The Bags of Tricks Affair

by Bill Pronzini

  “That’s an atrocious pun, John.”

  “Eh? Oh, strictly unintentional, but nonetheless apt. As it is, there’s little doubt that she’ll be convicted.”

  “Don’t be too sure. She’s bound to use her handicaps to play on the sympathies of a jury. With a certain kind of lawyer representing her, she might succeed in winning an acquittal.”

  “Not with your eyewitness testimony, and her dubious background.”

  “We’ll see. Juries are notoriously unpredictable.”

  “Not in conventional mining towns like this one.” He gazed fondly at her. “In any case, my dear, I congratulate you. You really are a splendid detective.”

  “For a woman.”

  “I didn’t say that. Nor did I mean it that way.”

  “Your equal, then, hmm?”

  “Indeed,” he said.

  Sabina eyed him closely to make sure he was not being condescending. He wasn’t. He meant it.

  “I’m afraid Mr. McFinn isn’t satisfied,” she said. “He holds us responsible for not preventing tonight’s public spectacle. And with some justification, from his point of view.”

  “Bah. Even if you’d been certain Lady One-Eye carried a concealed weapon, it wouldn’t have foreshadowed her intent to use it on her husband when and where she did.”

  “True. But he doesn’t see it that way. In a way I feel sorry for him.”

  “Why? Lady One-Eye’s winnings will be confiscated and McFinn reimbursed the two thousand he staked you.”

  “That doesn’t matter to him. What does is that the anti-gambling elements may have enough fuel now to close him down.”

  John shrugged. “He’d be out of business before long anyway. Small-town gaming parlors such as the Gold Nugget are doomed to extinction.”

  “You do realize that he might refuse to pay us the balance of our fee?”

  His face darkened perceptibly. “By Godfrey, he had better pay it! If he doesn’t, we’ll add to his woes by bringing suit against him.”

  Sabina repressed the urge for further comment; when he made up his mind about something, there was no changing it. If it were up to her, she would forfeit the balance of their fee as a gesture of goodwill. From a practical standpoint such largesse could be used as a promotional tool to enhance the reputation of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services. Results guaranteed at no risk to their clients. The new century was almost upon them. Fresh business practices were necessary in a new age.

  But she knew better than to suggest this. Like his father and Allan Pinkerton before him, her partner would’ve been outraged at such a heretical proposition. John Quincannon would rather be horsewhipped than willingly give up a penny earned for services rendered.

  * * *

  Outfitted in her gray serge traveling dress, Sabina was packing the following morning when the knock came at the door. It couldn’t be John; he’d gone to see Amos McFee in an effort to collect the remainder of their fee. They had arranged to meet in the Holbrooke’s lobby at ten whether he succeeded or not, to first ride to Sheriff Thorpe’s office to sign official statements and then to the railroad station to board the NCNG on the first leg of their trip home to San Francisco.

  The knock sounded again, more insistent this time. She crossed to open the door. No, it wasn’t John. Her caller was Jeffrey Gaunt.

  He didn’t say anything, merely looked at her. His gray eyes were even colder, more piercing than they had been the previous evening—as palpably cold as the Rocky Mountain high country in winter. But there was a glow of fire in their depths, the fire of hate. The skin between Sabina’s shoulder blades crawled; she repressed a shiver.

  “What do you want, Mr. Gaunt?”

  “I’ve been told you and your partner are leaving Grass Valley today.” His drawling voice was without inflection of any kind.

  “There is nothing further to keep us here.”

  “But you intend to return to testify at my sister’s trial.”

  “Naturally.”

  “That would be a mistake.”

  “And why is that?”

  “She didn’t shoot Jack.”

  “Of course she did, despite her claims and yours to the contrary. I saw her do it.”

  “Mistakenly, in a time of turmoil. Or perhaps deliberately to further your own agenda.”

  “I have no agenda,” Sabina said sharply, “except for the pursuit of justice.”

  “Be that as it may, your unfounded accusations that she is a card mechanic and a murderess have destroyed her reputation and her livelihood. That is reprehensible enough. I won’t allow her to be convicted of crimes she didn’t commit and sent to prison. Her handicaps would make even a short incarceration a living hell for her.”

