From the Morning Call, she walked to Market Street. The sidewalks, as usual at this time of day, were packed with humanity. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry these days, particularly those men who had left their places of business early in order to achieve a head start on the evening Cocktail Route ritual. As she made her way to the Western Union office, Sabina was mindful of careless jostlers and the pickpockets and purse snatchers who were bold enough to ply their felonious trades in broad daylight on downtown streets.
There were three more collect wires waiting. Two were in answer to John’s queries, one from the Pinkerton branch office in Dallas, the other from the detective agency in Little Rock. The third wire had been sent by Grass Valley Sheriff Hezekiah Thorpe. Only that one contained tersely worded new information of interest. Grave interest, perhaps.
TRIAL DATE MOVED UP TO JULY 17 STOP LADY STILL MUM STOP JG MISSING SINCE LAST NIGHT WHEREABOUTS UNKNOWN STOP
H THORPE
Whereabouts unknown? Jeffrey Gaunt might have gone anywhere, it was true, but his most likely destination once he learned Lady One-Eye’s trial date had been set for ten days hence was obvious. As was his purpose, if in fact he had come to San Francisco.
The prospect didn’t frighten Sabina. But it did make her even more wary and vigilant on her way to the office and then home afterward.
15
QUINCANNON
He took his supper at a side-street establishment called the Elite Café, which advertised “the best home-cooked meals in Delford” (if this was true, the worst were probably lethal), and then at a quarter of seven he walked down to the rail yards.
Some of the day’s heat had eased, but the sky was still hazed and cloudless. Not a breath of wind stirred the parched air. A crowd had begun to assemble under the locust trees near the watchman’s shack—men, women, a few children. The mood was anything but festive; facial expressions on the adults ranged from wary optimism to half-sullen pessimism. The trio of swindlers had correctly gauged the tenor of the town, a primary factor in their decision to flee tonight; when they failed again to bring rain, as they surely would, the more militant among the disillusioned might well take to cooking tar and gathering feathers.
As Quincannon approached the shack he could hear a rumbling, fluttering noise coming from within, not unlike the activity of several hives of hornets. It had an impressive sound, as befitted a “miracle cloud-cracking machine,” but of course it was nothing more than the workings of the steam boiler and galvanic battery. Virulent yellow gas still issued from the stovepipe jutting above the roof: a combination of hydrogen and oxygen produced, no doubt, by mingling muriatic acid, zinc, and a little hydrogen, which was then pumped skyward through the boiler. The mortar rockets would contain a similar and equally worthless chemical mixture.
Quincannon was about to take up a position near the mortar platform when the shack’s door opened and two men emerged. One was Mortimer Rollins; the other, heavyset, bearded, with a flowing silver-black mane, would be the notorious Leopold Saxe. Both were in shirtsleeves, sweating profusely from the heat inside, and each carried a pair of long, slender mortar shells. Cora Lee Johnson, dressed now in a fancy green-and-blue lace-trimmed outfit, a squash-blossom necklace at her throat, followed after them, smiling and waving at the crowd. Even though she, too, had been inside the shack, she looked cool and dry and unruffled.
Saxe and Rollins brought their burdens to the platform, laid them at the foot of the slingshot cannon. Quincannon joined them at that point. He said, “Good evening, gentlemen, Mrs. Daks,” and doffed his derby to the woman. “Preparations for tonight’s entertainment are nearly complete, I see.”
Saxe bristled visibly at this. He was an imposing figure up close, as most successful confidence men were; his eyes, of such a dark brown hue they seemed almost black, were piercing and his manner imperious. “Entertainment? Hardly that, sir. Hardly that. Drought-breaking is a serious business.”
“I have no doubt of it.”
“And who might you be, may I ask?”
“This is Mr. Quincannon, Leonide,” Cora Lee said, “the San Francisco newspaperman I told you about.”
“Ah, yes.” Saxe’s irritation vanished behind a mask of good fellowship. He pumped Quincannon’s hand vigorously. “A pleasure, my good sir. I am in your debt for saving my wife and assistant from harm this afternoon.”
