Lady Chesterleigh and the Night Visitor

by Susan Brassfield Cogan

San Francisco , 1935

I received an unexpected visitor late one night in my studio. This visitor did not come bearing a printed calling card, but rather a Colt snub nosed .38.

My darling Henry, who been sitting with me for a while had gone off to bed. I had kissed him warmly good night and vowed I would join him shortly.

He smiled at me and cupped my face in his hands. “Take as long as you need, my love,” he said.

So I kissed him again and sent him off. It was a mistake. I had been telling the truth about coming to bed right away but when I heard the noise above me in the night-darkened skylight, a glance at the clock told me that midnight had long since gone.

I also made a mistake in ignoring the noise. The latch on the skylight is slightly loose and wind off the Pacific would sometimes cause the window panes to rattle. I should not have ignored it, but I was deeply absorbed in mixing the correct shade of gray-green-blue for an important shadow when a man, whose head was drenched in drying blood, dropped to the floor only a few steps away.

I am not much given to shrieks or vapors of any kind, but I could not help but gasp.

When I saw him draw the gun out of his pocket I called for Henry at the top of my voice. I threw my brush and palette at him and turned to run for the door.

“Stop,” he growled, “or I'll blow your legs off ya.” I stopped in mid-step, trembling, pleased that he had uttered a warning rather than simply pulling the trigger.

“You better hope that boyfriend of yours didn't hear anything. If he did, he's a dead man.”

“It's unlikely he heard me,” I said breathlessly, turning to face him. “The bedroom is downstairs.”

“I know,” said the man. “I cased ya a couple a months ago. I know yer whole layout.”

I thought briefly of my Beretta down stairs in my handbag. I longed for the feel of it in my hand. Instead I concealed my hands in the sleeves of my kimono.

“Are you here to rob me?” I have many valuable objects in my house, a few of them in my studio.

“Tempting, but I got bigger fish to fry.”

I assumed theft was this man's objective and his answer intrigued me. In spite of the short, nasty gun barrel pointing at my abdomen, I relaxed a fraction. “Which fish would those be?”

“Somebody aced Linda,” he said defensively.

“I'm sorry,” said I said. “I am not terribly familiar with American slang. What precisely was done to Linda?”

“She was shot.”

“Shot? Have you called the police?”

“I ain't in the mood for jokes, Lady.”

“I see. Who shot her?”

“That's what I'm here to find out.”

He swayed on his feet. Under the streaks of blood he was quite pale

“You look like you have been shot yourself. What happened to your head?” I asked.

“I must a hit it when I fell.”

I gestured to my old Victorian overstuffed chair, which stood near him. “Please sit. If you fall, your pistol might accidentally discharge.”

He hesitated, but I could see now he was sweating even though the room was cool.

I curled up in a corner of the sofa. I deliberately chose the spot Henry had vacated. It still bore traces of the scent of his hair tonic, which comforted me. Henry can sometimes sense when I am in danger. It seemed, however, that this was not one of those times. The intruder lowered himself into the chair I had indicated, but the muzzle of his gun was still aimed straight at me. In spite of that uncomfortable reality, I didn't feel especially unsafe.

“I was not present when Linda was shot,” I said. “I don't know anything about her. How am I supposed to know who killed her?”

“You're English royalty or somethin' but you solve murders. I read it in the paper. You catch guys that have the coppers scratchin' their heads.”

“I'm Countess Margaret Chesterleigh, not royalty. And not a magician. I can't solve a murder sitting here with a gun pointed at me.” In spite of my harsh words I was even more curious about why this man, covered with blood was sitting in my studio. He still had a trace of gray-green-blue oil paint on his sleeve where he had been struck by my palette.

“You will or I shoot you, take what I can get before your boyfriend can run up stairs and clear out.”

“That seems straightforward enough,” I said. “Tell me what you know about--Linda, did you say?”

“Yeah, Linda. We was going to be married after one last big heist.” He seemed to be trying to gauge my reaction to that bit of news.

“Go on,” I said. “‘Heist' is a theft, correct?”

He nodded. “I was gonna rob your house but I took a gander at that black that drives your car decided to take a pass.”

This pleased me. My chauffer, Mr. Johnson, can be quite terrifying to anyone who sees his great size and hideously scared face but who does not know what an intelligent and truly kind man he is. Though I must say Mr. Johnson can be a dangerous man in the right situation.

“That was wise of you,” I said. “So I assume that another heist was planned?”

He nodded. “Me an Linda heard about a big union payroll that was gonna be paid out in cash. We figured to hit that truck after it left the bank.” He rubbed his forehead with his free hand, removing dark flakes of blood and starting a fresh red trickle.

“You should have that wound treated,” I said. “Henry is a doctor. If you would allow me . . .” He raised the gun. I sat back without another word.

“So you and Linda robbed the payroll truck on your own? That was very bold,” I said after the dangerous moment had passed and he had relaxed again.

“Nah. We had Joey and Peaches.”

“I see. Do you think either of them might have killed Linda?”

“Sure. Peaches was just outta stir. Did a two year stretch out on the rock for robbin' a drugstore over on Powell. He'd shoot anybody for a wink.”

