The Stolen Gold Affair

by Bill Pronzini

  “What d’you want with him?”

  “An important business matter. Is he here?”

  “No. Business, you say? What kind?”

  “The kind he specializes in. And I don’t mean assaying.”

  “He know you and this business of yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “Profitable?”

  “Very. For all concerned.”

  That put a smile on her blotchy face. “What’s your name?”

  “… Frinke. Horatio Frinke.”

  The squinty eyes shifted to Sabina again. “Who’s she?”

  “My wife.”

  “Pretty.” Then, with a kind of drunken wistfulness, “I was pretty myself once, long time ago.”

  Quincannon didn’t believe it, but Sabina lied tactfully, “You’re still a handsome woman, Mrs. Morgan.”

  “Hah. I like you, missus—you lie like a politician. You in on this deal with your man and mine?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Morgan never lets me in on his deals. But that’s all right, long as he brings home the bacon.”

  “You expect him back soon?” Quincannon asked.

  “Not today. Not for a few days.”

  Hell and damn! “Where did he go?”

  “San Francisco.”

  “To see whom?”

  “Tell you if I knew, but I don’t.”

  “Does he travel there often?”

  “When he has reason, good reason.”

  “When did he leave?”

  “Last night while I was asleep, like always.” She leaned against the doorjamb, her thick lips twisting into a grin like a rictus. “Went to say goodbye to his lady friend.”

  “Lady friend?”

  “Don’t know this one’s name. Don’t care, long as he don’t stop bringing home the bacon.”

  “Did he go by train?”

  “Not to see her, he didn’t.”

  “To San Francisco. By train or by steamer?”

  “Always takes the train. Four o’clock.”

  “Four a.m., you mean?”

  “Hah. Him get out of a chippy’s bed that early? No.”

  “Four this afternoon, then.”

  “I just said so, didn’t I. What time is it now?”

  “Shortly past noon.”

  “So you’re in luck. Plenty of time to catch him at the depot.”

  Quincannon’s smile was wolfish. “We’ll try to do just that.”

  “Tell him I said I’ll be waiting for the bacon.” And with that she pushed away from the jamb and banged the door shut.

  On the sidewalk Sabina said with a raised eyebrow and a rib-nudge, “Horatio Frinke?”

  “It was the only name I could think of on the spur.”

  “I must say I’m glad it’s not your real name. I wouldn’t fancy being Mrs. Horatio Frinke.”

  They hurried to the corner, around it into the carriageway. Sabina said then, “Delightful woman, Mrs. Morgan. Why do you suppose he’s stayed with her all these years? She must be a devil to live with.”

  Quincannon grunted. His mind was on Morgan’s planned trip to San Francisco. Was that where he sold the stolen gold? Or did he have some other reason for going there?

  Sabina was still pondering. “It can’t be because she permits him to have lady friends. Perhaps he still loves her.”

  “More likely he’s afraid she’ll expose him for the crook he is,” Quincannon said as they reached the waiting brougham, “unless he keeps bringing home the bacon.”

  24

  SABINA

  In the carriage John repeated what Mrs. Morgan had told them. Flannery said, “Four o’clock. If she was right about the time, it’ll be the Espee’s Capitol Express that he’s taking. That presents a potential problem, if you’re thinking of putting the arm on him before he boards.”

  “Just what I was thinking. Why a potential problem?”

  “The four o’clock Express is usually crowded. There’ll be quite a few passengers getting off, in addition to those waiting to board. He might slip past us. Or start a ruckus if we do try to brace him.”

  Sabina said, “And we don’t want to risk the chance of harm to innocent bystanders.”

  “The one other option,” John said, “I like even less.”

  “Allow him to board and take passage ourselves.”

  “Yes. Watch for an opportunity to yaffle him on the train, and if none presents itself, then look to make the pinch in Oakland.”

  “Same potential problems in both cases,” Flannery said.

  John nodded agreement. “The sooner he’s in custody the better. We’ll have to take him at the depot here if it can be managed.”

