The Stolen Gold Affair

by Bill Pronzini

  Well, there was no sense in tying his brain in knots attempting to answer the temporarily unanswerable. He would have a full account when Sabina arrived.

  He shed his suit and waistcoat, and when the valet came knocking, turned the articles over to him for immediate brushing and pressing. Then he drew a bath in the clawfoot tub, and sat for the better part of an hour soaking his sore muscles and washing away the last of ten days of Monarch-induced grit, grime, and sweat. He was finishing a trim of his whiskers when the valet returned. Dressed in his last clean shirt and freshened clothing, he decided, on a mirror inspection, that he was presentable enough to meet his betrothed. The prospect excited him, not because of whatever reason Sabina had for coming here, but because he would be with her again much sooner than anticipated.

  He considered spit-polishing his shoes, decided against it, and rode the elevator down to the lobby. At a shoeshine stand in the hotel barbershop he paid for an expert buffing and polishing and tipped the Negro lad a nickel. This time it was because contemplation of the fee and large bonus he would receive from Everett Hoxley had put him in an expansive mood. Why not share the wealth with those less fortunate?

  It was after five o’clock when he reentered the lobby. His stomach was making ominous grumbling noises—his only provender for the day had been a tasteless sandwich in Marysville—but dining alone tonight had no appeal. Besides, he did not want to be in the midst of a meal when Sabina arrived.

  He bought the most recent edition of the Sacramento Bee, found a comfortable leather chair within view of the registration desk, and settled down to wait.

  21

  SABINA

  Sabina thought her eyes must be playing tricks on her.

  It had been a long, tiresome day. The day coach on the train from Oakland had been crowded and stuffy, her seatmate a fat man who smelled of cheap cigars and bay rum. Three hours in his proximity plus a lack of food had given her a throbbing headache. The edges of her vision were slightly blurry, and the Golden Eagle’s electric-lighted chandeliers were bright enough to cause her to squint as she started across the crowded lobby, a bellhop carrying her carpetbag two steps behind. The bearded, neatly dressed man who rose from one of the chairs and came toward her made only a vague impression at first, then as he drew closer she saw that he bore a remarkable resemblance to John. She blinked, passed a hand over her eyes. It couldn’t be John—

  But it was.

  She came to such an abrupt standstill, confusion mingling with surprise, that the porter nearly stumbled into her. He retreated as a smiling John reached her and took her arm. “Hello, my dear,” he said. “Fancy us meeting like this so far from home.”

  “John! What are you doing here?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  She felt a trifle faint, a rarity for her under any circumstances. She steadied herself by leaning against his arm. The bellhop was staring at them; so were two passersby in silk hats and evening clothes. She said sotto voce, “We can’t have a discussion standing here among all these people.”

  “No, we can’t.”

  He guided her to the registration desk, stood by while she signed the register. Then he drew her aside, out of earshot of the clerk and other guests hovering near the desk.

  “Have you eaten?” he asked.

  “No. And I’m half starved.”

  “So am I. We can converse over dinner.”

  “I need to freshen up first.”

  He nodded. “I’ll wait for you here. Don’t be too long, my dear.”

  “I won’t.”

  Sabina followed the bellhop up to her reserved room on the third floor. She washed her face, applied a small amount of rouge to her cheeks (her skin struck her as pale), brushed and repinned her hair, and exchanged her gray serge traveling dress and Langtry bonnet for the only semiformal outfit she’d brought with her: an ivory white shirtwaist with ruffles capping the shoulder, a pale green skirt that fitted closely over the hip and flared just above the knee, and a small black turban hat. The other outfit in her hastily packed bag was the least conservative in her wardrobe, bought for the infrequent occasions when circumstances required her to pose as a commoner. Now, fortunately, it seemed she would not have to wear it after all.

  John had reserved a private table in the elegantly appointed dining room. A white-jacketed waiter set bills of fare in front of them, then took Sabina’s order for a glass of cream sherry and John’s for warm clam juice.

