Then, at her lowest point, Frieda Gosling became her savior.
Frieda, the wife of another Pinkerton operative and a friend of both hers and Stephen’s, entered the flat against Sabina’s protests, sat her down, and in stern but compassionate tones delivered both a lecture and a message from the Pinkerton office. Did Sabina expect to wallow in grief and misery for the rest of her life? A fine monument to Stephen’s memory that would be. Wouldn’t he want her to start embracing life again, and return to her duties in the profession for which she was best suited? If she chose the latter, Frieda said, the agency had urgent need of a Pink Rose to work an undercover assignment in Silver City, Idaho, on a case involving a mining stock swindle.
Sabina had taken her friend’s words to heart and never regretted it. For not only had her return to Pink Rose status given her renewed purpose, it had been in Silver City that she’d met John Quincannon, then with the United States Secret Service, and eventually embarked on her new and rewarding life in San Francisco. She and Frieda had remained close, exchanging frequent letters and small gifts at Christmastime.
Now she scrutinized her reflection in her hand mirror and concluded that she looked more like a respectable young matron than a detective setting out to snaffle a pickpocket. Satisfied, she left the office to keep her luncheon date with Callie at the Sun Dial, a popular spot with the ladies.
Sabina held a relatively unique position for a woman in San Francisco: as a widow and the co-owner of a highly respectable business, she was free of many of the strictures imposed on single and married women alike. While the ladies of the city poured tea and offered sweets during weekly “at homes,” Sabina traveled the far more interesting, if sometimes dangerous, byways and districts from the notorious Barbary Coast to luxurious Nob Hill. In the course of her investigations she met people of undisputed good standing as well as those of dubious and ill repute. To her second cousin, Callie French, with whom she’d resumed a childhood friendship when she moved West, and with whom she was in fact lunching today, these were dangerous activities inviting folly.
Callie, like Sabina, had been born in Chicago, but her family had moved to California when she was only five. For a time they’d lived in Oakland, the city across the Bay, then settled on Nob Hill when her father was promoted to the regional headquarters of the Miners Bank. Callie had been a debutante-one of the “buds” of society who were presented at the cotillions-and had married a protege of her father’s in a lavish wedding that had reputedly cost fifty thousand dollars, an unheard of amount for the day. She was Sabina’s entree into the workings of the upper classes and the ways of the city’s elite.
But Sabina also moved unharmed through far less genteel surroundings, as if protected by an invisible shield of armor. Perhaps it was her confident manner or perhaps it was because with Stephen’s death the worst that could happen to her had already occurred. On that matter, she didn’t care to speculate.
When she entered the Sun Dial, she spied Callie at a corner table in the bright, airy main room. Sunlight spilled down through one of the large skylights, giving Callie’s intricately braided and coiled blond hair a golden sheen. She greeted Sabina effusively as always, with a hug and a burst of chatter. “There you are, my dear! How are you? In fine fettle, I hope. Here, let me help you with your cloak. They say the chicken dish is exceptional today, but I’m thinking of the veal chop.”
While Sabina studied the menu, Callie plied her with questions about John. How was he? Had she changed her mind about seeing him outside the office? No? Why not? He was such a charming man, so polite and well mannered in spite of his ferocious beard.
Sabina smiled inwardly. Callie was a firm believer in marriage, thanks to the success of her own union, and made no bones about the fact that she thought Sabina ought to marry again. Nothing would have made her happier than a Carpenter and Quincannon matrimonial as well as business match. If Sabina ever even hinted at such a possibility, Callie would immediately order champagne and a string quartet for the wedding. Not that such a hint would ever be forthcoming, but if Sabina had spoken forcefully against the notion, it would only have hurt Callie’s feelings. Her cousin could be frivolous and at times downright silly, but she was loyal and had a good, well-meaning heart. Sabina prized their friendship.
