Grace was home, and the maid who answered the door took Sabina’s card in to her. And brought it back in less than two minutes. “Miss DeBrett does not wish to see you and requests that you do not call here again,” she said, and closed the door firmly in Sabina’s face.
7
QUINCANNON
Quincannon’s humor was black and smoldering when he left his rooms Saturday morning. In addition to the indignities he had suffered the night before—a mushy and painful wound on his temple where Bob Cantwell had clubbed him, a knot on his forehead from his collision with the fence, torn and beer-drenched clothing, and despite a bath, the faint lingering scent of a derelict—he had spent a mostly sleepless night. Cantwell would pay and pay dear when he got his hands on the little weasel. A $3,500 reward for professional services rendered was all well and good, but there were also satisfactions to be had in repaying thumps and lumps in kind.
Hammond Realtors, Battery Street, was not open for business—a slipshod operation, in Quincannon’s opinion, if its doors remained closed on Saturdays. From there he went to Drake’s Rest, but Cantwell had not returned to the lodging house even long enough to gather up his belongings. Yet another silver dollar bribe to the harridan owner bought Quincannon entry to Cantwell’s room, which he searched quickly and fruitlessly. There was nothing there to suggest where the young fool might have fled to, or to further link him to the Wells, Fargo Express robbery and the whereabouts of the man named Zeke and the missing money.
His next stop was the Western Union office, where he sent a wire to Clem Holloway at the Holloway Detective Agency in Los Angeles requesting information on Jack Travers—current address, criminal record, any known alliances in San Francisco. He and Holloway had exchanged business favors in the past; Clem knew almost as much about the Southern California underworld as Quincannon did about Northern California’s, and would respond with all possible dispatch.
Quincannon’s mood continued to darken as the morning progressed. A visit to Ezra Bluefield at the Scarlet Lady proved futile; the deadfall owner could tell him nothing about Cantwell or Jack Travers, or who the Kid or Zeke might be, the monikers being not uncommon among Barbary Coast and other underworld denizens. Bluefield promised to put the word out on Cantwell, but without his usual enthusiasm. Favors as repayment for the debts he owed only went so far for a man of his hard-bitten temperament—even more hardbitten since his unsuccessful bid to purchase a more respectable saloon in the Uptown Tenderloin—and it was plain that he was beginning to feel put upon. Quincannon warned himself to be careful not to ask too much too often in the future.
During his years with the U.S. Secret Service and then as a private investigator, he had made the acquaintance of a long list of minor criminals, both in and out of the Barbary Coast, who were willing to peddle information for cash. But he had no more luck with any of these he managed to locate. Not even the most reliable, the bunco steerer known as Breezy Ned and the “blind” newspaper vendor called Slewfoot, had any information for him. Nor did Charles Riley at the House of Chance. Riley had not seen Cantwell since the clerk’s abortive attempt to sell him information about the Wells, Fargo robbery in exchange for gambling credit; wherever Cantwell had gone to roll the bones the night before, it had not been to the Tenderloin.
Quincannon had his lunch, as he often did, at Hoolihan’s Saloon on Second Street. Hoolihan’s had been his favorite watering hole during his drinking days and he continued to patronize it because it was an honest place, both staff and regular customers friendly, a challenging game of pool or billiards could always be had, and the free lunch was of a higher standard than many. Usually his appetite was prodigious; in his present gloomy state, he managed to down only two corned beef-and-cheese sandwiches and three briny pickles with his customary cup of clam juice.
As he was finishing the second sandwich, Ben Joyce, the head barman, approached him. “Well, you bloody Scotsman, I see you and your partner are back in the public eye. But with a black one of your own this time, eh?”
“What are you nattering about?”
“The queer business with your partner at the mayor’s home last night.”
Quincannon felt a twist of alarm. “What queer business?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t know. It’s front page news in the latest edition of the Evening Bulletin.”
“I haven’t seen that blasted scandal sheet. Bring me a copy, if you have one.”
