Calls at two more of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Service’s rival investigative agencies proved equally unproductive.
There was one other possible source of information on the impostor, but she was reluctant to explore it. It was slim at best, and it would open up old wounds.
As a young metallurgist Carson Montgomery had been briefly mixed up in a scheme to steal gold from a Mother Lode mine, the Gold King, by falsifying reports on the amount and value of its gold-bearing ore. He had backed out before actually committing the crime, but his brief involvement with the conspirators, who were later caught, tried, and convicted, had led to a vicious blackmail attempt by one of them upon release from prison. The revelation of Carson’s checkered past and her subsequent entanglement with the extortionist were not the only reasons she and Carson had parted ways, but they had played a significant role.
It was unlikely, given the fact that ten years had passed since the Gold King cabal, that the man calling himself Jedediah Yost would have been involved in it or that he would be known to Carson. It had been more than a year since she’d last seen Carson, and she had no desire to renew their acquaintance. He surely felt the same way. Still, as awkward as a meeting with him might be, she decided professional necessity outweighed personal feelings. So she girded herself after leaving The Morning Call, proceeded to the Montgomery Block, and called at the offices of Monarch Engineering (no connection to the Monarch Mine, merely a coincidental appellation).
Only Carson was not there. And the officious clerk she spoke to refused to tell her where he could be reached or when he was expected back in the office. Leave a message asking him to contact her as soon as possible? For all she knew he might be out of town, and if he wasn’t, she could hardly blame him if he chose to ignore the request.
She departed without giving the snooty clerk her card. She would simply have to come back again on the morrow, on the chance that Carson would be here then and willing to talk to her.
7
QUINCANNON
It took him most of a week to put together a partial list of suspects. The Monarch’s nervous assistant foreman, Frank McClellan, was one; another was a slab-faced day-shift station tender named Joe Simcox, whom Quincannon had spied sneaking away from the station one afternoon and who had unaccountably managed to disappear when followed. He agreed with O’Hearn’s estimate that it would take at least half a dozen miners to steal enough gold to make the risk worthwhile for all concerned, some of whom figured to be working the night and graveyard shifts. The gang’s methods were clever and sophisticated, which to him meant that it must be gold dust and not gold-bearing ore that was being smuggled out. But he had yet to uncover a clue as to how such a bold refining process could be accomplished in a mine operating with mostly full crews twenty-four hours a day.
Jedediah Yost, if in fact that was his true name, was also on the suspect list; O’Hearn had been right in not trusting the man’s recurring presence in Patch Creek. Whether or not Yost was a union representative was still open to question, though Quincannon doubted it. That the camp did not have a telegraph office, a fact he had discovered to his chagrin the evening after his arrival, made it difficult if not impossible for Sabina to forward any data she might have uncovered about the man. (And for him to keep his promise to contact her periodically.) It was conceivable that Yost was an outside member of the gang, perhaps even the ringleader—the man to whom the stolen gold was given for safekeeping or for conversion into greenbacks or bonds. Deeply involved in any event.
Other factors made Quincannon reasonably sure of this. On more than one occasion, he’d learned by hearsay, McClellan had visited Yost in his room at the Monarch Hotel, ostensibly to discuss union business. Simcox had also been a visitor. To make the connection complete, Quincannon had twice seen the trio sharing a poker table at the Golden Dollar, and on another occasion spotted Yost and McClellan engaged in a low-voiced conversation that struck him as conspiratorial.
Most genuine union organizers were firebrands, but Yost was neither bombastic nor prepossessing; for the most part his manner was as bland as his countenance. According to hearsay, his call for larger wages and better safety regulations on his previous two visits had been low-key, and O’Hearn’s instructions to his guards to use force if Yost attempted to enter the Monarch compound had failed to stir Yost to action. On this third stay, he had spent no time passing out leaflets and speechifying on behalf of the Far West Mine Workers Union. All of which pointed to the man’s not being who and what he claimed to be.
