“Odd in what way?”
“I can’t quite put my finger on it. It was the next second or two that she jumped.”
“You’re certain she did jump, not slipped and fell?”
“It certainly looked as though she threw herself forward off the parapet. I heard her scream, then the sounds of her body sliding through the ice plant below the wall and over the edge.”
“Yet there was no sign of her body on the Great Highway.”
“None. Except for the scarf she was wearing, caught on a torn cypress limb.”
“Then the only possible explanation is that someone came along, found her, and spirited her away alive or dead. Was there enough time for that to have happened?”
Sabina nodded. “Fifteen to twenty minutes had elapsed by the time I summoned the others and we started down to the highway. But it’s an unlikely explanation. There was very little traffic because of the fog, the mayor’s home is the only one in the immediate vicinity, and we met no one entering the grounds or driving on Point Lobos. If someone did happen along and picked up the body, where would it have been taken? Not to the nearest habitation south of the Heights, Dickey’s Road House; we inquired there. And what reason could anyone have had for transporting it any greater distance?”
“Isn’t Carville where the Whiffing lad lives?”
“With his parents, yes. Even if by some bizarre happenstance he was on the Great Highway when she fell, he’d have no reason to take her all the way to his home. It’s unlikely a doctor resides in Carville. There would hardly have been a need for one in any event.”
“The girl couldn’t possibly have survived the fall?”
“Of some two hundred and fifty feet? Hardly.”
“So,” Quincannon said, “a pretty riddle.”
“Ugly riddle is more appropriate. And there’s more to it than what happened to Virginia St. Ives’s body.”
“Indeed?”
“When she left the mansion, she took a circuitous route through the grounds rather than going straight to the overlook from the rear. I can’t help wondering why.”
“Did she know you were following her?”
“She must have. I made no attempt to keep her from seeing me.”
“Didn’t matter to her, then, because she believed you wouldn’t be able to catch up and stop her.”
“And I didn’t,” Sabina said with bitter regret.
“Not your fault. You couldn’t have guessed what she had in mind. What do you suppose drove her to it?”
“I wish I knew. Whatever it was, it wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision. The suicide note proves that.”
“The usual reason young girls commit suicide, perhaps?”
“Pregnant, you mean? Yes, I thought of that. The child’s father would most likely be Lucas Whiffing, in that case, and he would have had to refuse to marry her to put her in such dire straits. But he seemed genuinely shocked and upset when I spoke to him this morning. He claims their relationship was not as serious as the St. Ives believed. Denied they had been intimate, and appeared to resent the implication that she had been anything but virtuous.”
“Men have been known to lie in such circumstances,” Quincannon said mildly.
“Well, of course they have. Whether Lucas Whiffing is one of them is still open to question.”
* * *
Nothing happened during the remainder of the afternoon to improve Quincannon’s spirits. There were no visits or messages from any of his contacts. Twice he had to fend off tenacious newspapermen who arrived in person to seek interviews with Sabina, and immediately hung up on two others who telephoned. Sabina grew weary of the constant interruptions and left early for an unspecified place where she could “have some peace and quiet,” leaving Quincannon to deal with any agency business that might come along (there was none) and wait in mounting frustration.
Shortly before five o’clock a Western Union deliveryman brought an answering wire from Clem Holloway. The preliminary information provided by the Los Angeles detective, taken from his copious files, contained two pieces of information that deepened Quincannon’s gloom and raised his ire. Bob Cantwell, that blasted little sneak, had baldly lied to him. Jack Travers was not his cousin; Travers had no living relatives. He did have a record of three robbery and burglary arrests, as well as a shooting scrape, but his only conviction had resulted in a two-year, not four-year, prison sentence. Whatever Cantwell’s reason for lying about his connection with Travers, it had nothing to do with childhood beatings at the hands of a bullying relative.
He had also apparently lied in his claim that Travers had only recently come to San Francisco from Southern California. According to Holloway’s records, Travers had not been seen or otherwise placed in the Los Angeles area since his release from prison; was reputed, in fact, to have shifted his base of operations to northern California. Furthermore, he had had no confederates in any of his past crimes, nor any known alliances with anyone called the Kid or named Zeke.
