“May I ask why you’re staying in Tar Flat?”
“You may ask, but I am not at liberty to answer. Suffice it to say that my presence there is of considerable importance and requires a certain amount of secrecy and subterfuge.”
All of this was typical daft blather, though given Charles the Third’s past accomplishments, there would be a core of truth in it. Sabina asked, “How long do you expect to be at the Dubliner?”
“I really can’t say. At least another week or so. Possibly longer. As you are quite well aware, many investigations require time and cannot be hurried.”
“Will you let me know when you move and where?”
“If circumstances permit, dear lady. If circumstances permit.”
Sabina let silence descend again for a time. The hack rattled and swayed on the cobblestones, the driver’s whip cracking audibly to prod the horse as it drew them up the steep western slope of Russian Hill. The smoke from Charles the Third’s pipe had begun to make Sabina feel nauseous; she drew aside the closed side curtain and slid the window open.
As they neared her street, she asked him, “Do you intend to keep your promise about tomorrow?”
“Promise? I recall making no promise.”
“But you did. You told me earlier that you would contact Roland Fairchild at the Baldwin Hotel.”
“Oh, that. A minor and annoying bit of foolishness, nothing more.”
“But you will attend to it? He is, after all, my client.”
“Yes, so you said. To locate a person named … what was it?”
“Charles Percival Fairchild the Third,” Sabina said patiently. “Of Chicago, Illinois. Sole heir to the substantial estate of his deceased father, Charles the Second.”
“A euphonious name, but one I had never heard before your mention of it. Nor have I ever been in Chicago, Illinois. But yes, I will pay a call on your client in the morning and set him straight. Is this satisfactory to you?”
“It is.”
“Capital. I wish you well in your search for this Charles Percival fellow, wherever he may be.”
The hansom drew up in front of Sabina’s building. The crackbrain insisted on paying the taxi fare, escorted her to the door, said good night, bowed, and returned to the cab to be whisked away.
Would he pay the call on his cousin in the morning? She could only hope so; she’d done all she could tonight to bring about the meeting. If he failed to appear, she would have no choice but to pursue him in Tar Flat, a rough place for a woman alone, but an even rougher one for a dandified tourist such as Roland W. Fairchild.
She sighed as she keyed open the front door. Unless she received an early communication from one or the other of them, she would have to give up part of her Sunday to find out.
16
QUINCANNON
The proprietor of the Elite Cardroom and Pool Emporium was no respecter of the Sabbath. The place was open bright and early on Sunday morning, which made Quincannon’s trip to the neighborhood at least potentially worthwhile. Xavier Jones had still not returned to his boardinghouse. It could be that Cyrus Drinkwater had gotten word to him to lie low after the confrontation with Quincannon yesterday, but that didn’t explain Jones’s prior absence. In any event, with a little luck he could be eventually tracked down—assuming, of course, that he was still among the living.
The cardroom at the rear of the Elite was empty, but two of the eight pool, snooker, and billiard tables were in use: a pair of young men in rough garb playing a desultory game of snooker, and a middle-aged, nondescript gent practicing cross-bank and combination pool shots by himself. A different oldster manned the cash register this day, a sour-faced fellow wearing a droopy moustache and green-and-gold sleeve garters.
Quincannon asked the same question he’d asked the day before, and received a loquacious response. Oh, sure, the oldster said, he knew Xavier Jones. No, Jones hadn’t been in today. X played cards, not pool—cribbage, mostly, and sometimes whist or poker—but the games didn’t usually get started until eleven or so on Sundays on account of some folks went to church first. The clerk aimed a wad of tobacco juice at a spittoon, more or less accurately. Didn’t go to church himself, never did hold with organized religion, but that didn’t mean he didn’t believe in God. Folks worshipped in their own way, and that was the right of it as far as he was concerned. Why, he recollected a miner up Marysville way back in the seventies …
“Beg pardon, friend,” a voice behind Quincannon said. It belonged to the nondescript gent, he saw when he turned; the man had paused in his practicing and now stood with his hip cocked against his table. “Couldn’t help but overhear. Step on over.”
