Angel of Death
Chapter 1
Malachai Crown was a very unhappy man.
In his lengthy employment with The Coastal and Western Railroad, he'd handled many delicate and "unusual" assignments for his immediate superior, Hannibal Jordan, President, Chairman of the Board and majority stockholder of said railroad. Those assignments had included, but were certainly not limited to, bribery, blackmail, influence peddling, smear campaigns, intimidation, arson, kidnapping and even murder. Of course, Crown never dirtied his own hands with such matters but was excellent at recruiting those who could be counted on to complete any required task for the right price. But this was strange, even by his employer's admittedly loose standards.
He'd been summoned by Jordan earlier in the day. Without explanation, his employer had handed him a note bearing an address and a time.
"Memorize that address," Jordan had told him sternly. "Tonight, you will personally go there at the specified time. You'll be met and will discuss a very important, very confidential undertaking. You will then come to the office tomorrow morning at precisely eleven o'clock and relay all the information to me and no one else. Under NO circumstances are you to discuss this meeting with anyone."
Dutifully, Crown had memorized the address and time and then handed the paper back to Jordan who'd burned it in his ashtray and scattered the ashes into his wastebasket. Knowing his employer's temperament, he asked no questions and left when Jordan nodded curtly to dismiss him.
At that moment, his cab stopped in front of The Bistro, a fashionable, elegant cafe in a very nice section of Nob Hill. Crown got out and went inside.
"Good evening, sir," the head waiter smiled and bowed. "Welcome to The Bistro. Have you a reservation?"
"No, but I'm meeting someone here."
"Your name, sir?"
"Crown."
The waiter's smiled broadened and he positively glowed. "Of course, Mr. Crown," he gushed. "We've been expecting you. Your party is in the private Crystal dining room upstairs. If you'll come this way."
He led Crown through the main dining room, crowded at the dinner hour with beautiful women in gorgeous gowns and jewels and men in evening clothes. They climbed the tall, wide staircase and proceeded down the hall past several closed doors, all bearing plaques announcing, "Amethyst" and "Ruby" and at last, "Crystal." The waiter knocked lightly and almost instantly, the door was opened.
"Mr. Crown," the waiter told the man, bowed slightly and left.
The man on the other side of the door was in his middle thirties, Crown judged, tall and muscular beneath his impeccably tailored tuxedo and white ruffled shirt, every strand of his neatly trimmed, sandy hair in place. His penetrating slate gray eyes flickered lazily over Crown, his expression unreadable. The older man had the distinctly unpleasant feeling that he'd been summed up and found wanting.
"I'm Malachai Crown," he said, trying to sound more confident than he suddenly felt. "I believe I'm expected."
It seemed to Crown the other man examined him another long second before stepping aside and allowing him to enter.
The room was not large, but was exceptionally appointed with crystal lamps and a chandelier, cream colored brocade wallpaper and thick, rich emerald green drapes. A table for two was set in the middle of the room, white damask tablecloth and napkins, ornate green and gold china, crystal goblets, heavy silverware and tapered candles. But the real attraction was the lovely young woman standing by the fireplace, sipping champagne from a slender crystal flute.
She was certainly one of the most beautiful women Crown had ever seen and while he was familiar with most of the cream of San Francisco's female society, he didn't know her. She was not much over five foot he guessed, her raven's wing hair done up stylishly, her heart shaped face dominated by deep set sapphire eyes. High cheek bones touched lightly with rouge and a full, luscious, red mouth. The burgundy gown she wore showed off the creamy pale skin of her shoulders and clung in all the right places. Looking up at him, she smiled a demure but inviting smile.
Setting her flute on the marble mantle, she extended a hand, slender, soft and white as a dove. "Mr. Crown," she said in a voice that reminded him of those musical wind chimes one heard in Chinatown.
Kissing the hand, he bowed slightly. "At your service. I'm afraid, though, that you have me at a disadvantage."
The man appeared at his side and presented him with a flute of champagne. He took a sip and smiled appreciatively. "Excellent vintage. My compliments, Miss...?"
"Thank you," she replied, pointedly ignoring his question. "However, I believe, as does your employer, that time is money and therefore, we should get down to business."
He arched a questioning eyebrow and took another sip of his drink. "Business?" he repeated.
"Please, Mr. Crown," she laughed, "I'm sure that your employer has had me investigated down to the number of petticoats I wear and that he's made you aware of all his findings, so let's do dispense with the trivialities and get to the heart of the matter."
Something in the way Crown hesitated and lingered a trifle too long over his next mouthful of champagne, set off a small alarm bell in the woman's mind. Those incredible eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she regarded him over the rim of her own flute. There was something not quite right about this and she turned it over in her mind as she watched him.
"I'm afraid I really don't know what you mean," Crown was saying, a slight shrug of his shoulders trying to convince her that he was lost but honestly so. "Mr. Jordan only asked that I come here, meet someone, listen to what they had to say and relay the information to him in the morning. He did not tell me the person I would be meeting was a very beautiful young woman nor did he tell me the number of petticoats you would be wearing, although I would make an educated guess of four."
The corners of the woman's mouth turned up a fraction more. "Three," she replied lightly, "I'm a very modern woman. I'm quite surprised that your employer didn't tell you that. But then, it appears there are at least two other things that he failed to mention about me, as well."
"Oh? And what would those be?"
The smile seemed to subtlety harden in place and the musical voice took on an icy edge. "The first is, I am neither impressed nor intimidated by Hannibal Jordan, something which you would do well to inform him. The second is, I do not deal with flunkies and underlings," she bit off the words and practically spit them in in his face. "That being the case, I suggest that you slither back to your lord and master and tell him that if he wishes to seriously discuss business, he will do so in person, at a mutually convenient time and place."
She snapped her fingers once and the man seemed to appear magically. "Charles," she announced without taking her eyes off her visitor, "please see that Mr. Crown gets one of my cards before you see him out. Good evening, Mr. Crown."
Before he could respond, Crown found himself once again in the hall outside the private dining room door.
Outside on the sidewalk, he waited while the doorman signaled for a cab and tried to figure out what had just happened. Jordan had obviously known far more about the woman and the meeting than he'd told Crown and had apparently expected him to transact some sort of 'business,' completely in the dark. This was all very un-Jordan like and only served to increase the unease he'd felt from the beginning of this little charade.
And he'd resented mightily being summarily dismissed by that small, imperious woman like a school boy caught unprepared for his lessons.
Yes. As Malachai Crown stepped into the cab and gave his home address, he was a very, very unhappy man.