  “Perhaps so, but it’s a jury’s decision to make, not yours. Or mine.”

  “I intend to hire the best lawyer in this state to represent her. If you fail to testify, she’ll be acquitted and vindicated. I suggest you give that option due consideration.”

  “Are you threatening me, sir?”

  Gaunt said nothing.

  “I don’t take kindly to threats,” Sabina said. “Nor does my partner.”

  His mouth twitched upward in a brief travesty of a smile.

  “Attempting to intimidate a witness in a murder trial is a serious felony, Mr. Gaunt. So, as I shouldn’t have to remind you, is any attempted infliction of bodily harm.”

  “I said nothing about the infliction of bodily harm.”

  “You implied it. I could have you arrested.”

  “As you caused my sister to be arrested—on the basis of misinterpretation and enmity. Besides, there is no one else here. It would be your word against mine.”

  He stared at her a few moments longer, as if trying to will her to show fear or weakness by averting her eyes, and when he received no satisfaction he turned abruptly and walked off down the hall.

  She shut and locked the door. He hadn’t frightened her in the least; she was far too experienced, strong-willed, courageous to be swayed by threats implied or otherwise. Nevertheless, the afterimage of his frigid eyes and the crawly sensation on her back lingered while she finished her packing.

  * * *

  She waited to tell John of Gaunt’s thinly veiled threat until after they were aboard a Southern Pacific passenger train bound from Colfax to Oakland. She knew he’d be furious enough to go storming off to confront the man, and that would have served no purpose except to escalate what might turn out to be a tempest in a teapot.

  She said as much to him when he’d calmed down. “We’ve been threatened before, John, and nothing has come of it. Men like Gaunt are usually nothing more than blowhards.”

  “Usually, but not always. You saw how fiercely protective he was of his sister last night.”

  “Yes,” Sabina admitted, “I did.”

  “If you’re unable to testify at Lady One-Eye’s trial, she may well go free. You were the only witness to her actions after the shooting.”

  “She could go free even with my testimony,” Sabina said. “A handicapped woman is a sympathetic figure, even one with Lady One-Eye’s reputation, especially if she’s represented by a canny criminal attorney. Gaunt knows that as well as you and I do.”

  “But we don’t know Gaunt, what lurks behind that stoic façade of his, what he’s capable of.”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “A man of dark and hidden depths,” John said ominously, “that’s my estimation of him. A dangerous man. You’re to be very careful from now until the trial, my dear.”

  “I’m always careful, you know that.”

  “Extra cautious in the city, triple cautious when the time comes for us to return to Grass Valley.” He lit his pipe, scowling, and puffed up a great cloud of foul gray smoke. “By God,” he muttered, “if that damned rascal comes anywhere near you…”

  Sabina rested a steadying hand on his arm, smiled when he looked her way. His deep concern touched her. He really did care, not
only for her as a partner but as a woman he would do anything in his power to keep safe. If that wasn’t love, it was the next thing to it.

  8

  QUINCANNON

  His first order of business the morning after their return to San Francisco was a visit to the Hall of Justice at Portsmouth Square and the office of the only man in the police department he trusted, William Price, head of the Chinatown “flying squad.” He had been instrumental the previous year in helping Price avert a deadly tong war and put an end to one element of police corruption, and the lieutenant had been grateful. When he explained what had taken place in Grass Valley, Price agreed to grant him the favor he asked: any information that could be obtained through official channels on the activities of Jeffrey Gaunt and Blanche Gaunt Diamond, aka Lady One-Eye, in California and other western states.

  Quincannon’s next stop was the Western Union office on Market Street, where he composed and sent two wires. One was to Sheriff Hezekiah Thorpe in Grass Valley, apprising him of Gaunt’s threat, asking that he, Quincannon, be notified immediately if Gaunt were to suddenly leave Nevada County. The other wire, marked “Urgent reply requested,” was to the Pinkerton Detective Agency’s branch office in New Orleans. If Gaunt, Lady One-Eye, and/or Jack O’Diamonds had run afoul of the law in that part of the country, the Pinks would find it out and supply details.

