“Sound of body, pure of heart?”
“Ah, well, ah …”
“But it’s a harsh and uncertain world we live in, eh, Luther? Illness can strike anytime. Accidents, too.”
“Accidents?”
“Terrible, crippling accidents. Requiring a long stay in the hospital.”
It was cold in the shop, but Duff’s face was already damp. He produced a dark-flecked handkerchief, twitchily began to mop his brow.
“Of course, there are worse things even than illness and accident. Worse for some, that is. Such as those who suffer from claustrophobia.”
“Claustro … what?”
“The terrible fear of being trapped in small enclosed spaces. A prison cell, for instance.”
“Gahh,” the troll said. A shudder passed through him.
“Such a man would suffer greatly under those circumstances. I would hate to see it happen, the more so when it could be easily avoided.”
“Ah …”
Quincannon simulated a tolerant smile. “Well, no more of that, eh? We’ll move along to my reason for calling this morning. I’m after a bit of information I believe you can supply.”
“Ah …”
“It happens that I have urgent business with a lad named Dodger Brown. However, he seems to have dropped from sight.”
“Dodger Brown?”
“The same. Wine dump habitué, gambler, and burglar by trade. You’ve had recent dealings with him, I understand.”
“Recent dealings? No, you’re mistaken …”
“Now, now, Luther. Prison cells are cold and unpleasant, remember. And very, very small.”
Duff fidgeted. “What, ah, what business do you have with him?”
“Mine and none of yours. All you need do is tell me where I can find him.”
“Ah …”
“You must have some idea of his whereabouts.” Quincannon let the smile slip away, his voice harden. “It wouldn’t do for you to tax my patience.”
“Oh, ah, I wouldn’t, I won’t.” Duff licked thin lips. “An idea, perhaps. A possibility. You won’t say where you heard?”
“No one need know of our little talk but us.”
“Well, ah … he has a cousin, a fisherman called Salty Jim.”
“Does he now?” This was news to Quincannon; there was nothing in Dodger Brown’s dossier about a living relative.
Duff said, “The Dodger has been known to bunk with him from time to time. So, ah, so I’ve heard on the earie.”
“Where does this Salty Jim hang his cap? Fisherman’s Wharf?”
“No. Across the bay … the Oakland City Wharf. He, ah, he’s involved in the oyster trade.”
“The name of his boat?”
“Something with Oyster in it. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Good enough,” Quincannon said. “Now we’ll move along to other matters. Did you sell the Dodger a revolver, new or old, recently?”
“Revolver? No. Absolutely not.”
“That had better not be a lie.”
“It’s not! I swear I sold him no weapon of any kind.”
“So he took only cash for whatever goods he brought you.”
“I don’t, ah, know what you mean. He came to see me, yes, but it was only to discuss selling certain property …”
Quincannon smiled again, drew his Navy Colt, and laid the weapon on the countertop between them. “You were saying?”
“Awk.”
“No, that wasn’t it. You were about to identify the items you purchased from Dodger Brown. In fact, in the spirit of cooperation and good fellowship between us, you were about to show me these items.”
The troll swallowed in a way that was remarkably like a cow swallowing its cud. He twitched, looked at the pistol, nibbled at his lower lip like a rat nibbling cheese.
Quincannon picked up the Navy Colt and held it loosely in his hand, the barrel aimed in the general direction of Duff’s right eye. “My time is valuable, Luther,” he said. “And yours is fast running out.”
The troll turned abruptly and stepped through the drapery. Quincannon vaulted the counter, followed him into an incredibly cluttered office lighted by an oil lamp. A farrago of items covered the surface of a battered rolltop desk; boxes and wrappings littered the floor; piles of curios teetered precariously on a pair of clawfoot tables. In one corner was a large and fairly new Mosler safe. Duff glanced back at Quincannon, noted his expression, and reluctantly proceeded to open the safe. He tried to shield the interior with his body, but Quincannon loomed up behind to watch the troll’s hands as they sifted through the contents.
“If I find out you’ve withheld so much as a collar stay,” Quincannon warned him, “I’ll pay you a return visit that won’t be half so pleasant as this one.”