“Not at all. Mr. Goodland was too far under influence to have inflicted much harm on anyone.”
Saxe accepted the glib half truth with a nod. “A ticklish situation, nonetheless,” he said. Then he frowned and called out to Rollins, “Here, Ben, what’re you doing?”
The smaller man had climbed onto the platform, was picking up one of the rocket shells. Before he answered he began inserting the missile into the cannon’s muzzle. “Loading the mortar, as you can plainly see.”
“There is time enough for that.”
“I’d rather have done with it now.”
Saxe said to Quincannon, sounding irritated again, “Insolent fellow. I may have to hire a new assistant. Now if you’ll excuse me, sir, there is more work to be done inside. We’ll talk again later, eh?”
“Oh, yes. We’ll have much to say to each other, I’m sure.”
The confidence trickster turned away. Rollins, who had finished loading the mortar, leaned over to take Cora Lee’s hand and help her onto the platform. Then he dropped down beside Quincannon, favored him with a curt head bow, and followed Saxe into the shack. The door shut firmly behind him.
Quincannon retraced his steps past the platform, where Cora Lee was now soaking the tip of a long firebrand in kerosene. Under a locust tree, while he fed tobacco into his briar, he saw Aram Kasabian, Mayor Parnell, and Tom Boxhardt approaching. O. H. Goodland was not with them, nor was he anywhere else in the vicinity.
The three men drew Quincannon aside, out of earshot of the other townsfolk. “We saw you talking to those two,” the banker said, fanning his red face with a pudgy hand, “and wondered why.”
“A testing of the waters, you might say.”
“I’m not sure I—”
“There isn’t a speck of worry in Saxe, though I detected some in Rollins. They know that they have played out their string here and they’re planning to skip town tonight.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure enough.” Quincannon explained to Kasabian and Purcell about the railroad timetable he’d found in Saxe’s room, and his inference that the trio intended to slip out of the hotel after midnight, quickly hitch and load the dougherty wagon, and head for Bainsville.
“We’ll be ready for ’em,” Boxhardt vowed. “How many extra men you figure I ought to deputize, Mr. Quincannon?”
“Your regular deputy ought to be enough.”
“You’ll be there, too?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
“We can wait and watch here in the trees.”
“Yes, and I suggest the three of us make our way here one at a time, carefully, between nine and ten to set up our vigil.”
“That’s what we’ll do, then.”
“The only possible fly in the ointment is Mr. Goodland. Where is he now, do any of you know?”
“He was in his room a few minutes ago,” Parnell said. “I stopped by to have a word with him.”
“Sober?”
“More or less, but surly and pacing like a cat. I warned him to stay away from the Cloud Cracker, but it won’t surprise me if he takes it in his head to come out here tonight—”
Boxhardt said thinly, “Already has. Look.”
Quincannon and the other two men turned. O. H. Goodland was striding purposefully toward the shack from the opposite direction. Even at a distance he appeared grim visaged and hard eyed. His hands were empty, but he wore his cowhide coat buttoned at the waist; it was impossible to tell if he was armed or not.
Quincannon growled “Thunderation!” under his breath and then called out Goodland’s name. The wheat farmer took no notice. He was
at the shack’s door now, and he beat on it once with a closed fist. It opened immediately. And immediately he pushed his way inside, slamming the door shut behind him.
“Oh Lord,” Kasabian moaned, “if he’s come here to do something foolish—”
“Good citizens of Delford! Cover your ears and cast your eyes to the heavens! Your parched land will soon be drenched in a life-giving downpour, the time is close at hand now!”
These words came from Cora Lee Johnson atop the platform. They quieted the crowd and brought all eyes her way, momentarily froze Quincannon and the other three men in place. She had put a match to the firebrand, he saw, and now stood with it poised and flaming over the mortar’s fuse vent.
Boxhardt said in an awed voice, “By grab, the woman’s fixin’ to fire that thing all by herself—”
He broke off as Cora Lee lit the fuse, then dropped the firebrand, raised her skirts, and scurried down off the platform in unladylike haste.