Quincannon did as he was bid. “Do you know Xavier Jones?”
“Ought to. I’m a regular here, same as him.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know where he might be found?”
“Might. My name’s Gunderson.”
“Quincannon.”
“Shoot pool, do you, Mr. Quincannon?”
“Some.”
“How about a game while we talk?”
Quincannon had been sizing the fellow up without seeming to. He seemed innocuous enough, friendly, outwardly bored with his solo playing and looking for a bit of companionship. The cue he held negligently in one hand was a house stick. All a pose. Hustler, pool shark—Quincannon had seen enough of them over the years to spot one straightaway.
“Well,” he said after a short pause, “I guess I wouldn’t mind.”
“Straight pool, eight-ball, rotation? Your pleasure.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter. Eight-ball?”
“Fine. Lag for break?”
Quincannon nodded his ascent, went to a wall rack to select a cue for himself. A few were slightly warped; he found one that was more or less straight and chalked the tip while Gunderson racked the balls. When they lagged, the shark deliberately stroked his ball into the far rail hard enough so that Quincannon would win the break.
“Looks like we’re about evenly matched,” Gunderson said. Then, casually, “How about we make it interesting?”
“Interesting?”
“Small wager on the outcome.”
“How small?”
“Oh, say five dollars, if that’s not too stiff for you?”
Quincannon pretended to think it over. “Well, I don’t know … Are you sure you may know where I can find Xavier Jones?”
“Sure enough. Tell you about it while we play. Does the wager amount suit you?”
“Well … all right. Five dollars.”
Gunderson put a five-dollar greenback on the rim of the table; Quincannon matched the amount with a pair of two-and-a-half-dollar gold pieces. His break of the rack was amateurish, dead center on the one-ball so that none of the balls dropped into a pocket.
“Too bad,” the shark said. He chalked his cue and sank the eleven ball, giving him stripes, made two more easy shots, then deliberately missed a cross-bank.
Quincannon looked the table over, tapped in the five ball, then feigned bewilderment as to which shot to try next. “About Jones,” he said. “He wasn’t home this morning and doesn’t seem to have been yesterday, either.”
“No surprise in that.”
“No? Why not?”
“You must not know him very well.”
“I don’t. My business with him concerns a debt he owes.”
“He’s got himself a dolly,” Gunderson said.
“Ah. You know who she is?”
“Sure thing. Still your shot, friend.”
Quincannon missed a corner pocket try at the two ball. Gunderson walked around the table, said, “Looks like you’ve left me wide open,” and proceeded to pocket the rest of the striped balls and then the black eight to win the game. All relatively easy shots, so that he didn’t have to reveal the depth of his skill. “My lucky morning,” he said then. “But luck can change fast. How about another game, a chance to get even?”
“Maybe. What’s Jones’s dolly’s name?”
“Flora.”
“Where does she live?”
“Can’t tell you that because I don’t know.”
“Her last name, then?”
Gunderson produced and lighted a stogie. “I think better when I’m playing, friend. Another game, same stakes?”
“All right.”
The shark pocketed his greenback and Quincannon ponied up a five-dollar coin to join the two quarter eagles. “To show you that I’m a sport,” he said, “I’ll pass the break to you again.”
Quincannon’s break was off this time, too, pocketing nothing. Gunderson eyed the table, then cut the twelve ball neatly into a corner pocket—stripes again—and after that dropped the ten ball. Reverse english on the cue ball left him a clean stroke at the fifteen.
“The dolly’s last name,” Quincannon said as evenly as he could. His patience had begun to run thin.
Down went the fifteen ball. Gunderson sucked at his stogie and released a stream of smoke before he answered. “Delight,” he said.
“How’s that?”
“Delight. That’s her last name. Flora Delight.”
