“It wasn’t an accident,” Quincannon said.
Kennett’s eyebrows bent upward. “What do you mean, it wasn’t an accident?”
“Just that. Attempted murder is what it was, of both myself and, I suspect, Noah Rideout.”
“But … who would do such a thing?”
“Gus Burgade.”
“Burgade!”
“On his own initiative, perhaps, but more likely on orders.”
“Orders? Orders from whom?”
Quincannon moved, ostensibly to stand closer to the stove’s warmth. Instead, he veered suddenly to the nun’s side and in one swift motion reached up and tore off her cowl and veil.
She gasped and pulled away, pale gold tresses spilling down around her theatrically aged and made-up face.
Kennett released an outraged bleat. “How dare you mistreat a holy woman—!”
“Holy woman? Faugh! She is no more a nun than I am. Her name is Pauline Dupree, an accomplished actress and a cold-blooded multiple murderess. She shot one man to death in San Francisco and two more tonight on the Island Star.”
“You son of a bitch!” she cried. Her hand had snaked inside her habit and it reappeared now clutching a small-caliber pistol. Before she could bring it to bear, Quincannon, who had never before struck a woman, nor ever would except in dire circumstances such as these, essayed a swift right-hand jab to Dupree’s jaw. Down she went in a black-and-gold heap, to lie unmoving with her eyes rolled up. He bent to retrieve the pistol, slipped it into his coat pocket.
Kennett’s mouth hung open in disbelief. Foster had come running in from the kitchen and he, too, stood gawping.
After a few seconds the innkeeper managed to ask, “Who … who the devil are you, Flint?”
“His name isn’t Flint,” Foster said. “It’s Quincannon and he’s a fly cop from San Francisco. I heard him tell that to Mr. Rideout.”
“A fly cop.” Kennett shook his head in a dazed fashion. “And you claim this woman murdered two men on the Island Star tonight?”
“Gus Burgade and his deckhand. You’ll find them both in Burgade’s cabin.”
“But … why?”
“It’s a long story,” Quincannon said. “Suffice it to say for now that it boils down to a combination of ruthlessness and greed.”
Foster asked, “How did you know she wasn’t what she pretended to be? Did you recognize her?”
Quincannon had known it from the moment he first saw her, known for several reasons that it was Dupree in another of her theatrical disguises. But this was not the time for lengthy explanations. He said only, “Detective work, gentlemen, of the most accomplished sort.” Then, “Fetch a length or two of rope, Mr. Kennett. If we don’t truss her up before she comes to, I guarantee we’ll have a tigress on our hands.”
Kennett fetched the rope and Quincannon did the tying. His handkerchief served as an effective gag. In a pocket of her habit he found and removed her room key; it was unmarked, but the innkeeper provided the number. He directed Kennett and Foster to put the bound woman into one of the cane-bottom chairs, and while this was being done he hurried down the central corridor and let himself into her lamplit room.
The first thing he spied, hung on a wall hook, was the red-and-gold hooded cape she’d worn on the Captain Weber. The fabric was dripping wet—further proof, if he’d needed any, that she had gone from the inn to the Island Star earlier, no doubt having left unseen by a rear entrance. Her carpetbag lay on the foot on the bed; he opened it, rummaged quickly through the contents without finding what he sought.
In the small wardrobe against one wall? No. Under the bed? Yes.
He dragged out the still damp leather satchel, the same one Burgade had carried into the Yosemite Hotel yesterday, and snapped the catch. Packets of greenbacks filled it to the brim—a larger amount of cash, Quincannon guessed, than the ten thousand dollars Dupree had extorted from Titus Wrixton.
He closed the satchel, took it with him into the common room. Until tomorrow, when the sheriff of Walnut Grove could be summoned, it would remain in Quincannon’s possession.
Pauline Dupree had regained her senses and was squirming mightily, and futilely, in the cane-bottom chair. Her face was congested with fury. She glared pure hate at Quincannon when she saw him and the satchel; a lengthy series of strangled sounds erupted from her, trapped by her gag. Few could give vent to a longer, more colorful burst of invective than John Quincannon, but he would have wagered those strangled sounds represented scorch-ear cussing that would have outclassed his by a considerable margin.