In the next instant there was a tremendous concussive whump! The slingshot cannon bucked, the platform shuddered, and the chemical rocket Rollins had inserted earlier hurtled skyward with an earsplitting whistle. After several hundred feet the missile arced, then burst with a flash that unleashed streams of colored smoke.
Quincannon saw this at the edge of his vision; he was moving by then, his attention on the shack’s closed door. It remained closed until he had gained the far end of the platform and then it popped open to reveal Mortimer Rollins. The mustached trickster stepped out, yanked the door shut behind him; when he spied Quincannon’s little group he began gesticulating wildly. His handsome face was a sweat-sheened mask of distress.
“Marshal Boxhardt! Mayor!” he shouted. “Come quickly!” On the last word he spun on his heel, lunged back to the door. By the time Quincannon and the others rushed up behind him, he had the knob in both hands and was rattling it frantically. “Locked—Goodland’s locked it!”
“What the devil happened?” Boxhardt demanded.
“He made threats, drew his pistol and ordered me to leave…” Rollins punished the door again. “Leonide! Are you all right?”
From inside a muffled voice cried in terror, “No, Goodland, no, don’t shoot! Don’t kill me!”
Quincannon and the marshal roughly pushed past Rollins, in close to the door. Several other men, including Kasabian and Parnell, formed a crowded half circle behind them.
Another cry came from within. “Please, spare my life!”
Seconds later there was the report of a pistol.
Quincannon’s reaction was immediate. He hurled his weight against the door, with sufficient force to send it crashing inward. He was off balance as he burst inside; staggered and righted himself just in time to avoid tripping over O. H. Goodland, who was huddled on one knee on the uneven plank floor. Between the wheat farmer and the rainmaking apparatus at the far wall, Leopold Saxe lay supine in a twisted, motionless sprawl. The front of his ruffled shirt was splotched with blood.
Goodland appeared to be hurt; pain contorted his face and his left hand cradled the back of his head. Held limply in his right hand was a Colt New Pocket revolver. Quincannon yanked the weapon free of the farmer’s unresisting grasp.
On one knee beside Saxe, Rollins said heavily, “He’s dead. Shot through the heart.”
The door under the boiler stood open to reveal the pulsing flames within. With the shack’s single window closed and sealed, the heat in the room was stifling. Quincannon breathed shallowly through his mouth as he scanned the dim confines. The only light came from the fire and from a single coal-oil lamp, but his sharp eyes picked out the glint of something on the floor near one of the earthenware crocks. He sidestepped Goodland and the dead man, bent to scoop up the small object—and almost dropped it because it was hot to the touch.
A wailing voice rose from outside: “Let me through, oh please let me through!”
The knot of men clogging the doorway parted to permit Cora Lee Johnson to enter. When she saw Saxe she flung herself down beside him, just as Lily Dumont had beside the corpse of Jack O’Diamonds in Grass Valley; caught up one of his hands and hugged it to her bosom, sobbing.
Quincannon glanced at the object he’d found. It was a spent cartridge shell. He drew out his handkerchief, wrapped the casing in it, held it loosely until it was cool enough to slip into his coat pocket.
O. H. Goodland still clutched his scalp, grimacing, blinking now as if his eyes refused to focus properly. Dizziness overcame him when he tried to stand; he sank down again to one knee. “My head … feels as though it’d been cracked like an eggshell…”
Rollins said, “He must have slipped and fallen somehow when he shot poor Leonide.”
“Shot? I didn’t shoot anyone…”
Boxhardt stepped forward, relieved Quincannon of the Colt’s revolver. He sniffed the barrel, then turned it over in his hand. “This here’s your weapon, Mr. Goodland. Recently fired.”
“Tell you, I didn’t shoot anyone.”
“He’s guilty as sin,” Rollins said. “There was no one else here, no one else could have done it. You see that, don’t you, Marshal?”
“I see it,” Boxhardt agreed grimly. “Mr. Goodland, I got no choice but to arrest you for the crime of murder.”