  “Is there enough time to bring in the authorities?” Sabina asked. “Or men in your employ, Mr. Flannery?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Too many explanations required at any rate,” John said. “As it is, we’ll have just enough time to make preparations for both contingencies.”

  They drove to the Golden Eagle Hotel, made short work of packing their luggage and checking out, and then proceeded to a gunsmith Flannery knew on M Street, where John purchased a Webley five-shot pocket revolver. He did not want to go up against Morgan with his derringer, a wise decision. Flannery offered to sell him the Colt Peacemaker, but the price he quoted earned John’s scorn. Besides, he said, whereas the derringer was too small, the Peacemaker was too large and cumbersome, and he would have no use for it in San Francisco.

  The main depot served a number of rail lines, Flannery told them, the primary ones for the transport of intrastate passengers being the Southern Pacific—or Espee, as Flannery had called it—and the Central Pacific; the Union Pacific provided weekly transcontinental service between Oakland and Council Bluffs, Iowa, but its crack streamliner, the Golden Gate Special, was not due this day. Neither was the Golden State Limited, the Espee’s transcontinental flyer.

  The station was as crowded as Flannery had said it would be, with a constant stream of people embarking and disembarking on trains headed in all directions. The parking areas, waiting rooms, and platforms were teeming when they arrived shortly past three. As early as it was, John did not expect Bart Morgan to have arrived yet, but he and Flannery roamed through the throng to make sure.

  Sabina, meanwhile, entrusted her carpetbag and John’s war bag to one of the porters, whom she tipped generously to keep a watchful eye on them. She then approached the station agent and used her feminine charm to find out whether or not B. or Bart or Bartholomew Morgan had booked a private compartment on the Capitol Express. He hadn’t. There was only one first-class Pullman and all but one of the compartments had been reserved for couples, the lone exception being a local physician known to the agent. Morgan’s passage, then, was to be by day coach.

  Coach tickets were still available; Sabina bought two. After which she herself searched for some sign of their quarry among the milling throng, with no better results than John and Flannery were having. She returned to wait with the porter and their luggage at the rendezvous point.

  Three-thirty came and went, uneventfully.

  So did three forty-five.

  And three fifty-five.

  The westbound Capitol Express lumbered into the station at three fifty-seven, only twelve minutes behind its scheduled arrival. The crowds were even thicker now, the platform clogged with men, women, children disembarking, about to board, or present to greet or say goodbye to friends and family members, and uniformed porters trundling baggage carts. Morgan must have put in an appearance by this time, but Sabina saw no sign of him, or of John and Flannery.

  Four oh-five.

  The last of the arriving passengers detrained and those departing began to board. Two more minutes passed. Where was John? He—

  There he was, pushing his way toward her through the crowd. He came running up, his jaw set tight, his eyes sparking with anger and vexation. “Blasted devil slipped past us and was already in the boarding line when I spied him. Too l
ate then to risk taking him.”

  “Which day coach is he in?”

  “Second of the three.”

  “Did he see you, recognize you?”

  “If he did he gave no indication of it.”

  “We’ll have to travel with him, then.”

  “No other choice, confound it.”

  They still had enough time, barely, for the whistle hadn’t sounded yet. Sabina issued swift instructions to the porter, pressed a coin into his hand to speed him on his way to the baggage car with their luggage. Then she and John ran for the second coach, reaching it just before the whistle blew and the conductor gave forth with his “All aboard!” cry. John boosted her into the vestibule, clambered up beside her. Out on the station platform she saw Flannery appear and wave: he had seen them board.

  The coach was almost completely filled, many of the seats occupied by women and children, and it took her a moment to locate Morgan. Dressed in a lightweight slack suit and derby hat, he occupied a seat at the rearward end, facing in their direction, but he seemed to take no notice of them; his eyes were on a satchel he held clutched on his lap with both hands. There were two empty rearward-facing seats at the forward end, not adjacent, but John soon remedied that by politely asking a plump woman next to one of the empties if she minded moving so he could sit next to his wife who was with child. The woman nodded smiling assent and promptly moved.

