The Body Snatchers Affair

6

“No, no, no.” Harriet Blanchford leaned forward to tap Sabina smartly on the knee with a bony forefinger. “Infernal devices, telephones. Bad connections are the norm, so everything gets mixed up. I did not say I wished to hire your agency because my husband has been kidnapped. I said I wished to hire you because my husband’s body has been kidnapped.”

“His … body?”

“From the family mausoleum, though neither Bertram nor I can imagine how it was done. Quite impossible, and yet there you are. They’re demanding seventy-five thousand dollars.”

“Who is?”

An impatient frown creased Mrs. Blanchford’s crepelike countenance. “The scoundrels responsible, of course,” she said. “Perhaps it wasn’t the telephone after all. Are you hard of hearing, young woman?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Then kindly pay attention.”

Harriet Blanchford was a somewhat frail woman in her seventies, pallid and hollow-eyed, dressed entirely in mourning black, but obviously strong-willed, determined, and in full possession of her faculties. It was also obvious that she ruled this grand Nob Hill home, now inhabited by her and her son Bertram, and no doubt had even when her husband was alive.

Sabina said, “Yes, ma’am,” and resisted an urge to remove her jacket, loosen the tight collar of her shirtwaist, or both. The manse’s drawing room was as warm as the oven room of a bakery, with all the windows closed and a fire blazing on the hearth even though the weather today was on the balmy side. It also smelled unpleasantly of potpourri mingled with woodsmoke and fumes from the oversweet violet sachet Mrs. Blanchford favored.

Another case of body snatching, this time for ransom.

A bizarre coincidence, surely; it seemed inconceivable that there could be a connection between the abduction of the Chinese tong leader’s remains and the disappearance of the shell of the late Ruben Blanchford. But no matter what was behind it, Sabina found the grieving widow’s plight to be both intriguing and challenging. So would John when she told him.

“A heinous crime, indeed,” she said. “The more so for having taken place so soon after your bereavement. You must be devastated.”

“We are. Or at least I am,” Mrs. Blanchford added, glancing at her son.

“Now, Mother.” Bertram Blanchford, who was seated on another of the room’s ornate and uncomfortable chairs, was a plump, balding, clean-shaven man in his forties, dressed in an expensive broadcloth suit as mourning-black as his mother’s velveteen dress. “Father and I may not have gotten along, but you know I’m as upset as you are.”

“About the kidnapping, yes, but not that he’s gone to his reward. He lingered at death’s door for weeks before passing through and you gave him little enough comfort.”

“How could I? You’re the only one he wanted at his bedside.”

Sabina cleared her throat. “About the, ah, kidnapping,” she said to Mrs. Blanchford. “Have you any idea who is responsible?”

“Ghouls, that’s who. Monsters preying on the bereaved and grief-stricken.”

“Yes. But I meant anyone in particular, by name.”

“No one we know could conceivably be involved,” Bertram said. “Blackguards from the Barbary Coast is my guess, drawn by the funeral notices in the newspapers. The kind that will stop at nothing, including violence against those who deny them.”

His mother sniffed. “You keep saying that, Bertram. It sounds as though you’re well acquainted with the Devil’s Playground.”

“Hardly. But you and I both know its evil reputation.”

“The racetrack touts and bookmakers you consort with are no better.”

“Now, Mother, you know that’s not true…”

“Do I?” She thumped the edge of her hand on a stack of magazines on a table between their chairs. “What do you call this trash you insist on bringing into the house?”

“The Breeder and Sportsman is a respectable publication, devoted to people of culture and refinement who admire the sport of kings—”

“Balderdash. Sport of kings! Greedy humans exciting themselves by betting on sweaty animals chasing each other around an oval of dirt and mud.” Then, to Sabina, “My son thinks we ought to pay the ransom.”

“Yes, I do,” Bertram said. “It’s the only way to ensure a safe return.”

“Do you agree, Mrs. Carpenter?”

“I’m afraid not. Paying a ransom demand is a poor risk in any case.”

“That is my position as well, at least for the present. I’ll have no rest until my husband’s remains are back where they belong, and none, either, until the perpetrators of this outrage are exposed and punished. That is why you’re here. I have been told you and your partner are competent detectives. The most competent in the city, would you say?”

