“Do you have anything else to report?” McFinn asked.
“Again, not yet. I had a conversation with Jeffrey Gaunt a few minutes ago, but it yielded nothing of import.”
“He didn’t say anything about that damned … the threatening letter?”
“No. The Saint Louis Rose has no way of knowing about it, and he wouldn’t bring it up to her in any case. Nor would he be drawn into a discussion of Jack O’Diamonds’ infatuation with Lily Dumont.”
“Quincannon mentioned his suspicion of an affair last night,” McFinn said. “I asked the girl about it this morning, straight-out.”
“She denied the involvement, of course.”
“In no uncertain terms.”
“And you believed her?”
“She … well, she seemed sincere.”
“Glen Bonnifield, Lady One-Eye, and her brother all seem to suspect infidelity. As do John and I. If we’re correct, it makes the situation even more volatile and potentially violent.”
McFinn groaned again. “As if I need anything more to worry about.”
He would have been all the more fretted if Sabina had told him about the shooting at Lily Dumont’s cottage. The decision she and John had made not to reveal it yet was the right one.
“You and your partner had better get to the bottom of things in a hurry. Where is he today, by the way? I haven’t seen him since he left at the end of his shift last night.”
“In Nevada City.”
“Doing what?”
“The same as I’ll be doing today and tonight,” Sabina said. “What you’re paying us to do—investigate.”
* * *
She spent the rest of the morning once again asking veiled questions of various habitués of the Gold Nugget and Grass Valley’s other gaming parlors, seeking information on locals whose anti-gambling sentiments were strong enough to have resulted in the threatening letter, and on the activities past and present of Lady One-Eye, Jack O’Diamonds, and Jeffrey Gaunt. One of those she wanted to speak to, but didn’t, was Lily Dumont; the faro dealer was nowhere to be found at her cottage, in the parlors, or anywhere else in town.
She learned nothing of significance.
After she had her midday meal at a fairly good restaurant, the humid summer heat drove her back to the relatively cool confines of the Holbrooke Hotel. As she entered the lobby, she thought—not for the first time—what a curious coincidence it was to have undertaken a case that brought her to Grass Valley and the Holbrooke. For they were where Carson Montgomery had worked as a young metallurgist in the rough-and-ready boom years of Nevada County gold mining.
It had been during that period that Carson committed the transgression that left him open to blackmail and threatened his successful career as a mining engineer—a dark secret uncovered by Sabina that had led to the end of their brief romance less than a year ago. She hadn’t seen him since. Although she was not sorry they’d parted company, she retained pleasant memories of the interlude and wished him well. And from what she’d read in the newspapers’ social columns, he had recovered from the incident quite nicely: he was now engaged to the daughter of a wealthy stockbroker.
The thought of Carson led naturally, as she ascended the staircase to the second floor, to Charles Percival Fairchild III. It had been Charles the Third who had learned of the blackmail attempt and alerted her to it. The daft but shrewdly clever fellow who fancied himself to be the great detective Sherlock Holmes, but who was in fact scion to a Chicago meatpacking fortune, had for nearly a year skulked among the denizens of San Francisco’s underworld and insinuated himself into several of her and John’s cases, often with startling results. He could be highly annoying, with his secretive ways and outlandish disguises, yet also quite charming and helpful. And the last time she’d seen him, at the close of the Plague of Thieves Affair in January, he had literally saved her life.
He had left the city shortly afterward, to avoid the police and legal ramifications, and hadn’t been heard from or about since. She wondered again what had become of him. Had he returned to England, where he’d lived in self-exile for several years? To Chicago, to claim his father’s inheritance despite the unshakable conviction that he was Sherlock Holmes, Esquire? To some other city, where he was now continuing to indulge his delusion? She would have liked to know; in spite of herself she almost missed having him around. Not so, John, however. Charles had been a thorn in his side too long, upstaging him on more than one occasion with some rather amazing detective work and earning his everlasting enmity …
In her room, she pulled the cord to the ceiling fan, then removed the itchy wig, slipped out of Rose’s dress, and lay down on the bed. Afternoon naps were a luxury she hardly ever had the time or inclination to indulge in in the city. Here, one was a necessity as well as a relief, given the likely stresses of the evening ahead.