  John placed her hand between both of his. “Two weeks is a long time for us to have been parted,” he said. “I missed you, my dear.”

  “And I you. It’s a relief to see you hale and hearty, John. No visible scars.”

  He started an involuntary reach for his missing earlobe, stopped himself halfway, and lowered his hand. He said with a mild leer, “Nor any hidden ones, as you’ll soon see.”

  Sabina let that pass without comment. “Did you succeed in ferreting out the high-graders?”

  “I did, and in less than half the time allotted by Everett Hoxley. There’ll be no more organized gold thievery at the Monarch Mine. Two of the gang are dead—not by my hand, I hasten to add—and the rest in jail. All that is except one, the ringleader.”

  “Jedediah Yost?”

  “None other.”

  “And he is the reason you’re in Sacramento?”

  “Yes. He slipped out of Patch Creek with a large amount of gold dust on Sunday, and I suspect he came here to dispose of it. He is no more a union representative than I am, and the Yost cognomen is an alias. A sly, canny devil, whatever his real name.”

  “Bart Morgan,” Sabina said.

  His jaw dropped. He fluffed his whiskers, as he sometimes did when taken aback, before saying, “Bart Morgan? That is Yost’s real name?”

  “It is. Bartholomew Morgan.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Positive. He is an assayer and metallurgist by trade, with a highly disreputable past.”

  “An assayer. Of course! That explains his knowledge of gold mining and of where to sell the stolen gold at the best possible price. How did you find out about him?”

  There was no sense in hiding or evading the truth. She’d done enough of that the past few days, far too much of it. “From Carson Montgomery. He was acquainted with Morgan briefly in Downieville ten years ago and recognized him from his description.”

  John said through a scowl, “So Morgan was one of the thieves Montgomery was mixed up with back then, eh?”

  “No. Carson had no dealings with Morgan, knew him only by reputation.”

  “So he claimed to you. I thought you wanted nothing more to do with the man.”

  “I don’t in the way you mean,” Sabina said, “nor does he with me. I went to see him in his office as a last resort, when all my other efforts to find out Yost’s true identity failed.”

  John made a grumbling noise in his throat, but if he intended a further challenge, the arrival of their drinks forestalled it. Sabina’s empty stomach had set up a grumbling of its own; if she didn’t eat soon, her lingering headache would worsen. She asked the waiter for a dinner recommendation, and was told that the brook trout almondine was quite good. She ordered that and creamed asparagus, and a bowl of clam chowder to start. John, who usually preferred to make his own dinner selections, said he would have the same without consulting the menu.

  “Is what you found out about Morgan the reason you came to Sacramento?” he asked her when they were alone again.

  “Part of the reason, yes. Carson remembered that Morgan’s wife was from Sacramento and yearned to return, so it seemed possible that he might have moved here from Downieville.”

  “What were you planning to do? Travel to Patch Creek to pass the information on to me?”

  “I thought you’d want to know as soon as possible, and there was no better way of informing you.”

  “How would you have informed me, thinking as you must have been that I was still working undercover as a miner?”r />
  That had been a problem, as Sabina pointed out when Callie had tendered the notion of her going to Patch Creek. She had solved it in the cab she’d hired to take her to her flat to pack for the trip. She would pose as J. F. Quinn’s sister bearing news of a family tragedy, a plausible means of getting a message to him that would not have jeopardized his mission. That had been the reason she’d packed the one dowdy outfit she owned, to disguise her breeding and physical attributes when she arrived in Patch Creek.

  When she related the method to John, he said reprovingly, “A gold camp is a perilous place for a respectable woman of any class. And you couldn’t possibly look unattractive no matter how you’re dressed.”

  “A roundabout compliment, but thank you.”