The coq au vin didn’t appeal to her, nor did the veal chop, but a seafood pasta struck the right note. When she ordered it, Callie said, “Oh, how I envy you. If I ate starch for lunch, I’d have to let my corset out.”
“Nonsense.”
“Nonsense to you, perhaps. You’ve never needed to wear a corset.”
“Not yet, at least.”
Callie leaned forward and lowered her voice. Sabina knew what was coming, for her cousin had an enormous interest in her work-and an equally enormous penchant for gossip. “Tell me, dear. What sort of cases are you and John investigating now?”
“You know I can’t tell you that.”
“You and your silly rules about client confidentiality. At least tell me this: is there any danger in what you’re doing?”
“No, none.”
“Are you sure? You know how I worry about you.”
“Yes. But needlessly.”
“I wish I could be certain of that. It’s such a dangerous profession you’ve chosen.…”
Sabina said quickly, to forestall any painful reminder of what had happened to Stephen, “No more dangerous than crossing a busy street. Or devouring that veal chop you ordered.”
Callie sighed. “Not to mention the chocoloate torte I’m considering for dessert.”
After she and Callie parted outside the restaurant, Sabina hailed a cab that carried her down Van Ness Avenue and south on Haight Street. The journey was a lengthy one, passing through sparsely settled areas of the city, and all unbidden she found herself thinking about John instead of Stephen. No doubt because of Callie’s none-too-subtle matchmaking … and yet, her thoughts seemed to turn to her partner more and more often lately, at odd moments, in spite of her vow to keep their relationship strictly professional.
He had left the office grumbling because of her refusal to tell him with whom she was having lunch, and because she had also refused an invitation to dinner at Marchand’s French restaurant. Sabina, a practical woman, had thus far turned down nearly all of John’s frequent invitations. Mixing business with even the simplest of pleasures was a precarious proposition; it could imperil their partnership, an arrangement with which she was quite happy as it stood.
Another reason she spurned his advances was that she was unsure of what motivated them. Plain seduction? She had no interest in a dalliance with her partner or any other man. A more serious infatuation? As she had often told Callie, she was unwilling to enter into another committed relationship-especially one with John of all possible swains-while the lost love of her life remained bright in her memory. Whatever poor John’s intentions, he was simply out of luck.
Sometimes working with him tried her patience, and not only because of his persistence in trying to obtain her favors. His preening self-esteem, though often justified, could be exasperating. Yet she knew him well enough to understand that it was more a facade than his true nature, masking an easily bruised ego and a deep-seated fear of failure. Of course, he would never admit to being either vulnerable or insecure. Or to the fact that she was his equal as a detective. His pride wouldn’t allow it.
Yet John also had many good qualities: courage, compassion, sensitivity, kindness, a surprising gentleness at times. And she had to admit that she did not find him unattractive. Quite the opposite, in fact …
The Chutes Amusement Park, on Haight Street near the southern edge of Golden Gate Park, had only been open a short while and was still drawing large daily crowds. Its most prominent feature was a three-hundred-foot-long Shoot-the-Chutes: a double trestle track that rose seventy feet into the air. Passengers would ascend to a room at the top of the slides, where they would board boats for a swift descent to an artificial lake at
the bottom. Sabina craned her neck to look up at the towering tracks, saw the boats descending, heard the mock terrified screams and shouts of the patrons. She had heard that the ride was quite thrilling-or frightening, according to one’s perspective. She herself would enjoy trying it.
In addition to the water slide, the park contained a scenic railway that chugged merrily throughout its acreage; a mirrored, colorful merry-go-round with a huge brass ring; various carnival-like establishments-fortune-tellers, marksmanship booths, ring tosses, and other games of chance-and a refreshment stand offering hot dogs, sandwiches, and lemonade. Vendors with carts moved among the crowd, dispensing popcorn and cotton candy. A giant scale defied men to test their strength-“hit it hard enough with a wooden mallet to make the bell at the top ring,” the barker in charge intoned, “and win a goldfish for your lady.” Sabina suspected trickery: a man built like a wrestler accompanied by a homely woman missed the mark, but another as thin as a slat accompanied by a dark-haired beauty came away with two fish.