John would, in a heartbeat. Sabina was, as always, more discreet. “We have had considerable success in our investigations. If you would like references, I can give you the names of several satisfied clients—”

“No, no, that isn’t necessary. I’m already aware of your credentials, though I must say I don’t understand why an attractive young widow would wish to undertake such a profession.”

“My late husband and I were both employed by the Pinkerton Detective Agency when we met. I was not their first women operative, nor the last. More women every year are entering into one facet of law enforcement or another, and proving just as capable as their male counterparts.”

“Mmm, yes. Well, I’m not sure I approve, but I admit to being old-fashioned when it comes to our sex. What assurances can you give me that you’ll succeed in finding my husband and punishing his abductors?”

“None except that we will make every possible effort to do so.”

“A proper answer. Yes, you’ll do.”

“Thank you.” Sabina shifted on the hard cushion of her chair, seeking — and not finding — some relief from the heat of the fire. “Do you have any idea when the theft took place?”

“One of the last two nights,” Bertram said. “Father was laid to rest in the mausoleum on Monday.”

“Have you informed the police?”

“Certainly not,” Mrs. Blanchford said. “Ruben considered the police inept and corrupt, and I quite agree.” So did John, despite his recent dealings with them, and Sabina concurred, though to a lesser extent. “And their involvement would bring the worst sort of sensational publicity, the likes of which I wish to avoid at all cost.”

“Quite understandable. When did you receive the ransom note?”

“This morning. It was in a package Edmund found on the doorstep.”

“Edmund?”

“My houseman. That package, there on the table.”

Sabina had noticed it before, lying atop the equestrian publications, and now she looked at it more closely. It consisted of a small cardboard box with a closed lid, resting in a nest of torn brown wrapping paper and string.

“Go ahead, young woman. Open it.”

The box contained a large sheet of folded paper, a raggedly cut triangle of white satin, and a large gold ring with a distinctive ruby setting. Sabina unfolded the paper. Crude, childlike writing covered it on a downward slant. The message was brief and to the point.

We have your husbans body. Hidden where nobuddy can find it. $75,000 in large greenbaks or youll never see agin. Instrukshuns soon. No coppers or else!

Disguised writing? Faked illiteracy? Possibly, but Sabina couldn’t be certain in either case.

She asked Mrs. Blanchford, “The ring belonged to your late husband, I take it?”

“Certainly. I gave it to him as an anniversary present many years ago. It was interred with him.”

“And the piece of satin — cut from the lining of his casket?”

“Yes.”

Bertram added, “As soon as we opened the package and read the note, Mother and Edmund and I went straightaway to the mausoleum. We found the door locked and apparently undisturbed. If it hadn’t been for the ring and the piece of casket cloth, we would have considered the whole business a monstrous hoax.”

“What did you do then?”

“Bertram and I went downtown to Whitburn Trust to get the mausoleum key,” Mrs. Blanchford said. “After the funeral I put it in my box in the bank for safekeeping.”

“Is that the only key?”

“Yes, the only one.”

“And no one has access to the safe box but you and your son?”

“No one but me. The box was my husband’s and mine. Its contents are of no concern to anyone else, even my son, as long as I am alive.”

Bertram made a sound that might have been a stifled sigh. “You can imagine how we felt when we returned and entered the mausoleum and found the casket empty.”

“And this piece of satin fit into the hole cut in the lining?”

“An exact fit.”

“Devil’s work,” Mrs. Blanchford said. “Almost as if entry had been gained and Ruben spirited away by supernatural means.”

“Mother believes in spiritualism,” Bertram said to Sabina.

“Spiritualism, yes. Demonic ghouls, no. I said ‘as if,’ didn’t I? No, by heaven, whoever committed this atrocity is human and damnably clever.”

“And potentially dangerous to your safety and mine.”

The long-suffering look Harriet Blanchford aimed in Sabina’s direction told her she wasn’t the only one who considered Bertram a weakling and likely a coward. The opposite of his strong, feisty mother — an admirable woman despite her old-fashioned attitudes.

“I’ll have a look at the mausoleum now, Mrs. Blanchford, if your son will show me the way.”

The old woman produced a large key from the pocket of her dress, placed it in Sabina’s, not her son’s, hand. Bertram’s lips tightened; he rose stiffly from his chair. He, too, was aware of what she thought of him.