* * *
Quincannon did not accompany the marshal and his prisoner to the jailhouse. Nor did he follow Rollins and a still-sobbing Cora Lee Johnson to the hotel. Instead he remained at the shack until the town’s undertaker arrived to claim Leopold Saxe’s remains and Kasabian, Mayor Parnell, and the rest of the shocked Delfordians had dispersed. Then he shut himself inside.
The first thing he did was to examine the door and its sliding bolt. Then he searched among the jars of chemicals, spare rockets, and other items that littered the floor in the vicinity of the boiler and crocks; searched every nook and cranny until he satisfied himself that there was nothing else to be found, least of all the coalition’s two thousand dollars. The money hadn’t been on Saxe’s person, either; he had given the body a quick frisk while Boxhardt was occupied in arresting the dazed wheat farmer.
From the rail yards he went to the Western Union office, where he sent a night wire to his contact at the Pinkerton Agency in Chicago. The wire asked specific questions and ended with the words URGENT REPLY NEEDED. If the Pinks operative heeded this, as he surely would, an answering wire would arrive by tomorrow noon.
Meanwhile, tonight’s vigil would be held as planned. Rollins and Cora Lee may or may not still intend to slip away during the night. If they did, they would join O. H. Goodland under lock and key in a jail cell. Otherwise, their arrest would come on the morrow.
Warm, dusty darkness was settling when Quincannon left the telegraph office. Word of the shooting had spread quickly; gaslit Main Street was packed with citizens discussing the Cloud Cracker’s violent demise. They would have a great deal more to discuss within the next twenty-four hours, he thought as he made his way to the marshal’s office. And they weren’t the only ones for whom there were surprises in store.
Within twenty-four hours the name most often spoken in Delford would not be Leonide Daks/Leopold Saxe or O. H. Goodland. It would be John Frederick Quincannon.
* * *
Rollins and Cora Lee made their escape attempt at two-thirty A.M.
Stationed in the locust trees with Boxhardt and his deputy, Quincannon spied the pair first. They were moving shadows at the far side of the field where the dougherty wagon and roan horse were picketed, having evidently left the hotel by the rear entrance and circled around through the back streets.
His hunch was that they intended to abandon all the bogus rainmaking apparatus, including the mortar, and slip away quickly and quietly into the night, and it proved to be correct. Rollins went directly to the wagon, while Cora Lee fetched the placid dray horse. They worked in tandem to harness the animal, performing the task with the dispatch of long practice. The pair were just climbing up onto the seat when Quincannon and the other
two men opened the dark lanterns they carried and hurried out of hiding.
The confidence tricksters feigned shock and indignation at first, as well as surprise when Quincannon revealed himself to be a detective hired by Aram Kasabian. Rollins claimed that “Mrs. Daks” was so distraught over her husband’s death that she couldn’t bear to remain in Delford any longer. “I am escorting her to Stockton, where she has a relative,” he lied. “Leonide’s murderer is locked in a cell. There is no good reason why either of us should remain here or for you to detain us—”
“You’re forgetting the Delford Coalition’s two thousand dollars,” Quincannon said.
“If you think we’re making off with that, you’re mistaken. We have no idea where the money is.”
“My husband insisted on keeping all our funds,” Cora Lee said, “and he was very secretive about where.”
“Hid it someplace inside the wagon, mayhap?”
“With it sitting out here in an open field? No, he never would have taken such a risk.”
“So a thorough search of the wagon would be fruitless.”
“Completely fruitless, I’m sure.”
“And I’m sure that it won’t be. We’ll find the two thousand dollars, Cora Lee, wherever you and Mortimer here hid it.”
She gasped and Rollins stiffened at the use of their true names. They knew then that the game was up and any more protest would be futile. When Marshal Boxhardt informed them that Sheriff Beadle was bringing fugitive warrants for their arrest on multiple charges of fraud and placed them in restraints, they lapsed into sullen silence.
The hiding place of the coalition money, whether devised by one of them or by Leopold Saxe, was clever, but not clever enough to fool Quincannon’s canny brain. The cash was not concealed anywhere in the wagon proper. He found it in a pouch attached to the underside of one of the harness traces.
The Bags of Tricks Affair--A Carpenter and Quincannon Mystery Page 12