Ackerman had told Sabina she would find his manager, Lester Sweeney, in the office beyond the ticket booth. She crossed the street, holding up her flowered skirt so the hem wouldn’t get dusty, and asked at the booth for Mr. Sweeney. The man collecting admissions motioned her inside and through a door behind him.
Sweeney sat behind a desk that seemed too large for the cramped space, adding a column of figures. He was a big man, possibly in his late forties, with thinning red hair and a complexion that spoke of a fondness for strong drink. When at first he looked up at Sabina, his reddened eyes, surrounded by pouched flesh, gleamed in appreciation. To forestall any unseemly remarks she quickly presented her card, and watched the gleam fade.
“I didn’t know they’d be sending a woman,” he said. “Mr. Ackerman told me it would be one of the owners of the agency.”
“I am one of the owners.”
He looked at the card again. “Well, well. These days … well. Please sit down, Mrs. Carpenter.”
“Thank you.” Sabina sat on the single wooden chair sandwiched between the desk and the wall.
“You’ll pardon me if I expressed reservations,” Sweeney said. “You look so, ah, refined-”
“As do many of your patrons, from what I’ve observed. One of the advantages for a woman in my profession is to be able to blend in. And few would expect a detective to be female.”
“True,” he admitted, “true.”
“To business, then. These pocket-picking incidents have occurred over the past two weeks?”
“Yes. Five in all, primarily in the afternoon. Word has begun to spread, as I’m sure Mr. Ackerman told you, and we’re bound to lose customers.”
“You spoke with the known victims?”
“Those who reported the incidents, yes. There may have been others who didn’t.”
“And none was able to describe the thief?”
“Other than that she’s a woman who disguises herself in different costumes, no. Nor have our security guards been able to find any trace of her after the incidents.”
“Were the victims all of the same sex?”
He nodded. “All men.”
“Did they have anything in common? Such as age, type of dress?”
Sweeney frowned while he cudgeled his memory. The frown had an alarming effect on his face, making it look like something that had softened and spread after being left out in the direct sun. In a moment he shook his head. “Various ages, various types of dress. Picked at random, I should think.”
“Possibly. Do you have their names and addresses?”
“Somewhere here.” He shuffled through the papers on his desk, found the list, and handed it to her. Sabina read it through, then tucked it into her reticule and rose from the chair. “You’ll begin your investigation immediately, Mrs. Carpenter?”
“Yes. I’ll notify you as soon as I have anything to report.”
3
SABINA
John’s vast storehouse of knowledge of San Francisco’s underworld had helped Sabina familiarize herself with most of the city’s female dips and cutpurses. Fanny Spigott, dubbed “Queen of the Pickpockets,” who with her husband, Joe, “King of the Pickpockets,” had not long ago audaciously-and unsuccessfully-plotted to steal the two-thousand-pound statue of Venus de Milo from the Louvre Museum in Paris; Lily Hamlin (“Fainting Lily”), whose ploy was to pretend to pass out in the arms of her victims; Jane O’Leary (“Weeping Jane”), who lured her marks by enlisting them in the hunt for her “missing” six-year-old, then lifted their valuables while hugging them when the precocious and well-trained child accomplice was found; Myra McCoy, who claimed to have the slickest reach in town; and “Lovely Lena,” true name unknown, a blonde so bedazzling that it was said she blinded her male victims. Unfortunately, none of these, nor any others of their sorority, was working the Chutes today.
Sabina’s roaming two-hour search had taken her on a tour of the park grounds on the scenic railway, and for a thrilling boat ride down the Chutes waterway-so thrilling that, despite the generous meal she’d eaten at the Sun Dial, she had rewarded her bravery with a cone of vanilla ice cream. No person or activity had struck her as suspicious until she spied a youngish, unaccompanied woman wandering among those clustered around the merry-go-round. The way in which the woman moved and looked over the men in the crowd struck Sabina as furtive. She grew even more alert when the woman sidled up next to a nattily dressed man in a straw bowler, closer than a respectable lady would venture to a stranger. But when he turned and raised his hat to her, she quickly stepped away.