  He didn’t pursue the issue, instead quaffed some of his warm clam juice. He had taken to the stuff after making his private temperance pledge seven years ago as a nonalcoholic substitute for whiskey. To each his own. Sabina had nothing against clams per se, or else she would not have ordered the chowder, but she found the warm juice unpalatable.

  “You said Morgan’s identity was part of the reason you came here,” he said. “What is the other part?”

  “I know where you can find him.”

  “You do? Confound it, why didn’t you tell me that straightaway?”

  “I would have if you hadn’t castigated me.”

  “Faugh. Well? Where can I find him?”

  “He owns and operates an assay shop, Delta Metallurgical Works, in West Sacramento.”

  “Did you find that out from Montgomery, too?”

  “No. From Henry Flannery.”

  “Flannery? You brought him into it?”

  “And why not? He is a very good investigator—it took him only a short time to locate Morgan.”

  “Good, yes, but his fees are too high.”

  “So are ours on occasion, when you have your way.”

  John dismissed that remark with a grunt. “The address of Delta Metallurgical Works?”

  “Ninety-seven Poplar Avenue.”

  He sat in silence for a time, his jaw set, his gaze focused inward. She knew what he was thinking. “It would be folly to go out there alone tonight,” she said. “Morgan may not live on the premises—Flannery’s wire didn’t say—and I don’t suppose you’re familiar with the area. Are you?”

  “No.”

  “Then wait until morning and I’ll go there with you.”

  He maintained the introspective pose a few seconds longer, then shook himself and said, “I’ll wait until then, but you’ll not go with me. Morgan is a dangerous man.”

  “I know. He reputedly killed a rival in Downieville. You mustn’t go after him alone. Take Flannery with you.”

  “At his hourly rates?”

  “John, for heaven’s sake!”

  “… All right, I’ll take Flannery if he’s available.”

  Their clam chowder arrived. While they ate John launched into an account of his feats of deduction and derring-do in Patch Creek. No doubt some of it was embellished by his flair for the dramatic, and she had the feeling that he left out certain details and glossed over others that concerned personal perils he’d faced. Just as well. She had no desire to know what those perils were. All that mattered was that he had survived his time in the depths of the Monarch Mine unscathed.

  He finished his oratory just before the waiter brought their entrees. He asked then what she had been up to during his absence besides consulting with Carson Montgomery (she had to admit she found his unwarranted jealousy both gratifying and amusing). Had there had been any new clients or prospects?

  She would have relished telling him of her dual triumphs in ending the criminal careers of a confidence man and an embezzler. In a sense both cases had a certain parallel to John’s investigation. What, after all, were the cash Goodlove had bilked from his clients and the $20,000 Vernon Purifoy had misappropriated but forms of stolen gold?

  But of course she didn’t dare mention either. Mainly because John would have chastised her, and rightly so, for her impulsive and unprofessional behavior, but also because in neither of the two cases had Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, had a paying client or earned so much as one thin dime—a cardinal sin, to John’s way of thinking. She said only that business had been very slow, which was true enough, and that she had been bored much of the time, which was also true.

  Over dessert, an excellent crème brûlée, she steered the conversation to their nuptials and honeymoon plans. But she could tell that John’s enthusiasm for both was tempered by unfinished business, and that his thoughts kept wandering to Bartholomew Morgan and tomorrow’s hoped-for confrontation in West Sacramento. She couldn’t fault him. The slate needed to be wiped clean before either of them could concentrate on their future.

  The meal cured her headache, but it also made her sleepy. John didn’t object when she refused coffee, saying she wanted to retire early. He escorted her to her room, and it was a measure of his preoccupation that he did not ask to be invited in. She would have issued a firm rebuke if he had; this was neither the time nor the place for another premarital dalliance. He merely gave her cheek a chaste peck, said he would call for her at seven-thirty for breakfast, and took his leave.