Her internal clock woke her after forty-five minutes. Another fifteen were sufficient to refresh her guise as the Saint Louis Rose. The clock in the lobby read 2:50 when she left the hotel to keep her three o’clock appointment with John on the City Hall green.
5
QUINCANNON
Nevada City, three miles to the east, was likewise a gold-mining town. It had been founded during the first year of the Gold Rush, Quincannon knew, two years before Grass Valley was settled. Its first and largest mine, the Gold Tunnel on the north side of Deer Creek, had made it the richest mining town in the state during that period. Grass Valley’s Empire and North Star mines had eventually surpassed the Gold Tunnel’s output, and siphoned off some of Nevada City’s population of miners and their families. But the amount of gold-bearing ore produced here remained substantial enough to the present day to support the local economy.
Quincannon spent the better part of four hours making the rounds of the saloons and gaming parlors—one of them Glen Bonnifield’s Ace High—and local merchant establishments, pretending to be a patent-medicine drummer and asking seemingly casual questions. He learned several things about Bonnifield and the saloon owner’s relationship with Lily Dumont, a few of potential significance.
The slow NCNG train deposited him back in Grass Valley a few minutes past two o’clock. From the depot, he walked up heat-glazed, semi-deserted East Main to the Gold Nugget.
In the harsh glare of sunlight, the exterior of the gambling hall had an uninviting aspect. Like nearly all of the commercial buildings here, it been constructed of brick—the consequence of a disastrous fire in 1855 that had consumed the township’s three hundred wooden structures, leaving nothing standing but Wells Fargo’s brick-and-iron vault and a dozen scorched brick chimneys. The massive sign above the door had a warped and faded look; the brass fittings of the red-globed lamps were pitted with rust. Little wonder, Quincannon thought, that the bluenoses were bent on closing it and its sisters down. Some of the other gambling resorts here and in Nevada City had even tawdrier appearances by daylight.
At this hour there were relatively few customers. All but two of the gaming tables were covered, Lily Dumont’s faro bank among them. There was no sign of the buxom Lily, nor of Lady One-Eye, Jack O’Diamonds, or Jeffrey Gaunt. Amos McFinn hovered behind the bar, looking harried as usual. Quincannon went to the unoccupied end and McFinn, spying him, hurried over.
“Well?” the little man demanded without preamble. “Did you find out anything today?”
“Nothing to be confided just yet, Mr. McFinn.”
“Damn! That is just what your compatriot—”
Quincannon said warningly, “I have no compatriot here.”
“The Saint Louis Rose, I meant to say. Just what she said when I spoke to her earlier.”
“Not a wise idea to be questioning her. You’ll upset the apple cart if you’re not careful.”
“She came to see me. We spoke privately in my office. She claims to be able to tell me tonight whether or not Lady One-Eye is cheating.”
“And so she will.”
“Are you sure she knows the game of
poker well enough to be absolutely certain?”
“Better than you or I, and as well as Lady One-Eye,” Quincannon assured him. “You needn’t worry. Your money is being well spent.”
“That remains to be seen,” McFinn said dolefully.
* * *
Sabina was waiting on a tree-shaded bench on the Stewart Street side of City Hall, her open parasol providing additional insulation from the blazing afternoon sun. The bright yellow summer dress she wore, he was relieved to note as he strolled up, revealed less of her charms than her evening attire. He sat down beside her, fanned himself with his derby. There was no one else in the vicinity except for a heat-flattened mongrel dog stretched out asleep behind the bench.
Sabina looked a bit on the wilted side herself, and he made the mistake of saying so.
“You’d be wilted, too, if you had to wear this infernal wig,” she said crossly. “I should have had the sense not to bother covering my own hair with such a contrivance.”
“Then we would have had to name you the Saint Louis Black.”
“I am in no mood for badinage, John. Was your trip to Nevada City worthwhile?”