  Sabina leaned close to him when they were seated and whispered, “Wife with child. Really, John.”

  “Had the desired effect, did it not.”

  Steam hissed as the locomotive’s brakes were released, couplings banged, and the Capitol Express jerked into motion. The time, by the tiny gold watch pinned to the bosom of Sabina’s shirtwaist, was four-fifteen. Morgan still sat with his gaze cast downward at his lap.

  “You don’t suppose the gold is in that satchel?” Sabina murmured.

  “Possibly. But he’d be a fool to carry valuables in there. Purse snatchers abound in train station crowds.”

  “In his checked luggage, then?”

  “Not much safer. If he has it with him, likely it’s in a money belt.”

  The train rattled through the yards. It was noisy in the coach, some of the youngsters indulging in rambunctious behavior. Stuffy, too, the air thickened by food odors and human effluvium. Sabina wished again, as she had on the trip to Sacramento, that this was one of the Espee’s luxury trains such as the Golden State Limited on the San Francisco–Chicago run. The Golden State was ventilated by a new process which renewed the air inside several times every hour, instead of having it circulated only slightly by sluggish fans. It was also said to be brightly lighted by electricity generated from the axles of the moving cars, rather than being murkily lit by oil lamps, though the dim light was advantageous under the present circumstances.

  “What are you going to do, John?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “You can’t brace him in here.”

  “No. I don’t dare draw my weapon—it might cause a panic. And he’s bound to be armed. I wouldn’t put it past him to fire his pistol if he were able. Or to take a hostage.”

  The conductor appeared, collecting tickets. He was a spare, sallow-faced man who wore his uniform and cap as if they were badges of honor. The brass buttons shone, as did a heavy gold watch chain and its polished elk’s tooth fob. A shiny badge on the front of his uniform identified him as Mr. Bridges.

  Sabina dipped her chin in his direction. “Take the conductor into your confidence?”

  “Not that, either,” John said. “There is nothing he could do until after Morgan is in my custody, and little enough then. No, there’s only one viable option, and that problematical—follow him if he leaves his seat and hope to catch him alone between cars.”

  “Still a high-risk proposition.”

  “Not necessarily. Don’t worry, I won’t make any move that endangers others.”

  The Capitol Express picked up speed, soon crossed the railroad bridge spanning the river. Morgan hadn’t moved except to lift and turn his head toward the window at his side; he seemed oblivious to everyone else in the coach. John sat statue-still, covertly watching him. Sabina shifted position on the thin seat cushion, seeking comfort and thinking that if she’d known for certain that they would be taking the train, she would have changed into her more suitable traveling clothes before leaving the hotel.

  They were entering open country now, marshy in places near the river, mostly cattle graze and farmland stretching beyond. The steady, throbbing rhythm of steel on steel had a welcome muting effect on the youngsters’ piping voices. A strand of Sabina’s hair had come loose from its coil; she was in the process of repinning it when she felt John stiffen beside her. The reason, she saw then, was that Morgan was rising from his seat. He yawned, stretched, and then stepped into the aisle with the satchel still clutched in both hands. Balanced against the swaying motion of the car, he walked past where she and John were sitting without so much as an eye flick in their direction.

  As soon as he passed through the connecting door to the coach behind, John was on his feet. He gestured for her to remain seated, followed after Morgan.

  Sabina sat tensely, waiting.

  25

  QUINCANNON

  Morgan went through the packed third day coach, through the first-class Pullman and the dining and lounge cars, past men’s and women’s lavatories into the smoking car. Quincannon had no chance to brace him along the way, for Morgan moved at a smart pace and there were other people in the aisles in all four cars.