Duff sighed and brought forth a chamois pouch, which he handed over with even greater reluctance. Quincannon holstered the Navy Colt, shook the contents of the pouch into his palm. One ruby-studded brooch, two pairs of ruby earrings, and a diamond stickpin.
“This is only a small portion of the Dodger’s ill-gotten gains. Where’s the rest?”
“I don’t know. I swear this is all he brought me!”
“When was he here?”
“Yesterday morning. He said he had more, that he’d bring them in a day or two, but I haven’t seen him since.”
“How much did you pay for the privilege of fencing these baubles?”
“Two hundred dollars. He, ah, seemed to think they were worth more, but he took the cash. He seemed in a hurry.”
“Yes? Frightened, was he?”
“No. Eager, excited about something. All in a lather.”
“Did he give you an idea of what had raised his blood pressure?”
“None. He grabbed the cash and ran out.”
Quincannon nodded. He returned the items of jewelry to the pouch, tucked the pouch into his coat pocket.
“Here, now!” the troll cried. “You can’t … that’s my property!”
“No, it isn’t. Not yours and not Dodger Brown’s. These sparklers belong to Judge Adam Winthrop, the Dodger’s first burglary victim. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they’re returned to the judge safe and sound, with your compliments.”
Duff looked as if he were about to burst into tears.
“Gahh,” he said.
11
A trolley car delivered Quincannon to the Ferry Building at the foot of Market Street. Ferries for the East Bay left every twenty to thirty minutes, and he arrived just in time to catch one of the Southern Pacific boats. A chilly half hour later, he disembarked with the other passengers and made his way up the Estuary to the Oakland City Wharf.
The place was a mixture of the colorful and the squalid: Arctic whalers, Chinese junks, Greek fishing boats, Yankee sailing ships, disreputable freighters, scows, sloops, shrimpers, oyster boats, houseboats; long rows of warehouses crowded here and there by shacks fashioned from bits and pieces of wreckage or from dismantled ships; and long, barren sandpits. He approached three men in turn to ask the whereabouts of an oysterman named Salty Jim, owner of a boat named the Something Oyster. The first two either didn’t know or wouldn’t say, but the third, a crusty old sailor with a Tam o’Shanter pulled down over his ears, who sat propped against an iron cleat with a half-mended fishnet across his lap, knew Salty Jim well enough. And clearly didn’t like him. He screwed up his face and spat off the wharfside.
“Salty Jim O’Bannon,” he said, “ain’t no oysterman.”
“No? What is he?”
“A damn oyster pirate, that’s what.”
Involved in the oyster trade indeed, Quincannon thought sardonically. He’d had a run-in with oyster pirates once and did not relish a repeat performance. They were a scurvy lot, the dregs of the coastal waters—worse by far than Chinese shrimp raiders or Greek salmon poachers. At the first floodtide in June, an entire fleet of them would head down the bay to Asparagus Island to set up raiding parties on the beds. And much of the har
vest would be stolen despite the efforts of the Fish Patrol and private operatives such as Quincannon. The only thing that kept the pirates from taking complete control of the bay waters was their own viciousness. Regular consumption of alcohol and opium combined with meanness had led to many a cutting scrape and many a corpse in the sandpits.
“How come you’re lookin’ for the likes of Salty Jim O’Bannon?” the old man asked. “Not fixin’ to join up with him, are you?”
“No chance of that. It’s not him I’m after.”
“Who then?”
“A cousin of his, Dodger Brown. Know the lad?”
“Can’t say I do. Don’t want to, if he’s as blackhearted as Salty Jim.”
“He may be, at that.”
“What’s his dodge? Not another pirate, is he?”
“Housebreaker.”
“And what’re you? You’ve got the look and questions of a nabber.”
“Policeman?” Quincannon was mildly offended. “Manhunter on the scent is more like it. Where does Salty Jim keep his boat? Hereabouts?”
“Hell. He wouldn’t dare. He anchors off Davis Wharf. Don’t tie up for fear of somebody stealin’ on board at night and murderin’ him in his sleep.”
“What’s her name?”
“Oyster Catcher. Now ain’t that a laugh?”
“He lives on her, does he?”
“He does. Might find him there now, but if you do, you better be carryin’ a pistol and not shy about usin’ it.”