  Lying in bed, she wondered if she ought to insist on joining John and Henry Flannery tomorrow. The prospect of waiting here for his return was disconcerting. Besides, it was through her efforts that he was on the trail of Bart Morgan, and no matter how volatile the man might be, she had never shied away from danger. But would he permit it? He might, if she promised to keep out of harm’s way.

  No, he would accede, she thought just before sleep claimed her, because she would not take no for an answer …

  22

  QUINCANNON

  Henry Flannery resembled an aging politician, a likeness he cultivated by dressing in expensively tailored business suits and gold-chain-draped waistcoats, smoking expensive Cuban cigars, and affecting a loquacious hail-fellow-well-met persona. He was stout, seemed soft and flabby but wasn’t, and sported a shortened, bushy, imperial beard. His office on J Street was larger and more expensively furnished than that of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, and was presided over by a comely red-haired secretary young enough to be his daughter—both of which facts induced envy and mild rancor in Quincannon. There was, however, no question of Flannery’s competence, or of his regard for Quincannon’s—hence their quid pro quo arrangement. Though that might not continue if Flannery didn’t lower his blasted fees.

  “One hundred dollars to locate Bartholomew Morgan? An outrageously inflated sum.”

  “Not at all,” Flannery said cheerfully. “Two days’ work at fifty dollars per is not only fair but represents a generous discount. My usual fee is sixty dollars per day.”

  “Bah. All you did was locate his business in West Sacramento. You didn’t even find out whether or not he also resides there.”

  “I doubt that he does, given the location. And neither he nor a Mrs. B. Morgan is listed in the residential section of the City Directory.”

  “Yes, well, and now you want another hundred dollars to accompany me out there.”

  “Accompany us,” Sabina said.

  Quincannon kept his glower on Flannery. He was irked at himself for having given in to her insistence on joining this morning’s mission; a possible confrontation with a thief and reputed murderer was no venue for a woman, even one as capable and fearless as Sabina. But he never could refuse her when her mind was made up.

  He said, “Well, Flannery?”

  “The fee includes use of my private equipage for transportation to and from West Sacramento and to the constabulary here if Morgan is in our custody. Also hazardous-duty pay.”

  “What do you mean, hazardous duty? I’ll be the one to confront Morgan, not you.”

  “Then why do you want me along? To protect Mrs. Carpenter?”

  “I do not need protecting,” S
abina said. “I won’t be in the way.”

  Quincannon said to Flannery, “In case it takes two of us to subdue Morgan, not that I expect it will. But I won’t pay you extra to do nothing more than stand by.”

  Flannery chewed on his unlit cigar, shrugged. “Very well, then. Eighty dollars if stand by is all I am required to do.”

  Eighty was still exorbitant, but further haggling was a waste of time. “I’ll need the loan of a pistol. All I have with me is a twin-barrel derringer.”

  “Certainly. Any preference?”

  “I don’t suppose you have a Navy Colt?”

  “No. Do you normally carry such an outmoded weapon?”

  Quincannon bristled at that. “Outmoded? Not when it has been converted to fire .38-caliber rimfire cartridges. What large-caliber weapon can you supply?”

  “A Colt Peacemaker, if that will do.”

  “It will. And don’t tell me you intend to charge for the loan?”

  “Not unless you fire it.”

  “Faugh! And if I should?”

  “The fee would depend on the number of rounds fired and whether there is any damage to the weapon.”

  “Flannery, you’re a blasted bloodsucker.”

  “Not at all. Merely an astute businessman.”

  “Yes? Well, so am I. Next time you ask something of us, you’ll pay and pay dear for it.”

  Flannery smiled good-naturedly. “Quid pro quo,” he said.

  * * *

  Flannery’s private equipage was a newish four-wheel brougham, all black, including curtains and sidelamps, drawn by a blue dun—the kind of conveyance that could be driven anywhere, from high-toned neighborhoods to slums, without attracting undue attention. Quincannon and Sabina sat on comfortable tufted leather seats inside. He half expected a hired driver, but no, Flannery took the reins himself.