My next question was why would anyone willingly spend a moment with such a person, but I deemed the question foolish and kept silent.

“Joey, though . . .” He paused for a moment, seeming reluctant to go on. “He wouldn't a done it.”

“Why not?”

“He used to be sweet on Linda, I think. She's a--was a classy dame.” I smiled. I, too, have been referred to as a “classy dame” on more than a few occasions. At first it irritated me, but now I realize for some men it is the highest compliment.

“Tell me about Linda. What sort of woman was she?”

“She was beautiful,” he said with great reverence. “Not skinny like a lot of dames these days, but curves a man would die for.” He paused for a moment, remembering. “And smart. She's the one who planned the whole heist. It went off without a hitch.”

“It must have been very painful when you found her,” I said.

“When I woke up and saw her layin' there with that hole in her chest, I wanted to lay down next to her and die.” He bowed his head. The gun now lay on its side in his relaxed hand. My next question burned in my mouth but I gave him a moment to grieve.

Finally he ran his fingers through his hair. His hand came away with dark, drying blood that he wiped on the leg of his trousers.

“You awakened to find her?” I said finally, relieving myself of my question. “You had been unconscious?”

“Yeah, I must a fell and hit my head or somethin'”

“You said that before. You don't really know how you got that head wound, do you?”

“Well, the stuff that happened right before is kinda . . . hazy,” he said.

“What is the last thing you remember?”

“After the heist, we all laid low. Peaches and Joey went to a hotel over on Mission and we holed up in Linda's place. When things cooled down in a day or two, we'd split the take and blow town.” He paused.

“I see, please go on,” I said.

“So Linda says, we're outa smokes. Don't wanna look like we're hidin' out, so she's gonna to go get some. I think it's a lousy idea, but Linda goes anyway. She's gone a long time and when she comes back she tells me she stopped for a drink, cause her nerves was jumpin'.” He rubbed his forehead again. I assumed he must have a splitting headache. “Then Linda said it's time for The Shadow and turned on the radio. The next thing I knew I was in the floor and Linda was dead.”

“The radio is the last thing you remember?”

“Yeah, it was even still on when I woke up.”

My thoughts were suddenly racing. I had a terrible thought. I set it aside and looked at all the details he had given me. Those details did not add up. Then I noticed that my visitor was staring at me with eyes filled with pain and despair. His hand which held the .38 was no longer relaxed.

“So your heist was successful,” I said. “How much did you get?”

“Close to ten thousand dollars. Enough to set us all up for life.” I felt a small twinge of pity for the man. I'd recently sold three paintings for slightly more than that and had donated most of the proceeds to charity. I often don't appreciate the comfort I live in.

“That is quite a lot,” I said. “Where is the money now?”

“That's the funny thing. It was all still where we'd stashed it. I figured with Linda dead and me sapped that maybe Joey and Peaches got greedy. But it was still there and I come to you instead of puttin' the ace on the boys.”

The terrible idea returned. Now I was presented with the unpleasant choice of pretending I did not know who killed Linda or telling him who had destroyed his beloved and risk a bullet in my own chest. I opted for the latter. I am not always wise.

“I am going to tell you what I think happened,” I said. “I think I know who killed Linda.” He brightened. He almost smiled. My heart sank.

“Linda was the smart one,” I said. “She planned every detail of the robbery. Am I correct?”

“Sure!” he nodded eagerly.

“She told Peaches and Joey exactly where to stay and how long to stay there. She had ordered them to hole up and they obediently did so. Then she violated her own order. She went out for cigarettes. In fact she, even went out for a drink,” I took a deep breath. My visitor now looked wary rather than hopeful.

“She was not a woman to so frivolously go out. She knew there would be a dragnet. She could be stopped, questioned. Anything could happen. I don't think she had a frivolous urge for a drink. She went to kill Joey and Peaches. Did she own a gun?”

“Yes,” he said. “In fact she musta put up a fight when she was killed. It was on the floor next to her.”

“Yes, I expect she did,” I said. I knew it would not soften what came next.

“After she killed Peaches and Joey,” I continued. “She came home to you. She turned on the radio. Was the radio loud when you woke up?”

“Yeah, it was loud,” said the man. “It hurt my head so I turned it off.”

“Yes, she turned it up loud because she needed your neighbors to think the gunshots were part of the program.”

“Gunshots?”

“Yes, because then she meant to kill you.”

“Me? No! She was everything to me, she knew that.” His voice was the despairing cry of a doomed man.

“She shot at you and you killed her. You must have lost consciousness shortly thereafter.”

“No!” he thundered, jumping to his feet. “Take that back.” He pointed his gun at me and cocked the hammer. I also stood, not wishing to die cowering on the divan. However, his hand shook so hard I doubted he'd hit me on the first try.

“How long has it been since you have fired that pistol?” I asked, my heart in my throat.

“Days, maybe weeks,” he said, through teeth clenched tight.

“Smell the barrel.”

He looked at the gun as if it were a live snake in his hand. Then slowly, slowly he turned it toward his face. When he sniffed the barrel I thought for an instant that he would pull the trigger then.

“Linda,” he whispered and collapsed into the floor.

NOTE: This story originally appeared in the April, 2004 issue of Sintrigue SDO Detective e-zine