Sabina moved nearer.
The woman had light brown hair, upswept under a wide-brimmed straw picture hat similar to Sabina’s that was set low on her forehead so that her face was shadowed. She was slender, outfitted in a white shirtwaist and cornflower blue skirt. The only distinctive thing about her attire was the pin that held the hat to her head. Sabina-a connoisseur of hatpins-recognized it even from a distance as a Charles Horner of blue glass overlaid with a pattern of gold.
When the slender woman glanced around in a seemingly idle fashion, Sabina had a glimpse of rather nondescript features except for a mark on her chin that might have been a small scar. If it was a scar …
After a few seconds the woman’s gaze seemed to focus on a man to her right. She took a step in his direction, but when he reached down to pick up a fretting child, she didn’t approach him. Instead she veered away toward a fat burgher in a fawn-colored waistcoat, only to stop abruptly when a young girl hurried up and took hold of his arm.
The actions of a pickpocket, for certain; Sabina had observed how they operated on a number of occasions. They prowled a crowd, chose a would-be mark, studied the possibilities carefully before proceeding. The hatpin woman had backed off when two promising marks were joined by another person. It was much easier to rob an unaccompanied individual in a public place.
But who was she? Not any dip known to Sabina. And yet that blemish on her chin, the plain features, and the brown hair were familiar.…
The woman sauntered along, scanning the sea of faces, looking only at members of the opposite sex. Men were easier marks than those of her own sex, who were likely to cry out when they felt their purse strings cut or clutched upon. Also, men were assumed to carry larger amounts of cash and more easily sold valuables.
Apparently she saw no other prospects to her liking along the midway, and eventually approached a group of revelers clustered in front of an ice-cream wagon. She paused there, then approached a portly man who glared at her when she brushed up close beside him. She moved gracefully away, paused again outside the group, then abruptly turned to cast a long sweeping glance behind her as if sensing that she was being watched. Sabina pretended interest in a sticky-faced, weeping child who had been jostled into dropping her cotton candy, until the hatpin woman turned again and moved off at a quickened pace. Sabina followed as inconspicuously as she could without losing sight of her.
The woman�
��s destination soon became apparent-the park gates between Cole and Clayton. By the time she reached them, she was moving as quickly as though she were being chased.
Guilty, Sabina thought.
There was a row of hansom cabs waiting outside the gates of the park. The woman with the distinctive hatpin claimed the first in line; Sabina entered the second, asking the driver to follow the other hack. He regarded her with perplexed curiosity, no doubt unused to gentlewomen making such requests, but he neither objected nor refused. A fare was a fare, after all.
Sabina smiled wryly as she settled back. She’d seen the same bemusement on John’s face. The new century was rapidly approaching and with it what the press had dubbed the New Woman; very often these days the female sex did not think or act as they once had. Men didn’t necessarily dislike the New Woman-at least the progressively intelligent among them didn’t-but in general they failed to understand her. What did she want? Sabina had heard them asking one another on more than one occasion. Wasn’t the American woman-particularly those in cosmopolitan San Francisco-among the most prized, revered, and coddled in the world?
What they were unable to grasp was that many women were no longer content with being treated as fragile pieces of china and were tired of being considered intellectual inferiors. Such treatment, to one of Sabina’s temperament, was both demeaning and insulting.
The hatpin woman’s cab led them north on Haight and finally to Market Street, the city’s main artery. There she disembarked near the Palace Hotel-as did Sabina-and crossed Market to Montgomery. It was five o’clock, and businessmen of all kinds were streaming out of their downtown offices, many on their way to travel what the young blades termed the Cocktail Route.
The Bughouse Affair q-2 Page 2