  Stop number three was the newsstand of the blind vendor known as Slewfoot, their most reliable informant and information peddler. And number four was Ezra Bluefield’s Redemption Saloon on Ellis Street in the Uptown Tenderloin. He had once saved Bluefield’s life when the old reprobate owned the Scarlet Lady, a Barbary Coast deadfall, and later helped him realize his desire to purchase the much more respectable Redemption. Quincannon had long since used up his quota of return favors, but this was a special case; he knew he wouldn’t be turned away with Sabina’s welfare at stake, and he wasn’t.

  Slewfoot had contacts among the shady characters who operated on the edges of the city’s underworld, Bluefield many acquaintances still among the denizens of the Coast. If anyone in San Francisco knew anything about Jeffrey Gaunt and his sister, as problematical as that possibility was, one or both men would ferret it out. Leave no stone unturned.

  It was past noon when he entered the offices of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services. Sabina, cool and radiant as always (except when she’d been guised as the Saint Louis Rose), looked up from behind a pile of paperwork on her desk and said, “Well, it’s about time, John. Where have you been?”

  He told her. “The more we know about Gaunt, the better. He may even be wanted somewhere.”

  “Possible, but unlikely. You don’t intend to keep focusing your energies on him, I trust.”

  “That depends on what we find out about him.”

  “If anything other than what little we already know. We’ve other business to attend to after a five-day absence. Elizabeth received three inquiries from prospective clients during that time.”

  Elizabeth Petrie, a widowed former police matron and sometime operative when a woman’s services were required, had kept the agency open while they were away. She was more than competent. In fact, Sabina had suggested that, considering the amount of work that often kept them both away from the office, hiring Elizabeth as a full-time employee might be a sound idea. The widow, whose only other activity was quilting, and who thrived on detective work, might be amenable to the idea. Quincannon had no objection other than the cost of her salary, but he hadn’t voiced this to Sabina; she considered him tight-fisted and money-grubbing enough as it was. (Which was nonsense, of course; he was merely a thrifty Scot.) Besides, they could afford the expense, the more so now that he had badgered Amos McFinn into paying the balance of their fee before they departed Grass Valley.

  “What sort of inquiries?” he asked as he shed his coat and derby. The office was warm, as opposed to the day outside, which was overcast and chilly—typical summer weather in San Francisco. The steam radiator made its usual hissing, clanking noises, tolerable enough because it was efficient, but nonetheless distracting at times.

  “A routine insurance investigation,” Sabina said, “which went to another detective agency when we weren’t available. A woman seeking divorce evidence against her philandering husband—Elizabeth told her we don’t accept that sort of case. And a wire from a banker in Delford concerning a possible fraud in his community.”

  “Delford?”

  “A small farming town in the San Joaquin Valley.”

  Quincannon said, “Doesn’t sound particularly lucrative, small towns and small-town bankers being what they are.”

  “That’s not necessarily true. And the fraud problem does seem somewhat unusual.”

  “Yes? What is it?”

  “See for yourself. Here’s his wire.”

  Quincannon took it to his desk to read. It was addressed to him, dated the previous day, and had been delivered in the late afternoon.

  YOUR AGENCY HIGHLY RECOMMENDED STOP ARRIVING PALACE HOTEL YOUR CITY TUESDAY AFTERNOON STOP REQUEST CONSULTATION REGARDING SUSPECTED PLUVICULTURE FRAUD STOP URGENT STOP KINDLY REPLY STOP

  ARAM KASABIAN

  DELFORD CITIZENS BANK

  He laid the wire down, ran fingers through his trimmed whiskers. Sabina liked the beard this way. He wasn’t sure he did—he had kept it thick on purpose to project a fierce image to the malefactors he dealt with—but she had implied that it made him even more attractive to her. More than enough reason to keep it in its shortened state.

  “Pluviculture,” he said. “A fancy word for rainmaking.”

