared. “What is wrong with you?” Juan scolded, struggling to get the animal under control with one hand, while with the other he held tightly the little lost child. The child whimpered. “See what you have done?” Juan went on to the horse. “You have upset the
pobrecito,
a poor little thing that has lost its parents.”
When the horse settled down Juan urged her forward at a slow pace, expecting at any moment for the
fog to thin and reveal an overturned wagon, or perhaps a woman pinned beneath her fallen steed—for how else could this child come to be along the road?
“Can you tell me your name,
pobrecito?”
Juan cajoled. The child obligingly began to babble, but nothing it said made sense. Indeed, the sounds it made were like some strange foreign tongue, all full of gnashing and hissing. And yet the child was happy, for it laughed and waved its chubby starfish hands in the air. There was no overturned wagon, no fallen horse, nor any breaks in the brush along the side of the road where a wagon might have gone over.
A most peculiar feeling had come over the
Californio.
Although, like his horse, he was very brave and afraid of hardly anything, the chill he felt would not go away, and a sick sort of emptiness was creeping up his spine. Where had this child come from? It was really most peculiar.
The little lost child babbled on in its strange language, waving its hands about, quite content in Juan’s arms. But Juan was not content, he was in dismay. He looked down at the babe, and for a moment was reassured by the baby-grin and the angelic cloud of golden hair. “Truly you are a beautiful child,” Juan said. “I suppose until we find your mama and papa, I must take you home with me.”
The grinning child opened its rosebud lips, smiling wider … and wider … and wider. And the dashing
Californio
’s eyes grew wider, too, for the child’s mouth was full of teeth, crammed with teeth, row upon row of sharp, pointed, animal teeth.
“
Madre de dios!
” exclaimed Juan, crossing himself. “You are not human! What are you?”
The front doorbell jangled. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” I exclaimed, thoroughly caught up in the story. I yelled out, “Just a minute!” although there was very little chance that I’d be heard down two flights of stairs and through thick stone walls. I did not type, but quickly read the last few sentences of “The Little Lost Child”:
A growl came out of the infant’s throat, dark and low and threatening. “My name is Legion,” the baby said. And a very frightened but still dashing
Californio
leaned down out of the saddle, deposited the child by the side of the road, galloped off, and left it there. A warning: If ever you are crossing Carmel Hill and you hear a child crying, stop your ears but not your journey. Ride on by!
“Well,” I said, hastening down the stairs, smoothing my skirt along the way, “that was quite a story!” My head, which still felt a little strange, warned me to go more slowly, and I called out again, “I’m coming!”
I glanced at myself in the dining room mirror as I hurried past—the bruise along my cheekbone looked ghastly but there was not much I could do about it. I do not wear powder, and I doubt anyway that mere powder would have done much to disguise such a seriously awful shade of purplish red. Whoever was at the door would just have to take me as I was.
I had already jerked the door open when the thought occurred to me that I should have been cautious, opened it only an inch or so and peered out. Next time I would remember; this time all was well. The caller was none other than Braxton Furnival.
“Good morning,” he said, losing his polite smile as his eyes flickered over my bruised face. But Braxton was smooth; he recovered immediately, hiding his expression by tucking his head into a suave little bow that did not go at all with his big body. He was as well dressed as usual, though in a style less formal than I had heretofore seen him wear: a leather jacket in a sort of butterscotch color, a yellow ascot tie at the neck, soft wool trousers, boots. No hat.
“I found your communication,” he continued, “took you at your word, and came on to the lighthouse.”
“I am so glad you did,” I said, smiling, and stepping back. “Will you come in, Mr. Furnival?”
“Braxton.” He winked. “Don’t mind if I do.”
We sat in the parlor, and I wished for the first time in ages that I had someone to bring in coffee or tea. Hettie’s
parlor is quite formal, due to the fact that before she was widowed and became a lighthouse keeper she had lived in a rather fine house. She had brought that lifestyle and some of its furnishings with her: colored glass lamps dripping crystal pendants, brocaded upholstery, lacy antimacassars, oriental rugs, a silver tea service, and more. Braxton Furnival seemed quite at home in these surroundings. So much so that I wondered if he had been there before.
I asked, “Are you acquainted with Mrs. Henrietta Houck, the lighthouse keeper, by any chance?”
He smiled. His face was so cleanly shaven that it shone as if polished. “No, I am not. I thought you were the lighthouse keeper. In addition to your typewriting service, of course.”
“I am, but only temporarily. Mrs. Houck will return in six months.”
“Oh, yes. So you said; I remember now. But after her return you’ll be staying on in Pacific Grove?”