24
SABINA
“And so,” John said, “you decided not to turn the Japanese girl over to the police.”
It was Wednesday morning, John having returned to the city late the previous day, and Sabina had just finished telling him of her investigation and its outcome.
“I felt it was the best choice for all concerned,” she said. “Kamiko acted only out of love and loyalty to Amity, and in self-defense at Prudence Egan’s hideaway. Justice would not have been served by sending her to prison. In fact, it would have been an act of cruelty. You know as well as I how viciously Orientals can be treated by those on both sides of the law.”
“I do. But are you certain the girl won’t commit another such crime if her guardian is threatened again?”
“She swore a solemn oath she wouldn’t. I believe that, too. Amity has forgiven her and she’ll see to it there are no more incidents.” Sabina paused and then asked, “Do you approve of my decision?”
“Yes. I have implicit trust in your judgment.”
She had been sure that he would approve. He shared her belief that in cases such as this justice tempered by compassion was preferable to following the strict letter of the law.
He finger-fluffed his whiskers in that habitual way of his before asking, “Fenton Egan has no idea you wrote the anonymous note that sent him to Larkin Street, I take it?”
“Evidently not, since neither he nor the police have contacted me. According to the newspapers, his wife was the victim of a burglar caught in the act or of an attempted criminal assault. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he considers one of her lovers responsible.”
“A disreputable fellow, from your description of him.”
“As was she. Both adulterers, both mean-spirited.”
“And Mrs. Egan having slipped a buckle, to plan to murder her perceived rival in cold blood.”
“Yes. And she would have shot Kamiko if the girl hadn’t been able to defend herself.”
“What would you have done if Mrs. Egan hadn’t been killed? Made your suspicions known to her?”
Sabina had asked herself that question more than once the past few days. “I suppose I would have,” she said, “barring any other alternative. I had no real evidence against her, but the knowledge I did possess and a vow to make it public might have been enough to frighten her into never trying it again. The ploy might have worked, depending on how determined she was, and how unbalanced. Fortunately, it’s a moot point. Amity’s only concern now is that her husband will find out about the affair.”
“Do you think Egan is still vindictive enough to inform him?”
“It’s possible, but I doubt it. His wife’s death and the discovery of her infidelities is all the scandal he’s equipped to deal with.”
John had flicked a lucifer alight and was applying the flame to the bowl of his briar, puffing out billows of gray-white smoke. Sabina made a mental note to try once again to convince him to change his brand of tobacco to one less odious.
“Kamiko,” he said. “Did you suspect her all along?”
“Not exactly. I had an inkling that she might have alerted Prudence Egan, but it wasn’t until I discovered the woman’s body and the broken kaiken tip that I knew for certain.”
“Would you have accused the girl if it weren’t for that?”
“Yes. Faced with the fact that I knew the truth, she would have confessed as she did on Sunday
morning. And Amity was entitled to know.”
He nodded, still puffing. “Never withhold vital information from a client unless absolutely necessary.”
“Particularly not if the client is also a friend.”
“Mrs. Wellman must be an estimable person, despite her temporary lapse in judgment, to have forgiven her ward so readily.”
“She is.”
“You’ll have to introduce me to her one day.”
“I intend to. You’ll like her and I think she’ll like you.” Then, with a twinkle in her eye, “You’ll have to come bicycling with us some Sunday.”
“Faugh! Bicycling with members of a women’s riding club? That day will never dawn in this lad’s life.”
“There is nothing unmanly in the sport, John.”
“Perhaps not. But it’s of no interest to me.”
“Not even in a good cause? Amity is planning a bicycle rally to help fund Voting Rights for Women.”
“I’ll offer my support in other ways, if you don’t mind.”
“Financial support?”
“Well … yes, up to a point.”
“So you do sincerely believe in our cause.”
