The Spook Lights Affair

11

The Montgomery Block, or Monkey Block as the locals referred to it, was the tallest building at four stories and the most prestigious business address in the city. Built in 1853, it was home to many of San Francisco’s prominent attorneys, financiers, judges, engineers, theatrical agents, and business and professional men. With masonry walls more than two feet thick, and heavy iron shutters at every salon, library, and billiard parlor window as protection against fire, it was considered the safest office building on the West Coast.

A uniformed operator in one of the Otis elevators took Sabina up to St. Ives Land Management’s suite of offices on the fourth floor. Even the elevator was richly appointed, paneled in rosewood and carpeted in thickly piled blue wool. Sabina checked her appearance in the ornately framed mirror as the cage rose. She looked somewhat pale, she decided, and pinched her cheeks to put some color into them. Not too much; it would be unseemly for a former Pink Rose to come calling on one or both of the St. Ives men looking like that same flower in bloom.

The anteroom in the St. Ives suite was presided over by a young, dark-complexioned male receptionist. On the wall behind him was a large map showing the company’s many holdings in the city and the East Bay. Two large oil paintings decorated another wall, the largest of them of Joseph St. Ives, the smaller of his son.

Both men were present, the receptionist told Sabina, but when she admitted that she didn’t have an appointment with either man, his manner grew stiff and less courteous. Neither St. Ives senior nor St. Ives junior, he said archly, saw anyone without an appointment.

She took two of her business cards from her handbag and laid them on the desk. “I guarantee they will see me,” she said in peremptory tones. “Both of them.”

Joseph St. Ives was in a meeting, which was just as well; it was David she wanted to see first. With some reluctance the receptionist took her card away into the inner sanctum.

While she waited, Sabina studied the oil painting of David St. Ives. There was no question that he was handsome, much more so than his heavyset and jowly father, but the artist had captured a hint of the cold arrogance and vanity in his blue-eyed gaze that had caused her to dislike him on their previous meeting.

The receptionist returned presently, to announce in the same stiff voice that Mr. St. Ives had consented to give her a few minutes of his time. “Follow me, please, madam,” he said, and conducted her to David’s sumptuously decorated private office.

The young man’s hostility toward her hadn’t abated; that was evident in his expression and his refusal to stand and greet her in a cordial and gentlemanly fashion when she entered. He remained tilted back in an insolent pose behind his desk, and continued his rudeness by not inviting her to be seated. He was nattily dressed in a gray coat with matching waistcoat, dark trousers, and a floppy bow tie, but the sartorial effect was spoiled by his pale, somewhat blotchy face and red-veined eyes. Suffering a hangover from the previous night’s revelries, Sabina thought.

He said without preamble, “Have you brought word of my sister?”

“Not yet, I’m afraid.”

“Then what are you doing here? You should know by now that you’re not welcome.” He leaned forward to pluck a greenish cheroot from a desktop box. “If my father has his way, the next time we meet will be in a court of law. Or hadn’t you heard that he is contemplating a civil suit?”

“I’ve heard,” Sabina said. “Be that as it may, I intend to learn exactly what happened on Sutro Heights and why before such a suit can be filed.”

“You’re still investigating? For what purpose? You must be aware of the fact that you’re no longer employed by my family.”

“For the sake of my reputation, and my partner’s, of course.”

“And what have you found out so far? Nothing, I’ll wager.”

“More than you might think.”

“But not what happened to her body.”

“No, not yet.”

“Incompetent as well as negligent.”

Sabina swallowed a sharp retort. “I should think you and your father would want to know why Virginia did what she did, as well as the whereabouts of her remains.”

David St. Ives said nothing. He rolled the cheroot between his fingers, snipped off the end with a gold cigar cutter, and fired it with a flint lighter.

“The answer may have something to do with Lucas Whiffing,” Sabina said. “That is why I’m here, Mr. St. Ives. To ask what you know about him and his relationship with your sister.”

“I know nothing whatsoever about that good-for-nothing whelp, except that my father forbade her to see him.”

“You’ve never had any dealings with him?”

“Never laid eyes on the man.”

“So you have no idea of how he and your sister met.”

“None. Virginia never mentioned it to me.”

“According to Lucas Whiffing, they met by happenstance when she stopped into F. W. Ellerby’s sporting goods emporium one day. But that has turned out not to be the truth.”

“Well? It’s not surprising his sort would lie.”

“I’d like to know why he lied. And why you’ve just compounded his lie with one of your own.”

The young man scowled. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do,” Sabina said. “You do know Lucas Whiffing because she met him through your acquaintance with him.”

“What? Who told you that?”

“Who told me isn’t important.”

“The devil it isn’t because he’s the liar, whoever he is.”

“The person had no reason to lie.”

“Nor have I. A man in my position does not hobnob with a common clerk. Nor invite or allow such an individual to keep company with his sister.” He drew angrily on his cheroot, blew a stream of smoke in Sabina’s direction. “I don’t care to listen to any more of your preposterous notions, Mrs. Carpenter. I’ll thank you to leave my office at once. We have nothing more to say to each other.”

Sabina complied, returning to the anteroom. There was no doubt in her mind that David St. Ives was as much of a liar as Lucas Whiffing. But why? What was the connection between the two of them and why did David, at least, want it kept secret? It might be because he was afraid of his father finding out he was responsible for the liaison between Virginia and Whiffing, but that didn’t explain his relationship with the “common clerk.” Or why his eyes had flashed with anger at the mention of Whiffing’s name, and why he’d referred to him as “a good-for-nothing whelp.”

She waited half an hour for a five-minute audience with Joseph St. Ives, and wished she hadn’t by the time she left him. She had thought she might be able to reason with him, convince him to give her time to finish her investigation, if not to cancel his plans for a lawsuit, but her pleas fell on deaf ears. He was too upset over his daughter’s evident death, too furious over what he termed Sabina’s “criminal negligence.” He hurled invective at her in a voice that lashed like a whip. If she had been a weak woman, she might have fled from his wrath in tears. As it was, she bore it stoically and without comment, and left his office with her head held high and her dignity intact.