Ben Joyce had one and brought it. The headlines were prominent:
FANTASTIC OCCURANCE AT MAYOR’S HOME
WOMAN DETECTIVE CLAIMS SOCIALITE LEAPT TO DEATH SUICIDE NOTE BUT NO BODY FOUND
The story that followed, penned by an inflammatory yellow journalist named Homer Keeps with whom Quincannon shared a strong mutual dislike, was even more puzzling and infuriating. The socialite whose alleged suicidal plunge from the Sutro Heights overlook was Virginia St. Ives, the young debutante Sabina had been hired to watch over. No one seemed able to explain why a careful search of the Great Highway below the cliff had failed to locate the girl’s body. Sabina remained steadfast in her claim that she had witnessed the plunge, one which no one could have survived. David St. Ives, the girl’s outraged brother, claimed that no matter what had happened, Sabina had been “severely negligent” in her watchdog duties. Homer Keeps inferred agreement, and had the audacity to add another, gratuitous insult: “Mrs. Carpenter and her flamboyant partner, John H. Quincannon,” he wrote, “are well known among the lower classes of our city, in the past having reportedly indulged in business practices of a questionable nature.”
Quincannon slammed the newspaper down so hard on the bar that glasses jumped and heads swiveled all along its length. After which he kicked a spittoon for good measure. Flamboyant! Well-known among the lower classes! Business practices of a questionable nature! As if these borderline libelous slurs were not injurious enough to his and Sabina’s professional reputation, the bloody swine had deliberately—and it was surely deliberate—misprinted his middle initial. H. indeed. John Frederick Quincannon was not about to stand for such sly calumny.
From Hoolihan’s he went straight to the Market Street offices of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services. His rage had calmed to a slow simmer by the time he got there, but it kindled quickly when he found a newshound from the Chronicle waiting for him with a string of annoying questions. He growled his refusal to be interviewed, and when the reporter persisted, Quincannon turned on the full force of his freebooter’s glower and loomed threateningly until he beat a hasty retreat.
The fact that the office door was locked did nothing to improve his disposition. The lack of any message on his desk indicated that Sabina had yet to put in an appearance today. Confound it, why not? He believed none of the David St. Ives claptrap about her having been derelict in her duties last evening, but before he took steps to repair the damage done, he needed to have her version of what had happened.
He was at his desk, fidgeting and smoldering while he sifted through the day’s mail, when the door opened. But it was not Sabina who entered. Nor was it a prospective client or any other visitor who would have been polite enough to knock first. No, it was the last person on earth he wished to see, this day or any day—a presence that set his blood to boiling again like the brew in a witch’s cauldron.
The man who stood there smiling at him, gray cape flung over his narrow shoulders, walking stick in hand and deerstalker cap shading his hawkish countenance, was the pestiferous crackbrain who fancied himself to be Sherlock Holmes.
“Good afternoon, my good man. A pleasure to see you again, despite the present circumstances. It has been much too long since our last meeting.”
“Not long enough.” Quincannon glowered at him. “I thought you’d gone back to England or wherever you came from.”
“I intended to return from the dead, as it were, yes, to resume my private inquiry practice in London and to put the good Dr. Watson’s mind at ease. He believes me to have f
allen victim to my arch enemy, Professor Moriarity, at Reichenbach Falls, if you recall, and I feel badly for having deceived the poor fellow. However, for personal reasons I have decided to remain ‘deceased’ and in your stimulating bailiwick awhile longer.”
Stimulating bailiwick. Bah. “I suppose you’re still sponging off Dr. Axminster.”
“Sponging? Upon my soul, sir, you wound me grievously. I have never sponged, as you so quaintly put it, off anyone. I was a guest in Dr. Axminster’s home for only a few weeks. In the interim since our last meeting, I have taken lodgings in several different places, under several different names, most recently in the Old Union Hotel.”
Quincannon snorted. The Old Union was a less-than-genteel hostelry on the fringe of the Barbary Coast that catered to performers, traveling salesmen, and—evidently—candidates for mental hospitals.