Who were those two, then, if not one and the same person? And what was their (or his) connection to Travers, Cantwell, and the Wells, Fargo holdup? Was Travers’s murderer and Bob Cantwell—again, if they weren’t one and the same—still somewhere in the Bay Area or long gone by now? Yes, and just who had possession of the swag? Too many questions, and still not the glimmer of an answer to any of them.
8
SABINA
John surprised her by calling at her rooms after she returned from church on Sunday morning. Immediately after, which meant he’d been waiting and watching nearby for her arrival. He was an impulsive man, to be sure, and ever determined in his quest for her favors, but he seldom bothered her at home or on weekends unless it was on urgent agency business. And his visit today seemed to be personal, though of a more tentative sort than usual.
“If you have no plans,” he said, “I thought we might spend the day together. Brunch at the Old Poodle Dog, and afterward a leisurely drive in a buggy I’ve rented—”
“John, you know how I feel about keeping our business relationship and our private lives separate. Besides, I have a luncheon engagement.”
“You have? With whom, may I ask?”
“You may not.”
“I don’t suppose you’d consider canceling.”
“No, I wouldn’t. Mr. Levi Strauss wouldn’t like it.”
It took him a few seconds of suspicious frowning before he realized that she was pulling his leg. “Bah,” he said. “If you’re seeing a man, he’s half Strauss’s age and weight and doubtless not nearly as handsome as I am. One of the guests at Sutro’s party?”
Sabina was tempted to continue teasing him, but it would have been petty. She sighed. “If you must know, I’m dining with Callie French.”
“Ah, your cousin, yes. A delightful lady.” He was relieved, though he tried to hide it. “And are you spending the afternoon with her as well?”
“I haven’t made up my mind yet.”
“Spend it with me instead.”
“John…”
“Not so much for social as for business reasons,” he said. “There’s nothing new about Virginia St. Ives in this morning’s newspapers. Her body still hasn’t been recovered.”
“I know. At least three people mentioned the fact to me at church.”
“Have you ever been to Sutro Heights in the daytime?”
“Once. Callie and I drove out to view the gardens. Mayor Sutro allows visitors, you know, for a nominal fee.”
“Leave it to the rich to take advantage of the poor.”
“He is not taking advantage of anyone. The fee is merely a dime per visitor for the upkeep of the grounds.”
“I’ve never been there,” John said, “and I’d like to see that overlook and the parapet where the girl jumped. Wouldn’t you like a look at the spot yourself, in daylight and clear weather?”
“As a matter of fact, I would.”
“Then I suggest we meet after your luncheon and take a ride to t
he beach. Agreed?”
Sabina considered, but only briefly. It was business, after all. And a frustratingly curious business at that.
“Agreed,” she said.
* * *
On the carriage ride to Sutro Heights, John finally made up his mind to tell her of his adventures on the waterfront and Telegraph Hill the previous evening. She had listened to his tales of derring-do often enough to know when he was leaving out details that didn’t reflect well on his prowess as a detective, and his sketchy account of his second encounter with Bob Cantwell indicated it had been more than just “a brief skirmish”—one in which he hadn’t fared well, judging from the still-visible marks on his forehead and temple, which he offhandedly dismissed as accidental. But she didn’t press him.
“Whether Cantwell was involved in the robbery or not, he knows a great deal more than he told me,” John was saying as the carriage rattled and clanged along Geary Boulevard. “Such as the identities of the Kid and Zeke, both of whom also have some connection.”
“Only one man committed the holdup,” Sabina reminded him.
“Aye, but I’ll wager Travers wasn’t working alone. His murder and the disappearance of the money proves that.”
“Cantwell mentioned Zeke, you said. But how did you find out about the Kid?”
John produced a scrap of paper from his billfold and handed it to her, saying that he’d found it in the lining of a coat he presumed to have belonged to Jack Travers. Sabina read the scrawled words: The Kid, 9:15, Tuesday, usual place.
“Travers appears to have been little more than a strong-arm bandit,” John went on, “and none too bright at that. How would he have found out that Wells, Fargo would have such a large amount of cash on hand that particular day, a fact the company is always careful to keep secret, and the optimum time to strike, unless he was informed or perhaps recruited by an accomplice who possessed that knowledge? Blast me, that’s a question I should have thought to ask Cantwell straightaway last night.”
“Do you think he could have planned the robbery?”
“It’s possible, but not likely. He’s neither intelligent enough nor brave enough nor well-placed enough.”