“Up to a point. Glen Bonnifield is in fact keeping Lily in her cottage and has been for more than a year. He has an evidently justifiable reputation for jealousy and an explosive temper. Last year he threatened to shoot a man who had been pestering her. And he carries a Colt Peacemaker and is reported to be an excellent shot.”
“A dangerous man. And likely the one who shot at you at Lily’s cottage last night.”
Quincannon nodded agreement. “A hothead of direct action, not devious design. Would such a man write a note forewarning both a rival and the rival’s wife?”
“No.”
“No, indeed. So was it Jack O’Diamonds who wrote the note, to pave the way for a murder plot against Lady One-Eye devised by him alone or with the collusion of Lily Dumont? Or was its author, after all, some anti-gambling individual who might or might not intend to carry out his threat?”
“Rhetorical questions, John.”
“So you learned nothing that might point in either direction?”
“Nothing more than yesterday. The anti-gambling faction here has more than a few ardent members. If the note was written by one of them there’s no way to identify him—or her—short of asking for sample handwriting from every local resident.”
“Faugh.”
She told him of the intense breakfast-table discussion between Lady One-Eye and Jeffrey Gaunt, and of her own conversation with Gaunt. “Unless I miss my guess,” she said, “the brother-and-sister discussion concerned Jack O’Diamonds and Lily Dumont.”
“It would explain Lady One-Eye’s anger. Did Gaunt seem upset beneath his calm demeanor?”
“I would say he was,” Sabina said. “He is certainly aware of the affair, if their infatuation with each other has gone that far.”
“There seems little doubt that it has. Does he strike you as capable of violence to preserve his sister’s alleged honor?”
“As capable of it as Bonnifield, if I’m any judge of men.”
Oh, you are, Quincannon thought, and none better at it, I’ll warrant. “A bad situation, in any case. One I have a feeling may soon come to a head. But how soon?”
“Yes,” Sabina said, “and where and in what way?”
* * *
At five o’clock, in fresh clothing and with a plate of liver and onions residing more or less comfortably within, Quincannon returned to the Gold Nugget to resume his duties behind the bar.
Lily Dumont was there, setting up her faro bank. No one was with her, and when a bearded miner drifted over and attempted to start a conversation, she brushed him off with a sharp word. She seemed preoccupied—and almost as nervous as McFinn. Quincannon wondered if the cause of her agitation was that she’d gotten wind of the shooting last night.
Lady One-Eye and Jack O’Diamonds arrived together, but soon parted without a word to each other. The Lady took her place at the platform table and was immediately challenged by a pair of whiskered gents who had the look of nouveau riche prospectors. Diamond made his way to the bar, where he drank two brandies in short order. Then he moved restlessly about the room, stopping for a time to play vingt-et-un and then again to play faro. But it was not Lily’s bank that he chose. He avoided going anywhere near her, as if she were not even on the premises. Lily, likewise, paid not the slightest attention to him. A falling-out of some sort? Or part of a plan that might have been hatched between them?
The last to arrive was Jeffrey Gaunt, dressed in his customary rusty black suit and string tie, his pomaded hair glistening in the lamplight. He sat alone at the same table he’d occupied the night before, where he alternately watched his sister play, cast long, hard looks in the direction of his brother-in-law, and made notations in his ledger book.
The Saint Louis Rose made her entrance shortly afterward, wearing a frilly green outfit with a low-cut bodice that struck Quincannon as even more revealing than last night’s scarlet number. Where had she gotten such clothing? From a costumers, probably, though she hadn’t said so. For all he knew she had a closet full of such apparel and had been leading a wanton double life, slipping out once or twice a week to Barbary Coast deadfalls. Hah! Fanciful notion if ever there was one.
Still, there were hidden depths in her, of that he was sure—a wanton within a proper lady, waiting to be released. That thought, in spite of the time and place, quickened his blood. It also put him in mind of a quatrain from a poem by Emily Dickinson.
Wild Nights! Wild Nights!
Were I with thee,
Wild Nights should be
Our luxury!
He sighed as he watched her sashay across the room, drawing admiring and lustful looks from the early-gathered customers. It made him testy to see the men ogling her in such a fashion. As if he were a jealous husband.