His alleged interest in buying land in the area appeared bogus, too, since he seldom left the settlement during the day and spent most of his nights playing stud poker. Why was he here, then? Two possibilities, separate or in conjunction. One: dissension among the gang members required his presence as unifying force or peacemaker. Two: a large amount of looted gold was being stockpiled and he had come to collect it.
Just who was Yost? Gambler, grifter, professional thief, black-marketeer? And where had he come from? None of the miners or tradespeople seemed to know. Or to care, as long as he kept buying free drinks and losing as much as he won at stud poker.
Quincannon had made no effort to speak to the man directly. Nothing would have been gained by making himself known to Yost, and might have succeeded only in putting his undercover status at risk and compromising his investigation. As it was, McClellan’s apparent suspicion of him as a company spy had surely been communicated to Yost and the other members of the gang. In which case they would be keeping an eye on him, just as he was doing on the three suspected conspirators.
That was one reason he had not attempted a search of Yost’s hotel room, much as he would have liked to. Not for the stolen gold—Yost was too smart to keep any among his belongings—but for some idea of who the man was and where he’d come from. Such a venture was too dangerous even if an opportunity had presented itself. A newly hired timberman had no business in the Monarch Hotel unless invited, and trying to sneak in under cover of darkness was a fool’s gambit.
But there was another search he could make, so long as he went about it with extreme caution. And he would, as soon as circumstances favored it.
One thing he now knew for sure was that Yost, despite his small stature and quiet demeanor, possessed a commanding presence and a penchant for deadly violence. An incident Quincannon had observed in the Golden Dollar on Wednesday night removed any doubt of that.
It happened during a game of five-card stud in which Yost was one of five players; the others were day-shift miners, Simcox but not McClellan among them. A small group had formed to watch the action and Quincannon joined them, keeping in the background.
The stakes were relatively low—one-dollar limit, maximum of two raises—but at that a fair amount of money was being won and lost. Yost had accumulated the largest pile of chips, betting conservatively and no doubt skillfully bluffing when the opportunity presented itself. He held his hole cards close to his chest, studying the cards turned faceup on the table and the faces of his opponents with sharp-eyed concentration.
Conversation was desultory, Yost contributing little to what was said, until one of the other players, a burly and half-drunk French Canadian named DuBois who had been losing steadily, turned sullen and glowering. When his nine-high straight was beaten by Yost’s jacks full, and Yost allowed as how it was his lucky night as he raked in the pot, DuBois slammed a meaty fist down on the table. “By damn,” he grumbled in a whiskey-thick voice, “if I don’t know better I think maybe you make your own luck, m’sieu.”
Yost said mildly, “But you do know better, don’t you, Frenchy.”
“Yah, maybe I don’t. You win every time you deal the cards.”
“Are you calling me a cheat?”
DuBois’s lip curled. He said angrily, “J’en ai plein le cul!”
“You want to cuss me,” Yost said, laying his hands flat on the table, “by God do it in English.”
“Bah!
I am sick of losing to you, that’s what I say.”
“Then quit playing and walk away.”
“What if I don’t want to quit, eh?”
“Then shut up and take your losses like a man.”
Beet-red anger suffused DuBois’s jowly face. He bounced to his feet, kicking his chair over backward. “No one tells DuBois to shut up!” He stabbed a horny finger at Yost and took two steps around the table toward him. Two steps only. Then he stopped dead still, because he was looking down the muzzle of a hammerless .32-caliber pocket pistol.
The weapon seemed to appear in Yost’s hand as if by a conjuring trick; Quincannon had never seen a faster, smoother draw. The other poker players and the onlookers sucked in their breaths.
“Take one more step,” Yost said, “and you’ll be a cripple for the rest of your life.”
DuBois didn’t move. No one else moved either. The sudden tension was palpable; even the piano player ceased his discordant music-making. Yost meant what he’d said. Though his expression remained as bland as ever, his purpose was plain in the way he stood, the rigid extension of the gun, his unblinking gaze. The pupils of his eyes were so dark they looked black in the lamplight, as hard and shiny as anthracite.