Quincannon made his way to Davis Wharf. Several sloops and schooners were anchored in the bay nearby, so many that he wasted no time in trying to pick out the Oyster Catcher. A ragged youth who was fishing with a hand line off the wharfside made the identification for him; the youth also agreed to rent Quincannon his own patched skiff beached in the tidal mud fifty rods distant. Unlike the old fisherman, the boy seemed impressed that Quincannon was on his way to talk to Salty Jim, the oyster pirate; the shine of hero worship was in his eyes. Quincannon repressed the urge to shake some sense into him. You couldn’t hope to make everyone walk the straight and narrow. Besides, a new generation of crooks meant continued prosperity for Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, well into his and Sabina’s dotage.
He stowed his grip in the skiff, rowed out to the Oyster Catcher. She was a good-sized sloop with a small cabin amidships, her mainsail furled, her hull in need of paint but otherwise in good repair. No one was on deck, but from inside the cabin he could hear the discordant strumming of a banjo. He shipped his oars until he was able to draw in next to a disreputable rowboat tied to a portside Jacob’s ladder. He tied the skiff’s painter to another rung, drew his Navy Colt, and climbed quickly on board.
The banjo player heard or felt his presence; the instrument twanged and went silent, and a moment laer the cabin door burst open and a bear of a man, naked to the waist, stepped out with a belaying pin clenched in one hand. Quincannon snapped, “Stand fast!” and brought the pistol to bear. The fellow pulled up short, blinking and scowling. He was thirtyish, sported a patchy beard and hair that hung in matted ropes. The cold bay wind blew the smells of Dr. Hall and body odor off him in such a ripe wave that Quincannon’s nostrils pinched in self-defense.
“Who in foggy hell’re you?”
“My name is of no matter to you. Drop your weapon.”
“Huh?”
“The belaying pin. Drop it, Jim.”
Salty Jim gawped at him, rubbing at his scraggly beard with his free hand, his mouth open at least two inches—a fair approximation of a drooling idiot. “What’s the idee comin’ on my boat? You ain’t the gawddamn Fish Patrol.”
“It’s your cousin I want, not you.”
“Cousin?”
“Dodger Brown. If he’s here, call him out. If he’s not, tell me where I can find him.”
“I ain’t gonna tell you nothin’.”
“You will, or you’ll find a lead pellet nestling in your hide.”
The oyster pirate’s mean little eyes narrowed to slits. He took a step forward, and said with drunken belligerence, “By gar, nobody’s gonna shoot me on my own boat.”
“I’m warning you, Jim. Drop your weapon and hold still, or—”
Salty Jim was too witless and too much taken with drink to be either scared or intimidated. He growled deep in his throat, hoisted the belaying pin aloft, and mounted a lumbering charge.
Quincannon had no desire to commit mayhem if it could be avoided. He took two swift steps forward, jabbed the Navy Colt’s muzzle hard and straight into the pirate’s sternum. Salty Jim said, “Uff!” and rounded at the middle like an archer’s bow. The blow took the force out of his down-sweeping arm; the belaying pin caromed more or less harmlessly off the meaty part of Quincannon’s shoulder. Another jab with the Colt, followed by a quick reverse flip of the weapon, a trick he’d learned from his father, and with the butt end a solid thump on the crown of the pirate’s empty cranium. There was another satisfying “Uff!”, after which Salty Jim stretched out on the scaly deck for a nap. Rather amazingly, he even commenced to make snoring noises.
Quincannon prodded him with the toe of his shoe; the nap and the snores continued unabated. He holstered the Colt and proceeded to frisk the man’s never-washed trousers and shirt. This netted him nothing except a sack of Bull Durham, some papers, and a greasy French postcard of no artistic merit whatsoever.
He picked up the belaying pin, tossed it overboard. A frayed belt that held up the pirate’s trousers served to tie his hands behind his back. Quincannon then stepped over the unconscious man and entered the cabin.
He had been in hobo jungles and opium dens that were tidier and less aromatic. Mouth-breathing, he searched the confines. It was evident from the first that two men had lived there recently. Verminous blankets were wadded on each of the two bunks, and there were empty bottles of the cheap and potent whiskey known as Dr. Hall, evidently Salty Jim’s tipple, and empty bottles of the foot juice favored by Dodger Brown. The galley table, however, bore remants of a single meal of oyster stew and sourdough bread, one tin coffee mug, one dirty glass, and one bottle of Dr. Hall.