He left the parlor to fetch a lantern, and when he returned he led the way through French doors onto a terrace surrounded by an opulent garden dominated by rosebushes and yew trees. The cool air was a relief after the overheated parlor. Although she was practical to a fault while engaged in a business matter, Sabina couldn’t help but admire the sweeping views. The Marin headlands, the bay and the military garrison on Alcatraz Island, the forest of masts on the sailing ships crowding the piers and warehouses along the Embarcadero — all were visible in the bright afternoon sunlight.

Nor could she help wondering, briefly, what it would be like to live in such lofty surroundings as these. One day, perhaps, if Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, continued to flourish and she were ever to remarry, she would find out. That thought brought a familiar handsome face to mind, and she quickly shuttered it. Curiously, and a little discomfitingly, the image had been John’s, not Carson Montgomery’s.

The mausoleum stood at the opposite end of the garden, at the bottom of a short incline — a square, squat, moss-coated stone structure with no external markings. Nearby stood a carriage barn, behind which a carriageway led to a cross street beyond. The Blanchfords’ nearest neighbor in that direction, Sabina noted, looked to be several hundred yards distant. Simple enough, then, for the body snatchers to have driven a wagon in and parked it directly behind the crypt. Done in the dead of night, they would have little fear of being seen.

The door set into the mausoleum’s facing wall was made of filigreed bronze and appeared to be several inches thick. Sabina had learned about locks while a Pink Rose, from Stephen and later from experience; she bent immediately to examine the one here, peering at it through the small magnifying glass she carried in her bag. There were no indications that lock picks or any other tool had been used on it. The only marks were light nicks made by the key when it was inserted into the lock. Nor had the hinges been tampered with in any way.

Could a skeleton key have been used? No, not on a lock of this age and type, unless the original locksmith was involved in the abduction. A possibility to be checked, but a highly unlikely one.

“This door is the only way in or out?” she asked Bertram.

“Yes. No windows, of course, or any apertures.”

“I’ll have a look just the same.”

“Are you sure you want to go inside, Mrs. Carpenter? There’s really nothing to see, and it’s rather dank and unclean.”

“Yes, I’m sure. I’ve been in much less desirable places.”

“But your clothing…”

She pressed the key into his hand. “Open the door, please.”

Bertram shrugged and fired the lantern’s wick before sliding the heavy key into the lock and turning the bolt. The door was as heavy as it looked; it took a bit of effort to swing it open. The hinges creaked, but not loudly enough for the sound to carry even at night. The walls were thick and well sealed, the atmosphere as dank and cobwebby as Bertram had indicated.

He handed the lantern to her, saying, “I’ll wait here, if you don’t mind.”

She stepped into the gloomy interior, holding the lantern aloft. By its flickering light she could see four stone biers arranged along the walls. Bronze coffins rested on two of them, both with their lids closed. One of them was small; she went to that one first. Engraved on a silver plate on its side was the name Jennifer Blanchford and the dates 1872–1886.

“My younger sister Jenny,” Bertram said from the doorway. “She died of consumption.”

“Her casket wasn’t disturbed?”

“No. The lid is still tightly bolted, as you can see.”

Sabina went to examine the second coffin. It was one of the largest and most elaborate she had ever seen, with knobs, hinges, and handles made of pure silver. The silver plate on its side bore Ruben Blanchford’s name and the dates of his birth and death. She grasped the handle, and found the lid heavier than expected when she tried to raise it.

Bertram came to her assistance. The lid had been screwed down and the screws removed without damage, she noted. There was a hole in its satin lining where the triangular piece had been neatly cut out. The satin ruffles covering the sides were unmarked. She ran fingertips over the satin-pillowed bed, which was smooth and unwrinkled.

While he lowered the lid again, she bent with the lantern to study the stone floor around the bier. Nothing there caught her eye — no marks, no objects of any kind. An examination of the walls confirmed that they were all solid, inches thick like the door, with not so much as a tiny chink in the mortar between the stones.

Outside again, as Bertram swung the heavy door shut and relocked it, Sabina asked him, “Was the lid on your father’s casket open or closed when you and Edmund first entered the crypt?”

“What possible difference can that make?”

“Open or closed, sir?”

“Closed.” Bertram frowned. “Have you an idea of how the deed was done?”

“I’ve only just begun my investigation, Mr. Blanchford. Any ideas I might have at this point are premature.”

She took the key from him, without any fuss on his part, as they started back to the house. Mrs. Blanchford had entrusted it to her and she would be the one to return it. Her credo had always been and always would be to never violate even the smallest trust.