She joined Jack O’Diamonds at the faro table, attempted to engage him in conversation. The gambler spurned her; he seemed as preoccupied as Lily Dumont. Three times in less than an hour he ordered brandy from one of the percentage girls. But the liquor seemed to have little or no effect on him.
Lady One-Eye made short work of the two Cornish miners, taking a hundred dollars from one and twice that amount from another. They accepted their losses more or less good-naturedly, the biggest loser offering to buy her a magnum of champagne as a token of his esteem for her skills. She declined. There was a tight set to her mouth tonight, a distracted mechanical quality to her movements.
Shortly after the prospectors left Lady One-Eye alone on the platform, Glen Bonnifield walked in. Or, more precisely, weaved in. His face was dark flushed, his eyes blood flecked, his expression brooding: the look of a man who had spent a good part of the day in close company with a bottle of whiskey. Trouble afoot, all right, Quincannon thought darkly, and no gainsaying it.
Bonnifield lurched up to his station, stood for a few seconds glowering in the direction of Lily Dumont. Then he called for rye.
Quincannon said politely, “Carrying a bit of a load tonight, eh, Mr. Bonnifield?”
“What if I am? No concern of yours.”
“No, sir, except that you forgot to check your weapon.”
“My what?”
“The Peacemaker poking out from under your coat.”
“No damn concern of yours,” Bonnifield growled. He spat into one of the knee-high cuspidors. “Pour my rye, barkeep, and be quick about it.”
“Not until you obey the rules of the house and check your weapon.”
“Well, now. Why don’t you try checking it for me?”
His voice was loud, belligerent; some of the other patrons swung their heads to stare at him. So did Lily Dumont. When she saw the condition he was in, her nervousness escalated into visible fright.
“Let’s not have an altercation, Mr. Bonnifield.”
“There’ll be an altercation, all right, by God. But not with the likes of you.”
&nbs
p; Abruptly Bonnifield shoved away from the rail, staggered over to Lily’s faro bank. She shrank back while two of her customers moved out of harm’s way. Quincannon was on the move through the notch in the bar by then. He heard McFinn shout a warning to his bouncers; he also glimpsed Jack O’Diamonds jump up and start past the raised platform to Lily’s defense.
What remained of Bonnifield’s self-control had dissolved in drunken fury. He yelled, “You little tramp, I won’t let you make a fool out of me!” and his hand groped under his coat for the Peacemaker.
Quincannon reached the saloonkeeper just as he drew the big-barreled weapon, knocked his arm down before he could trigger a shot. Bonnifield swung wildly with his other hand, struck Quincannon’s shoulder a glancing blow that drove him backward on his heels. Two of the bouncers muscled up, grabbed hold of the saloonkeeper, and tried to wrestle him into submission. He broke free and stumbled into a confused group of customers and Gold Nugget employees, still clutching his Peacemaker. Men shouted; a woman let out a shrill cry of alarm.
And in the midst of all this ferment, a single pistol shot sounded, low and popping, like the explosion of a Fourth of July firecracker.
A man grunted loudly in pain. That and the report ended the budding melee, parted the crowd in a fashion that was almost biblical. Quincannon saw a number of things in that instant. He saw the two bouncers drive Bonnifield to the floor and disarm him. He saw Lily rush away from her faro bank, Jeffrey Gaunt do the same from his table. He saw Sabina running toward him. He saw Lady One-Eye seated at her poker table, one hand on the green baize and the other at the bodice of her dress. And in the cleared space where the mass of people had fallen back on both sides, he saw the victim of the gunshot lying supine and motionless, blood staining his vest at heart level.
“It’s Jack!” Lily shrieked. “Oh, no, it’s Jack!”
6
SABINA
Sabina rushed up just as Lily Dumont flung herself to her knees beside the inert form of Jack O’Diamonds, laid her flame-colored head against his chest. When she lifted it again, her eyes were wet with tears. “He’s not breathing,” she wailed, “he’s dead.”
The Bags of Tricks Affair--A Carpenter and Quincannon Mystery Page 4