“I’ve said so often enough, haven’t I? My word is my bond. There is nothing I would like more than to have the women of California given the vote.”
Sabina could tell that he meant it. She said, smiling, “Except, that is, for greenbacks and gold specie.”
“Speaking of which,” he said without missing a beat, “I trust you charged Mrs. Wellman an appropriate fee for all you did for her.”
Same old John. Yes, and she supposed she wouldn’t have him any other way.
QUINCANNON
“And so,” Sabina said, “Pauline Dupree is in custody in Walnut Grove.”
It was Wednesday morning, and he had just finished regaling her with an account of his adventures on the Captain Weber and in Stockton and Kennett’s Crossing and his hair-breadth escape from drowning in Dead Man’s Slough.
“Yes,” he said, “and soon to be transferred to the jail in Stockton. Charged with two counts of murder and one of extortion.”
“I don’t suppose she confessed?”
“No. She refused to speak to me. Or to the Walnut Grove sheriff, once I turned her over to him, except to demand the services of a San Francisco lawyer.”
“Which one?”
“She wasn’t particular. Whichever one she chooses, I’ll hear from him eventually. Not that he’ll have any luck in getting her off, despite her considerable charms.”
“The charges against her are provable, then.”
“Eminently so. The pistol she used to dispatch Gus Burgade and his deckhand was in her possession, as was the twelve thousand dollars she obtained from Noah Rideout through her pawn, Burgade. Not a man to be trifled with, Mr. Rideout. Once informed of her deceit, he couldn’t wait to bring the extortion charges against her.”
Quincannon favored Sabina with a well-pleased smile. “And he was so grateful for my having saved his life, his twelve thousand dollars, and his reputation from considerable embarrassment that he presented me with a handsome reward.” He saw no need to add that the reward had been his idea, not Rideout’s, and that it had come only after a bit of verbal tussling.
“How handsome?” Sabina asked.
“Five hundred dollars. His check is in my purse, soon to be deposited in our account at the Miners Bank.”
Sabina ran the pink tip of her tongue over her lips, a mannerism that never failed to spark Quincannon’s imagination. “What about the money Dupree extorted from Titus Wrixton?” she asked. “Did she have that in her possession as well?”
“No. She sent the cash on ahead to New York by Wells Fargo Express.”
“How do you know that?”
“I found the receipt in her bag. Along with a one-way ticket on the transcontinental train from Sacramento and a packet of highly indiscreet letters Rideout had written to her, which I returned to him.”
Sabina shook her head. “Why men insist on writing such overheated billets-doux is beyond me.”
“Love does strange things to some people,” Quincannon said sagely. He himself had never penned such missives, nor even once been tempted to. Actions, after all, spoke louder and more passionately than words.
“Did she also have Wrixton’s letters?”
“No. She may have destroyed them. More likely, knowing her devious and duplicitous ways, she intended to keep them and the ones from Rideout, as insurance in the event she ever again needed large sums of money. If that’s the case, it’s probable she sent the banker’s missives on ahead with his ten thousand dollars. The cash, if not the letters, will be recovered and handed over to Wrixton; I’ll see to that.”
“When do you intend to inform him of her arrest?”
“This afternoon,” Quincannon said. “The sheriff provided me with a signed deposition proving that she’s in custody and outlining the charges against her. That should be sufficient to convince even a love-blind mooncalf that he was bamboozled.”
“And to allow you to collect the balance of the fee he owes.”
“Oh, he’ll pay it, and without another peep of protest, or I’ll take it from his blasted bank and frame him for embezzlement.”
“Really, John…”
“Merely a figure of speech, my dear,” he assured her, more or less honestly. “But I’ve earned that fee balance three times over and nearly lost my life in the process. I won’t be denied.”
Sabina had a few more questions. “When do you suppose Dupree found out that you were on her trail?” she asked.
“When I first arrived at Kennett’s Inn. She was cosseted in her room at the time, the one nearest the common room, and likely she overheard my conversation with Adam Kennett.”
