The Russian Hill Murders Read Online Free

let loose upon an unsuspecting public. For reasons that defy comprehension, Joseph Shepard had purchased one.
    For the past three months it had sat upon my desk, an ungainly tribute to man’s inhumanity to man. I had poked, prodded, coaxed and even shed tears in a mostly futile attempt to get the accursed
thing to do my bidding. As far as I could see, the Caligraph had not been designed to accommodate any fingers designed by God. Mine certainly refused to cooperate. Every time I placed them on the keyboard they seemed to balloon to twice their normal size, usually striking two keys instead of the one I’d intended.
    Covering this instrument of torture, I embarked on my appointed rounds. Thankfully, I was able to complete them without incident. The last file was promised to Robert Campbell who, like myself, was an associate attorney at the firm. I found him surrounded by books and a blizzard of papers. How he could think, much less accomplish any real work, in such disarray never failed to amaze me.
    “So, there you are,” he said, as usual not bothering with social niceties. “I expected this file an hour ago.”
    This morning, Robert wore a dull brown morning coat with a starched white wing collar and tan flannel trousers. The customary pencil perched behind his ear, and his orange hair flew about his craggy face as if he’d been caught in a windstorm. At six feet, four inches tall, and with muscles no suit could contain, he resembled a grizzly bear who had somehow landed himself inside a fishbowl.
    “Where have you been all morning?” he went on, his Scottish rs rolling along in good form.
    I ignored his poor manners. Criticizing Robert’s rudeness would be like trying to stop a terrier from burying a bone.
    “You have a nerve complaining. Especially as you weren’t the one forced to plow through dozens of legal tomes to unearth this information.”
    “Ah, yes,” he said, his tone almost, but not quite, apologetic. “I, er—it was good of you.”
    “Don’t mention it,” I retorted dryly. “I’ll try to get to that probate case you’re working on this afternoon.”
    He looked sheepish, and I saw that my earlier barb had found its
mark. “No need to do that, Sarah. I’ll, ah, try to find time myself this afternoon.”
    “That’s up to you. From what I’ve gleaned so far, the case seems pretty straightforward.”
    As I turned to leave, he waved a newspaper at me. “Have you read this morning’s Examiner ?”
    “No. Why?”
    “You’re in it. Or, rather, your family is. Your brother Charles is quoted on the front page.”
    I remembered the newspaper reporter who’d cornered Charles for a statement as we’d left the Godfrey house. My brother Samuel—who, unknown to our family, has published a number of newspaper articles under the nom de plume Ian Fearless—is fond of saying reporters will go to any lengths for a story. Including, it seems, standing for hours in the fog on the off chance of obtaining an interview.
    I removed a stack of books from the room’s only other chair, sat down and started to read. The headline announced the untimely death of one of San Francisco’s foremost society matrons, then went on to list her charitable works, including her recent establishment of the Women and Children’s Hospital. The last paragraph named some of her dinner guests, including Judge Horace Woolson and his family, then concluded with an interview with Mrs. Godfrey’s attending physician, namely my brother Charles.
    “It says she died of a heart attack,” commented Robert.
    I looked up from the paper. “Yes, she suffered from angina. Charles suggested the Godfreys’ regular physician order an autopsy, though.”
    “Whatever for?”
    “He seems to feel that Mrs. Godfrey’s symptoms weren’t entirely compatible with coronary artery disease. He thought an autopsy would lay to rest any lingering doubts about the cause of death.”

    Robert snorted. “Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable. It