“That depends on a number of things,” I said vaguely, then changed the subject. “I’ve done some of your letters and envelopes. I have them here rather than at the office. If you want to take them with you …?” I deliberately skirted the subject most on my mind, which was the sketch of Jane Doe that I’d left under his knocker.
He introduced it himself, pulling the folded paper from an inside pocket. With a snap he unfurled it. “Nope. I came about this—you left it on my front door. I’m not sure when, because I do my coming and going from the side door. Anyhow, I found it this morning and thought I’d best come right along.”
“It was only yesterday. Do you know her?” I asked, with an effort to appear casual, whereas actually my heart had begun to beat too rapidly.
Braxton turned the sketch over and studied it; he was farsighted and held it at arm’s length, frowning slightly. “I might. Then again, I might not. Is it a good likeness?”
“I am not sure. The woman is dead.” I closely observed his reaction, which was minute, only a twitching of the tiny muscles about the eyes. “She was pulled from the bay about ten days ago, with only half her face. The
fish had eaten the rest. That sketch is a postmortem extrapolation.”
He grimaced, and for a moment there was censure in his expression—which did not surprise me in the least. I had been deliberately rather grisly. “You’re the artist? You drew this?” he asked.
“No. I caused it to be drawn by a friend.”
“On whose authority?” He sounded suddenly sharp.
“On my own authority.”
Oddly enough, this bold reply seemed to satisfy him. The set of his shoulders relaxed and he smiled, showing even teeth that seemed very white against his tanned skin. “May I assume that you are not working with the police?”
I inclined my head, which cost me; pain flashed behind my eyes while I replied in the affirmative.
“Then on whose behalf,” he persisted, “are you making an attempt to identify this woman? She cannot mean anything to you, or you would know her identity yourself. Are you an agent, Miss Jones?”
“No,” I said. But what an interesting idea! “How do you mean, an agent?”
Braxton’s eyes narrowed. “You’re an unusual sort of woman, Fremont. The sort, I think, they would choose.”
My head throbbed dangerously. Stress, I supposed, must make it do that. “They? I’m sorry, Braxton, but I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
“Pinkerton’s,” he said.
“The detective agency? I’ve heard of Pinkerton’s, of course. Do they employ females?” I was genuinely interested. For the moment I forgot poor Jane Doe.
“Yep.” Braxton stretched his long legs out, crossing his booted feet at the ankles.
“I suppose,” I mused, “they must have an office in San Francisco, or perhaps Oakland, since one hears they do a good deal of work for the railroads. I confess it never occurred to me they would have women detectives, but I do think it is a splendid idea.” I gave Braxton a brilliant smile.
He waved the sketch at me. “Far as this woman goes
—d’you think I could take a look at what’s left of her? Without the police knowing?”
In spite of the fact that I have little use for the police myself, I get rather suspicious when someone else tries to avoid them. Perverse of me, I know, but there it is. I decided that an attitude of complicity might elicit some information, so I said, “I quite sympathize. I am not overfond of the police either.”
“Oh?” His eyes flashed interest. They were gray, and flashed silver, like his excellent hair.
“The police in San Francisco are sometimes not entirely honest,” I explained. “Last year a corrupt policeman did his best to have me accused of a crime. He did not succeed, fortunately.”
“And were you innocent or guilty?”
“Innocent, of course!”
“Of course.” His eyes roamed my face, lingering on my bruised cheek. But he did not mention it; to do so would have been rude in the extreme. His voice dropped and took on a suggestive tone. “Well, how about it? Shall we go take a look at this dead woman, see if I know her once I’ve seen her in as much flesh as she’s got left? That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“Indeed,” I said, rising slowly because my aching head was telling me to move with care. “I will just get my shawl.”
Braxton’s automobile was one of the new touring models, a natty Oldsmobile, dark green with brass trim. It quite put plain old black Max in the shade. All the jouncing, however, was not good for my head. I was most relieved when Braxton, following my directions, pulled up alongside Mapson’s Mortuary.
“I know the man,” Braxton said, assisting me from the passenger seat. For once such assistance was not just female foolishness—I needed it. “Know him through the business community,” he added. “I’ll handle this.”
I acquiesced willingly, even walking a few steps behind. I stood back, too, when the door was opened by a different person this time. Not Long and Tall Tom, but an altogether rounder, older man whose immediate recognition of my silver-haired companion suggested it was
Mapson himself. They greeted each other heartily and after the usual ritual of handshaking and meaningless comments, Braxton said, “I’ve come to take a look at that Jane Doe you’re holding. Heard about her through the lady here, Miss Fremont Jones. She’s lighthouse keeper out to Point Pinos and discovered the body in the first place.”