“It must have given her quite a shock.”
“Undoubtedly,” Quincannon said with relish. “She must have also overheard my later mention to the innkeeper that I intended to meet Noah Rideout at the steamer landing. It was she who put Burgade up to taking an ax to the ferry’s cable, shortly before she disposed of him and his unfortunate deckhand.”
“How did you know so quickly that it was Dupree in the nun’s habit? You said her makeup and the use of cotton wadding to change the shape of her mouth and cheeks made for another flawless impersonation.”
“Several reasons. First, she had to be in Kennett’s Crossing that night; no one else had a better motive for disposing of her cohort in the Rideout extortion. Second, her skill at playacting a variety of different roles. Third, the figure I saw hurrying away from the store boat shortly before the ferry cable snapped. In the rainy darkness a woman wearing a wind-blown garment could well resemble a huge winged vulture. And fourth, a nun passed through the lobby of the Yosemite Hotel during my vigil—a curious sight in retrospect, for nuns usually travel in pairs. Dupree in her nun’s disguise, the habit brought with her from San Francisco.” He added, somewhat ruefully, that he had also paid scant attention to the carpetbag the nun was carrying, a fact he’d recalled only after he’d yaffled her. There had been nothing distinctive about her bag, and many guests had toted similar luggage in and out of the hotel lobby.
“But why was she wearing the disguise then?” Sabina asked. “Did she intend to pose as a nun all the way to New York?”
“More likely only as far as Sacramento. My deduction is that Burgade had been charged with bringing Mr. Rideout’s twelve thousand dollars to her at the hotel and that she had plans to cosh him or dope his drink in her room and then make off with the loot in her nun’s disguise. But he double-crossed her. The note he wrote and had sent up to her room must have been a demand for a larger cut of the spoils and that she meet him on Sunday in Kennett’s Crossing to make the exchange. A fool as well as a knave, Burgade. That note was his death warrant.”
“And she wore her nun’s disguise when she left the hotel for the same purpose, to make Pauline Dupree disappear into thin air from that point onward.
”
“My surmise as well,” he agreed. “She could then travel to Kennett’s Crossing and commit her crimes there with impunity before moving on to Sacramento. Or so she thought, not having reckoned on the doggedness and cunning of John Frederick Quincannon.”
25
SABINA
On Friday evening John escorted her to a performance of Verdi’s Aida at the Opera House, followed by a late supper of oysters a la poulette at the Poodle Dog.
It was a splendid evening. He was quite handsome in his evening clothes and top hat, his thick beard more neatly trimmed than usual. (She’d overhead a woman whisper to her companion at the opera house that Sabina’s electric-blue-and-black ruffled gown was stunning and that she and John made a very attractive couple.) And he’d been a perfect gentleman, managing to remain alert during the entire performance and to not once mention business matters or money during dinner. Even the weather cooperated. The fog and drizzle of the previous few days had given way to clear skies and a significant rise in temperature. Spring had finally arrived in the city.
Most satisfying of all, though, was simply having John back safe and sound. She’d missed his company, even missed his idiosyncrasies and minor irritants. Missed him more than she cared to admit. Well, no, that wasn’t true. Why not admit it? Indeed, why not? After all, hadn’t she conceded to herself not so long ago that her time with him had wrought a profound change in her feelings toward him, that inside his crusty shell he was as kind, as considerate, as doting, as Stephen had been during their courtship and all-too-brief marriage…?
“… coffee, Sabina?”
She blinked and looked up. “Hmm?”
“I asked if you’d like more coffee?”
“Oh. No, I’ve had plenty.”
“You seem a bit … distracted. Not enjoying yourself?”
“On the contrary. I was just doing a bit of woolgathering.”
“About what?”
“Oh, this and that.” She smiled. “Let’s be on our way now, shall we?”
Outside John took her arm and led her to a waiting hansom. When they were seated inside, he leaned forward to speak to the driver, but she placed a restraining hand on his arm.
The Dangerous Ladies Affair Page 18