  Quincannon paused outside the smoking car door; through the glass he watched his quarry sit down at the far end, facing back toward the entrance, then produce a cigar from his coat pocket, fit it into the amber holder, and snip off the end with a pair of gold cutters. Settling in there, evidently, as he’d settled into the day coach. Blast the man and blast the luck!

  He debated the advisability of entering, decided to take the chance. Morgan paid no attention to him when he claimed a seat just inside the door. The car was three-quarters full, smoke from cigars, pipes, cigarettes creating a thickly swirling haze. Quincannon tugged his briar and tobacco pouch from an inside coat pocket, opened the pouch—and then stayed his hand as he was about to dip the pipe bowl inside.

  Morgan was on his feet again. His cigar unlit, an expression of mild distress on his lean features, he came striding forward with eyes front as he passed where Quincannon sat. What was this? Ah, the sudden call of nature, evidently, for he stopped at the door to the men’s lavatory, found it unoccupied, and closed himself inside.

  Quincannon’s mouth pinched into a tight smile. This might well be the break he’d been waiting for. He stowed his pipe and pouch, stood, and took up a position near the lavatory door as if waiting his turn to enter. If no one was in the immediate vicinity when Morgan emerged, he would crowd the man back inside and use his superior size and strength in that small space to subdue and disarm him—club him into unconsciousness if such proved necessary.

  Waiting, watching the lavatory door, he gripped the handle of the Webley revolver in his coat pocket. A hefty individual in the flashy dress of a traveling drummer came in from the lounge, staggering slightly when couplings clashed and the car lurched as its wheels passed over a rough section of track. Outside the windows, a series of low hills, shadowed by the waning afternoon light, created a barren backdrop for a patchwork of plowed and unplowed fields.

  The door to the lavatory remained closed.

  A prickly sensation formed between Quincannon’s shoulder blades. How long had Morgan been in there? It had to be more than five minutes now. One of the other occupants left the smoking car; a fat man, his round face adorned with a thicket of muttonchop whiskers, came in. The fat gent paused, glancing around, then turned to the lavatory door and tried the latch. When he found it locked, he rapped on the panel. There was no response.

  The prickly sensation grew as hot as a fire-rash. Quincannon prod
ded the fat man aside, ignoring the indignant oath this brought him, and laid an ear against the panel. All he could hear were train sounds: the pound of beating trucks on the fishplates, the creek and groan of axle play, the whisper of the wheels. He hammered on the panel with his fist, much harder than the fat fellow had. Once, twice, three times. This likewise produced no response.

  “Hell and damn!”

  The ejaculation brought him the attention of the remaining smokers, and so startled the fat man that he did a quick about-face and went through the connecting door onto the iron-plated vestibule, where he nearly collided with another man just stepping through. The newcomer was the conductor, Bridges, who had evidently heard the hammering and outcry while passing through the lounge car.

  “Here, now, what’s all the commotion?”

  Quincannon snapped, “A man went into the lavatory some time ago, hasn’t come out. And hasn’t made a sound.”

  “Well, perhaps he isn’t feeling well—”

  “Use your master key and we’ll soon know.”

  “I can’t do that, sir, on your word alone—”

  Quincannon took hold of the conductor’s coat sleeve, drew him back into the vestibule out of earshot. He said, low and sharp, “I am a San Francisco detective—Quincannon, John Frederick Quincannon. The man who went into the lavatory is a dangerous fugitive. The only reason I haven’t taken him into custody is concern for the safety of the other passengers.”

  The fervency of Quincannon’s words and demeanor brooked no argument, and brought none. “Good Lord!” the conductor said in shocked tones. “What did he do? Who is he?”

  “I’ll explain later; there’s no time now.”

  “You don’t think he—”

  “Open the door, Mr. Bridges, and be quick about it.”

  The conductor unlocked the lavatory door. Quincannon pushed in first, his hand on the butt of the Webley revolver—and immediately blistered the air with a five-jointed oath.

  The cubicle was empty.

  “By all the saints!” Bridges said behind him. “He must have gone through the window and jumped.”