“I have not sought to renew our acquaintance until now,” Holmes went on, “inasmuch as I have been engaged on a mission of the utmost secrecy and importance. The mission has been successfully accomplished for the most part, but of course I am still not at liberty to discuss it.”
Bah and double bah. “Well? Why are you bothering me now?”
“Why, for purposes of commiseration, my dear chap. And to offer my services again, should you desire them.”
“I don’t desire them. Not today or ever again.”
“Tut, tut,” Holmes said, but his tone was one of tolerant comradeship. “It may well require my analytical powers as well as yours and the charming Mrs. Carpenter’s to unravel last night’s curious mystery at Mayor Sutro’s estate. That is, par foi, if you and she have not yet deduced the correct answer.”
“I haven’t had time to deduce anything,” Quincannon growled. “We haven’t spoken yet today.”
“Ah. So your knowledge of the young woman’s strange disappearance comes from the same source as mine, the afternoon newspaper. All the more reason for us to join forces, wouldn’t you say? Two preeminent detectives once again working in consort, now that a new game is afoot.”
Quincannon studied the Englishman’s neck, his fingers curled and his palms itching. Holmes or whatever his name had been a major irritant in a robbery, fraud, and murder investigation the previous year—what Quincannon referred to as the bughouse affair. Admittedly the addlepate had played a small role in the solution of the complicated case, purely through blind luck despite his claim of having used “observation, in particular observation of trifles, and deductive reasoning.” The fact was, without Holmes’s constant interference, the investigation would have been brought to a satisfactory conclusion much sooner. Sabina didn’t agree, preferring to give the devil his due; she maintained that mad or not, the imposter had been surprisingly adept at employing the methods of his namesake. Poppycock! Not even the genuine Sherlock Holmes, if he were still alive and practicing, would have been able to outsleuth John Quincannon.
To still the strangler’s urge in his hands, he proceeded to load tobacco into his stubby briar. Holmes took this as a tacit invitation to occupy the client’s chair and charge his curved clay pipe. They regarded each other through clouds of mingled aromatic and putrid smoke, the Englishman still smiling, Quincannon still glowering.
At length Holmes said, “Well, John. May I call you John?”
“No.”
“Shall we discuss our theories about last night’s mystery?”
“Theories? What theories?”
“I have two. Surely you have hypothesized the same?”
“I told you, I haven’t spoken to my partner today. How could I have any theories yet? All I know is what was written in the blasted newspaper.”
“Which rather lurid account yielded two possible explanations for the evening’s curious events, both perfectly sound, though of course neither may be the correct one. We must have more information before we can be certain of the truth.”
Quincannon made an ominous rumbling sound in his throat. “I don’t want to hear your damned theories. What did or didn’t happen to Virginia St. Ives is none of your business and I’ll thank you to keep your long nose out of it.”
“Tut, tut,” Holmes said mildly. “As you know from our past experience together, I’m quite a tenacious fellow once I’ve caught the scent.”
“You’ll catch something else if you don’t go away and leave me be. Can’t you see I’m busy?”
Surprisingly, the bughouse Sherlock didn’t put up any further argument. He said, “Ah, yes. As you wish, then,” and got to his feet, taking his time about it; adjusted his cape, and made his way slowly to the door. But instead of walking through after he’d opened it, he turned, and said, “Before I take my leave, may I ask how your investigation is progressing?”
“What investigation?”
“The recent Wells, Fargo Express robbery.”
This startled Quincannon enough to unhinge his jaw. “What makes you think I’m investigating that?”
“Three things I observed during our brief visit. No, four, counting the contusions on your forehead and temple.”
“I don’t know what the devil you’re talking about.”
Holmes smiled his enigmatic smile. “You needn’t worry, John. I am merely an interested observer in that matter as in the one on Sutro Heights. I have no designs on the reward.”
Quincannon said, somewhat lamely, “What reward?”