“Sounds like a stage name.”
The shark lined up and then sank the nine ball on a moderately difficult combination shot. “My eye is better than usual this morning,” he said.
Quincannon let that pass. “Stage name, is it? Flora Delight?”
“Sure. Nobody ever born with one like it.”
“Where does she perform?”
Gunderson made his next shot with ease, said, “Eight ball in the side,” and promptly ended the game. “My lucky day, for a fact,” he said. “I’m not usually this accurate.” Then, casually, “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in one more game?”
“If you’ll tell me where Flora Delight performs and what it is she does,” Quincannon said. “And if you’ll give me a chance to win my money back and your fiver along with it.”
Gunderson tried not to show how much he liked that suggestion, but the gleam of avarice shone in his eyes. “Double the stakes? Why, sure, friend, I’ll oblige you,” he said. Then, as he racked the balls, “The Variety Gay, on Stockton. Cancan and buck-and-wing dancer, afternoon and evening shows. Hot stuff, according to Jones.”
“Sundays included?”
“Seven days a week.”
Quincannon laid twenty dollars in greenbacks on top of the previous stakes. “You mind if I break again?”
“Not at all.”
Quincannon chalked his cue, set the cue ball in position. When he broke the rack this time, it was with a perfectly placed stroke that dropped the one ball cleanly. He eyed the table and then proceeded to run it, swiftly and methodically, finishing up with a long cut on the eight into a corner pocket. Then he laid down the cue, scooped up his winnings, said “My lucky day, friend,” to the slack-jawed shark who would never know that he’d spent hundreds of hours in Hoolihan’s and elsewhere holding his own against some of the city’s best pool and billiard players, and walked out of the Elite whistling a temperance tune.
* * *
The Variety Gay was a typical Barbary Coast melodeon, of the sort which featured a collar-and-elbow variety show—bawdy songs and comedy skits, and scantily clad dancers. One of the older and cheaper houses; an ancient mechanical reed organ, the instrument from which the name melodeon had derived, was still in evidence, though now as nothing more than a decoration; it had been supplanted by a modern honky-tonk piano currently being played by a sweating fat man in accompaniment to one of the skits. At tables and in boxes the all-male audience—the only women allowed in such places were the waitresses and performers—was early Sunday afternoon sparse, the laughter from the dozen or so customers desultory. Even at this hour, layers of tobacco smoke hung in the room and the atmosphere was odious with the stale smells of beer, wine, and the cheap perfume worn by the serving and dancing girls.
Quincannon stood for a few seconds, breathing through his mouth while he scanned the men. Two or three matched the description he had of Xavier Jones. He made his way to a table midway along, and was immediately pounced upon by one of the several waitresses who sold drinks on commission—a plump, nearly bare-bosomed girl whose skirts ended almost at her knees. None of her displayed attributes held his eye; she would have been slightly more appealing, in fact, if they had been fully covered up.
He ordered a beer, which he had no intention of drinking, and when she brought it he asked, “Do you know a gent named Xavier Jones? Friend of Miss Flora Delight.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Why’re you asking?”
“I was told he might be here. I have some money for him.”
“That so?” The suspicion had quickly given way to greedy interest. “How about some for me? He don’t need it, but I sure do.”
“You do know him, then. Is he here now?”
She held out her hand. In addition to a dime for the beer, Quincannon filled it with a fifty-cent piece. This seemed to satisfy her.
“Most nights and some afternoons,” she said. “He’s got a real big crush on Flora, always buying her flowers and trinkets. Champagne, too, can you believe it? She can’t, hardly.”
“Which one is he?”
“Gent up front there, with the glass of wine.” The waitress leaned forward, revealing even more of her freckled bosom, and said chummily, “You wouldn’t like to buy a girl some champagne, would you? Later on, I mean, somewheres else. She’d be awful grateful if you did.”
“A tempting offer, but I’m a married man with five children.”
“That don’t matter none to me.”