  “Yes. The San Joaquin Valley is suffering through a severe drought, and Delford’s well-being is dependent on sufficient water for wheat and other crops.”

  “Which makes them a prime target for a rainmaking fraud.”

  “If it is fraud. Not all pluviculturists are swindlers.”

  “Most of them are. Disciples of Frank Melbourne, the so-called Australian Rain Wizard.”

  “We’ve never handled that type of case before,” Sabina said. “Does the prospect appeal to you?”

  Quincannon considered. The prospect did in fact hold some appeal. And the Palace Hotel was San Francisco’s most luxurious hostelry, which indicated that Aram Kasabian might be a more successful small-town banker than most. But on the other hand …

  “It’s probably not for us,” he said.

  “No? Why not?”

  “It might require a visit to Delford, and we’ve only just returned from Grass Valley.”

  “And it might not,” Sabina said reasonably. “Besides, back-to-back trips out of town have never bothered you before.”

  “We’d have to close the agency again.”

  “Not if you are the only one to go to the San Joaquin Valley.”

  “And leave you here alone? No.”

  “Oh, so it’s Jeffrey Gaunt you’re worried about. John, you can’t turn down an investigation because of some nebulous fear for my safety.”

  “I don’t believe it’s a nebulous fear.”

  “I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself and you know it. You act as though I’m a babe in the woods who needs to be watched over twenty-four hours a day.”

  Quincannon was tempted to say that he would like nothing better than to watch over her twenty-four hours a day. That if he had his druthers she would spend her nights in his flat until the Gaunt concern was resolved. But even if he made such a suggestion, and included a promise that he would sleep on the sofa and make no attempt to seduce her, she would adamantly refuse. And her feathers would be even more ruffled.

  He settled for saying, somewhat lamely, “I am only being cautious.”

  “Overly and unduly cautious. Well, then? Does the Delford inquiry interest you?”

  “It does,” he admitted, “provisionally.”

  “Then talk to the banker and find out the details. He is already on his way here, so you’ll need to contact him at the Palace when
he arrives.”

  “All right. Where’s that batch of train schedules?”

  “Where it always is, in the second drawer in the file cabinet.”

  The daily Southern Pacific train from the San Joaquin Valley was due to arrive at the Third and Townsend depot at three o’clock. Given the fact that train timetables were as inaccurate as often as they were accurate—“flexible” was the word the railroad companies used—the actual arrival time might be anywhere from three to four or even later. Transport from the depot to the Palace would take ten to fifteen minutes by cab. No Palace guest, unless he was penurious in the extreme, would care to arrive at a luxury hotel by trolley car. If Aram Kasabian was one of that tightfisted breed, he was not a suitable client.

  Several bills, invoices, and requests of one kind and another had piled up during their absence. Quincannon actively hated paperwork and avoided it whenever possible, but he failed to wiggle out of it today. Sabina insisted he help her whittle down the pile and he grumblingly gave in. Until the Seth Thomas on the wall read ten minutes till three, at which time he made haste to depart—just in case, he said to Sabina, the Southern Pacific train defied statistical precedence and arrived on or before schedule.

  The Palace, at Third and Market, was a short walk from the agency. A massive, seven-story structure, it had been built in 1875, covered an entire block, and contained more than seven hundred rooms and suites, forty-five public and utility rooms, three inner courts, and an opulently furnished lobby. The time was 3:25 when Quincannon entered. Aram Kasabian had not yet checked in, one of the desk clerks told him. So the good old SP was indeed up to its usual flexible standards today.

  He asked the clerk to notify him when the banker arrived, and to tell Mr. Kasabian that John Quincannon was waiting to see him. After which he went to sit in one of the more comfortable of the lobby chairs and tried not to brood about Jeffrey Gaunt while he waited.

  9

  QUINCANNON

  His wait was not a long one. At 3:41 by an ornate lobby clock, a portly middle-aged gent with long bushy side whiskers like miniature tumbleweeds strolled in from the circular Grand Court where carriages and hansoms delivered and picked up guests, and approached the desk. Aram Kasabian? Yes. A bellboy crossed to where Quincannon sat and confirmed it.