Under one of the bunks was a pasteboard suitcase. Quincannon drew it out, laid it on the blankets, snapped the cheap lock with the blade of his pocket knife, and sifted through the contents. Cheap John clothing of a size much too small to fit Salty Jim. An oilskin pouch that contained an array of picklocks and other burglar tools. An old Smith & Wesson revolver wrapped in cloth, unloaded, no cartridges in evidence. And a larger, felt-lined cloth sack that rattled provocatively as he lifted it out. When he upended the sack onto the blanket, out tumbled a variety of jewelry, timepieces, small silver and gold gewgaws. Paydirt! A quick accounting told him that he was in possession of all the stolen goods from the first three robberies.
There was one other item of interest in the suitcase, which he’d missed on his first look. It lay on the bottom, facedown, caught under a torn corner. He fished it out, flipped it over. A business card, creased and thumbmarked, but not of the sort he himself carried. He had seen such discreet advertisements before; they had grown more or less common in the Uptown Tenderloin, handed out by the more enterprising businesswomen in the district. This one read:
FIDDLE DEE DEE
Miss Lettie Carew Presents Bountiful Beauties from Exotic Lands
MAISON DE JOIE 244 O’FARRELL STREET
Well, well, Quincannon thought. Is that why you were so eager for cash yesterday, you young scamp? And why you didn’t spend last night on this scabrous tub?
He considered. Should he wait there for the Dodger’s return? Or should he chance that his quarry had not only elevated his taste in bawdy houses, but was still elevating? His instincts indicated the latter. His trust in them, and distaste at the prospect of a long vigil—perhaps a very long vigil—in the company of Salty Jim O’Bannon, made up his mind in short order.
He resacked and pocketed the swag, stepped out onto the deck with the Dodger’s re
volver in hand. Salty Jim was still non compos but starting to stir a bit. Quincannon left him bound, dropped the revolver into the bay, and further coppered his bet by untying and setting the rowboat adrift. Then, whistling “The Brewer’s Big Horses Can’t Run Over Me,” one of his favorite temperance songs, he climbed down into his rented craft and began to row briskly back to the wharf.
12
The district known as the Uptown Tenderloin was a pocket of sin more genteel and circumspect than the Barbary Coast, catering to the more playful among the city’s respectable citizens. It was located on the streets—Turk, Eddy, Ellis, O’Farrell—that slanted diagonally off Market. Some of San Francisco’s better restaurants, saloons, and variety-show theaters flourished there, part of the Cocktail Route that nightly drew the begowned and silk-hatted gentry. Smartly dressed young women paraded along Market during the evening hours, not a few of them wearing violets pinned to their jackets and bright-colored feather boas around their necks that announced them to those in the know as sporting ladies. Men of all ages lounged in front of cigar stores and saloons, engaged in a pastime that Quincannon himself had followed on occasion, known as “stacking the mash”: ogling and flirting with parading ladies of both easy and well-guarded virtue.
Parlor houses also flourished there, so openly that the reform element had begun to mount a serious cleanup campaign. The most notorious was the one operated by Miss Bessie Hall, the “Queen of O’Farrell Street,” all of whose girls were said to be blond and possessed of rare talents in the practice of their trade. Lettie Carew and her Fiddle Dee Dee were among the second rank of Bessie’s rivals, specializing in ladies of other cultures and different hues.
The evening parade had yet to begin when Quincannon alighted from a Market Street trolley at O’Farrell Street, his pockets empty now of the stolen loot; he had stopped off at Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, and locked it away in the office safe. Above him, as he strolled along the wooden sidewalk, sundry flounced undergarments clung to telephone wires, another form of advertisement tossed out by the inhabitants of the shuttered houses along the route. This, too, had scandalized and provoked the reformers. Midway in the third block, he paused before a plain-shuttered building that bore that numerals 244 on its front door. A small, discreet sign on the vestibule wall said FIDDLE DEE DEE in gilt letters.
Sherlock Holmes: The Hidden Years Page 22