He let several seconds pass before he said, “I won’t stand for verbal threats or physical assault, Frenchy. You understand that now, don’t you.” The last sentence was not a question.
DuBois’s anger had deserted him. He looked confused, chastened. “Yah, I understand.”
“All right, then. You have two choices. Sit down and play cards, or cash in and walk out. Which is it to be?”
It took the French Canadian less than five seconds to make a decision. He pocketed his few remaining chips, saved as much face as he could by glaring at Yost, and stomped out. Only when DuBois was gone did Yost relax and repocket his pistol in a motion almost as swift and deft as his draw.
“Okay, gents,” he said to the other players, his voice mild again, “we’ll continue with our friendly game. Whose deal is it?”
Oh, yes, Quincannon thought, a dangerous and violent man. And an adversary not to be underestimated.
8
QUINCANNON
Like it or not, the time had come to report to James O’Hearn. The mine superintendent had demanded an early progress report, and Quincannon could not keep putting it off. After his shift ended on Friday, he contrived to remain in the mine yard after the other crewmen had departed by helping the night-shift topmen unload a shipment of board lumber and stack it in one of the long timber ricks. When he was sure all the night-shift miners had gone into the hole, he made his way to the mine office, where O’Hearn, by his own admission, could be found well into the evening.
Not this evening, however. A clerk informed him that Mr. O’Hearn had gone down to the stamp mill. The mill suited Quincannon’s purpose well enough, or would as long as O’Hearn was available for a private conversation in or near its confines.
A dynamite explosion deep inside the mine made the ground tremble as he descended a steep flight of stairs to the mill. When he entered he had no difficulty locating O’Hearn; together with an ox of a man, probably the mill foreman, he was inspecting one of the eccentrics that raised the stamps, shut down now and locked into place. Quincannon stayed where he was near the entrance, unconsciously fingering his mutilated ear and watching the machinery and the millhands at their work.
The iron-shod stamps, loosely held vertically in framed sets of five, were lifted by cams on a horizontal rotating shaft. As the cam moved from under the stamp, it dropped into the ore below and crushed the rock; the lifting process was then repeated at the next pass of the cam. Smaller pieces of ore that came tumbling down the chute went through a three-inch grizzly, or grating, into feed bins; anything larger was shunted into a jaw crusher. The dressed ore was fed automatically to the stamps.
Quincannon waited ten minutes in the lantern-lit enclosure, keeping out of the way of the sweating millhands, before O’Hearn and the foreman finished their inspection and the superintendent turned toward the entrance. His bearded face remained impassive when he spied Quincannon. He gestured that they go outside, where they could make themselves heard above the thunder of the stamps at work.
Once there and certain they were alone, he said through a glower, “Why haven’t you reported to me before this, Quincannon?”
“Nothing definite to report. And the only feasible place to meet is your office or elsewhere in the compound, a tricky proposition.”
“I suppose you’ve made no progress at all, then.”
“An incorrect supposition. I have made progress.”
“You know who’s doing the high-grading?”
“I have an idea who some of them are.”
“Well? Who?”
“I’d rather not say just yet.”
O’Hearn’s glower deepened. “Why the devil not?”
“I never make accusations until I have proof. I thought I made that clear to you and Mr. Hoxley.”
“Dammit, man, I don’t like being kept in the dark.”
“You won’t be for long, I promise you that.”
“What about that union agitator, Yost? Is he involved?”
“I’ll tell you this much,” Quincannon said. “Yost is no more a union recruiter than I am.”
“The hell you say. Are you sure of that?”
“Sure enough.”
“What is he, then?”
“That remains to be learned.”
“But he is mixed up in the high-grading?”
“That also remains to be learned.”
O’Hearn emitted one of his grizzly growls. “Trying to get straight answers out of you is like trying to eat soup with a fork. You had better not be giving me a runaround, Quincannon.”