The answer was a widening of the smile and a broad wink. “If you should change your mind and decide to seek assistance or counsel, I shall remain at your service. The Union Hotel, room twelve.” And with that, the Englishman was gone.
For several seconds Quincannon sat fuming and puzzling. A pox on the conceited twit! What three things had he observed, or was that balderdash? Yet he seemed to have guessed that the contusions were related to the Wells, Fargo investigation, and how was that possible? And how had he known about the reward? Quincannon refused to credit the Englishman with special deductive powers, but there was no gainsaying the fact that he had an uncanny knack for both guesswork and stumbling upon a surprising amount of covert information. It must have something to do with his derangement. Crackbrains could be very shrewd, especially one who claimed to be a famous deceased British detective.
The office was blue with smoke, most of it a foul leftover reek from the godawful tobacco Holmes preferred. Quincannon opened the window behind his desk, letting in a wind-driven swirl of fresh air and the clanging passage of cable cars on Market Street below. Then he finished opening the mail—not a single check, drat it—and was in the process of laboriously writing a report (he hated writing reports) on a recently concluded case when Sabina finally appeared.
“Oh, John,” she said. “Good, I’m glad you’re here.”
“And I’m glad you’re here. Where have you been?”
“Trying to make some sense of what happened last night. You know about that by now, I’m sure.”
“From everyone but you, it seems.”
“Yes, well, I’m sorry, but I thought you might not be in this morning and I wanted … oh, never mind.” She looked and sounded frazzled as she shed her lamb’s-wool coat, unpinned her hat, and hung both on the coatrack. “Have you been bothered by newspaper reporters?”
“Only one. And not for long.”
“There’ll be others, no doubt.” Her nose wrinkled as she started toward her desk. “What’s that dreadful smell? Not your usual pipe tobacco, is it?”
“No. A new blend.” He had resolved not to tell her about the lunatic’s unannounced and unwanted visit. It was of no importance and she had enough on her mind as it was.
“Well, I hope you won’t—” She broke off, peering at him more closely now. “John, your face. What happened to you?”
The concern in both her voice and her expression pleased him. “An accident of no consequence,” he lied. He had also resolved not to burden her, just yet, with last night’s misadventures on Telegraph Hill and along the waterfront. His wounded pride and dignity were still tende
r. When he did tell her, he would leave out some of the more embarrassing details.
Sabina was not fooled, however. She said, “You’re a caution, John Quincannon. One of your nightly forays will be the death of you if you’re not careful.”
“You needn’t worry about me, my dear. I’m well able to take care of myself.”
“Are you? My husband said the same thing to me two nights before he was killed.”
Sabina went to sit at her desk. A stray wisp of her high-coiled black hair come loose and was tickling her nose; she produced a hand mirror and proceeded to tuck and pin it back into place. Quincannon watched her avidly. As always, her dark blue eyes, high-cheekbone face, and comely figure quickened his pulses. He had never wanted for female companionship when he sought it, yet no woman had ever had quite the same effect on him as his partner. Part of it was unrequited passion, but his feelings for her ran deeper than simple desire. More deeply—and therefore more frustrating—with each passing day, it seemed.
When she finished fixing her hair, he said, “What exactly did happen at the mayor’s soiree last night? The blasted newspaper account was somewhat sketchy on details. You had words with the St. Ives girl and followed her when she ran outside?”
“She had the words, not I. I thought she might have rushed out to meet her forbidden young swain, Lucas Whiffing.”
“But instead she was bent on taking her life.”
“Evidently. She met no one on the way, and I saw no one else on the overlook. At least no one near where she had climbed up onto the parapet. The fog was quite thick.”
“How clearly did you see her on the wall?”
“Clearly enough. She had her back to me, facing the sea with her arms bent away from her body. A ghostlike figure in the mist.” Sabina paused, little wrinkle lines appearing in the smooth skin of her forehead. “There was something … odd about the way she was standing there. It didn’t strike me at the time, and yet when I think about it…”
2 The Spook Lights Affair Page 6