“I also have an unfortunate social disease.”
“That does,” she said, and made a rapid departure.
The skit on stage ended with a borderline obscene joke and a final tinny riff on the piano, to a smattering of applause. The piano player shuffled off into the wings, and a gaudily dressed gent came out to announce a brief intermission. The stage lights dimmed then, deepening the smoky gloom in the rest of the room. Quincannon stood, went to the table where Xavier Jones was sitting, drew out a chair and parked himself in it.
Jones turned his head, frowning. He wasn’t such-a-much: medium-sized, balding, his thin-lipped mouth partially concealed by brown mustaches waxed at the ends. He wore a suit and tie, the only man in the Variety Gay besides Quincannon who did.
“Hello, Xavier. Waiting for your dolly’s next specialty number?”
“What the hell do you mean, dolly?”
“Flora. Unless you have more than one.”
“I never seen you before, mister. What do you know about Flora and me?”
“I know she’s a Delight. And that you buy her flowers, trinkets, and champagne and spend a good deal of time watching her perform and in her company afterward. Which is one reason you’re such a hard man to find, though mayhap not the only one.”
“Who the devil are you? What do you want?”
“Otto Ackermann’s steam beer formula and Elias Corby, among other things.”
Jones’s jaw unhinged like a puppet’s. He went board stiff in his chair. “Christ Almighty,” he said.
“No, John Quincannon. A name you recognize, I’ll wager.”
“… I don’t know nothing about what happened at Golden State.”
“We both know that’s not true.”
“I don’t have to talk to you,” Jones said, and started to stand up.
Quincannon caught his coat sleeve and yanked him back down. At the same time, with his other hand, he opened his coat to reveal the handle of his Navy Colt. “You’ll talk to me if you value your hide.”
“You wouldn’t dare draw that sidearm in here—”
“Wouldn’t I?” Quincannon smiled his predatory smile. “I can unholster it fast as a lightning strike, crack you over the head, and holster it again without anybody noticing, then haul you up and carry you out to the alley where you’ll talk when you wake up or suffer a variety of other meannesses. Put me to the test i
f you believe I’m bluffing.”
In the smoky, lamplit gloom Jones’s eyes were shadowed, but his fear-rippled expression was plain enough; so was the fact that he seemed to be making an effort to swallow his Adam’s apple. “I don’t believe you’re bluffing,” he said.
“Smart lad. Now then. Sit calm, answer my questions truthfully, and I’ll leave you to watch Flora’s next number. Fair enough?”
“Just … walk away? That’s all you’ll do?”
“That’s all. There’s no need for the coppers unless you give me trouble.”
“I don’t want no trouble with you or anybody else, least of all the police.”
“We’ll get along then,” Quincannon said. “First question. Where is the formula?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bunkum. What did you do with it after it was turned over to you?”
Jones licked his lips, not meeting Quincannon’s eyes. His gaze kept flicking to the Navy, as if it might jump out of the holster of its own volition and bite him like a snake.
“You gave it to the man on whose orders you were acting, didn’t you. Your employer, Cyrus Drinkwater.”
“No. No, it was my idea to, ah, get the recipe. Mr. Drinkwater, he didn’t know nothing about it.”
“Bunkum,” Quincannon said again, more sharply this time. “The theft was his idea, not yours. And you passed the formula on to him. The truth now—I take a dim view of lies and evasions.”
“… All right. But if he finds out—”
“He won’t find out, not from me as long as you keep giving straight answers. What did he do with it?”
“Put it in his safe.”
Quincannon sighed inaudibly. He’d been afraid that would be the case. “At West Star?”
“No. In his office downtown.”
“Still there, so far as you know?”
Jones gave a jerky head bob.
“Did you make a copy?”
“No. Wasn’t any need.”
“Did he?”
“Not that I know about.”
“So then you’ve yet to make use of it at West Star.”
The Plague of Thieves Affair Page 12