“I’m not. Why would I?”
“For all I know you’ve sold out and thrown in with the gang—”
Quincannon’s hackles rose at that. “Bah! You’ll never meet a more honest man, or a better detective.”
“So you keep claiming. You’d damn well better prove it if you know what’s good for you.”
“I don’t take kindly to threats, Mr. O’Hearn, from anyone, including my employers and their minions. When you hear from me again, it will be with proof in hand.”
Quincannon turned on his heel and stomped back up the stairs without a backward glance.
* * *
Frank McClellan’s shack was larger and somewhat better built than the other miners’ dwellings staggered along the hillside above Patch Creek. Elderberry and chokecherry bushes crowded around it, giving it more privacy than most of its neighbors and making it easier for Quincannon to approach it without being seen.
It was a few minutes before midnight now, the cold mountain night moonless, the shadows a deep velvety black. Lamplight showed in a few of the other shacks, but none of those were close to McClellan’s. His was a completely dark, looming shape. The assistant foreman had been sharing a bottle of forty-rod whiskey with three others in the Golden Dollar when Quincannon left, and judging by their boisterous conversation, they intended to remain there for quite some time.
Keeping to clots of shadow, Quincannon eased up to the shack. He had armed himself tonight with the hideout weapon he favored for undercover work such as this Monarch business, and that he’d kept secreted in a pouch inside his war bag—a Remington double-barrel .41-caliber rimfire derringer. Not that he expected to need it, but he felt more secure with it close to hand.
He paused at the door to listen; the only sounds came from a distance, wind-carried snatches of saloon piano music and the distant throb of the stamps. There was a large padlock on the door latch, fairly new by the feel of it and its staple, but it presented no problem. He had come prepared with his burglar’s set of lock picks, which he’d also kept secreted in his war bag. It took him less than five minutes to breach the lock.
He left it hanging open in its hasp, parted the door from the jamb, eased himself ins
ide, and shut it quickly behind him. The sharp odors of unwashed clothing, wood smoke, and alcohol set him to breathing through his mouth. The darkness was stygian; he struck a match to orient himself, shielding its flame with his hand. One large room, slightly less monastic than a monk’s cell. Sheet-iron stove, puncheon table, wall bench, pole bunk with a thick mattress and woolen blankets. The only window was covered by a thick muslin curtain. He crossed to it, made sure the curtain fit tight to the frame by propping the shack’s only chair against its lower edge.
From his coat pocket he took the other item he’d brought with him, a miner’s candle appropriated from the mine stores. Searching by candlelight was no easy chore, but it was the only method open to him; his oil-wick cap lamp cast too bright a light even with the window curtain secured. He struck a match to light the candle’s wick. In its glow he spied a tin dish on the wall bench; a residue of wax identified it as a candleholder. He wax-anchored the candle in the dish, then set quickly to business.
Two items were wedged beneath the bunk, McClellan’s duffel and a small leather case. He examined the case first. Its only contents were three identical dark brown bottles; the label on one he lifted out bore a steel-engraved photograph of a healthy-looking, muscle-flexing gent and the words “Perry Davis’ Pain Killer.” Quincannon was familiar with the product—a patent medicine that claimed to have great thaumaturgic powers, good for man and beast, but whose main ingredient was pure alcohol. It was more potent, in fact, than most lawfully manufactured whiskeys. McClellan evidently did as much private drinking here as he did publicly in the Golden Dollar.
Quincannon turned his attention to the duffel and its contents. Wads of soiled shirts, socks, and union suits. A new, sealed deck of playing cards. A torn dime novel featuring the exploits of a Wild West character named Deadwood Dick. And a leather drawstring pouch. But the pouch turned out to be a disappointment. All it contained was a collar button, a woman’s corset stay, two Indian Head pennies, the nib of a pen, and half a dozen other odds and ends of value only to the assistant foreman.
The Stolen Gold Affair Page 5