“The mysterious Zeke, then? Or the Kid, if he’s not Cantwell?”
“One or the other, yes. I thought for a time that Cantwell might be the Kid, but now I have my doubts.”
“Could he be a Wells, Fargo employee?” Sabina asked. “The bandit seems to have known that a large amount of cash had just arrived by train, a fact the company would hardly have advertised.”
“True,” John said. “How Travers and the Kid knew about the special shipment is another part of the puzzle. But no, I don’t believe it was an inside job. The company carefully screens the Expressmen who handle large sums of cash for them, and their detectives would have investigated that possibility first thing. If they’re satisfied none of their people are involved, so am I.”
“But you’re convinced Cantwell knows who Zeke is?”
“Oh, yes. He believes it was Zeke who shot Travers, and his terror of the man panicked him into bolting. His guilty knowledge of the crime goes well beyond supplying the Drifter’s Alley hideout. When I find him, then I’ll know what he knows.”
“If you find him,” Sabina said. “He may have already left for parts unknown.”
“I’m banking he hasn’t. He gambled away the hundred dollars I gave him and he wouldn’t have had much money left, if any. I’ve a hunch he intends to, or has already, put the touch on someone for enough cash to set him up in a new location.”
“Not Zeke, surely.”
“No. The Kid is my guess.” John finger-combed his whiskers. “Cantwell is not above blackmail. And he’s desperate enough to risk it. He’d want more than a few dollars, too, and it’s not likely a large sum could be raised on the weekend. I’ll warrant Cantwell is hiding out somewhere, waiting for his lammas money. Track him and the Kid down, and one of them in turn will lead me to Zeke and the stolen money.”
“A tall order, John. How do you propose to do your tracking, when you have no idea where Cantwell is hiding or who the Kid is? And in such a short time?”
“I’ve put out the word. One of my informers will come through.”
“And if one doesn’t?”
“Then,” he vowed, “I’ll think of another way.”
That statement was typical of her partner, Sabina thought—utter blind faith in his abilities, no matter what the odds. In a lesser man, it would have been over-confident bravado. But John had an uncanny knack for pulling rabbits out of hats. She had seen him do it often enough not to be surprised if he managed it yet again in this case.
For the rest of the ride to Sutro Heights, they were both silent under the spell of the fine day. San Francisco could be wickedly cold and damp while its environs basked under sunny blue skies, but when temperatures rose and the fogbanks receded beyond the horizon, it was a city like none other. On such days as this, most San Franciscans could forget the city’s tumultuous past and ignore the thriving underworld in its midst. Even a pair of detectives such as she and John, whose work brought them into contact with that underworld—if only for a little while.
When they turned onto Point Lobos, the Pacific appeared sparkling in the sun below; it was such a clear afternoon that the staggered dark shapes of the Farallon Islands stood out clearly on the horizon. The still-skeletal shapes of the Cliff House and Sutro Baths rose along the rocky shore. Construction of both was expected to be completed sometime next year, and their openings would be sure to draw large and enthusiastic crowds. Perhaps she and Callie would attend, if her work permitted it.
One of Adolph Sutro’s employees was stationed in front of the high wooden arch where recumbent stone lions guarded the carriageway’s perimeter. He accepted the two dimes John handed him, then asked if they were carrying picnic hampers or other such containers of food and drink. Scowling, John told him no and he passed them through.
“No picnic hampers? Bah.”
“Picnics aren’t allowed,” Sabina said. “The mayor insists the grounds be kept in pristine condition, and rightly so.”
They clattered along the carriageway toward the ornate, many-domed house, which looked uglier by daylight than it had the night before. Close around it carpetlike beds of flowers bloomed in lush purples, reds, and yellows. The rolling greensward with its scattering of statues that Sabina had stumbled across in pursuit of Virginia St. Ives stretched out on the near side. Quite a few visitors were strolling through the gardens and on the cinder path that led out to the raised overlook. More than the usual number, Sabina guessed, drawn by Friday night’s strange and well-publicized events.
As they neared the turning circle ringed by parked buggies and other conveyances, John said suddenly, “What in God’s name is that?”
Sabina looked where he was pointing. It was at a large and wicked-looking stone statue peeping out of a rhododendron bush—evil little eyes, sharp teeth, and the suggestion of a two-pronged tail.
“Offhand, I’d say it’s a devil. Or possibly Satan himself.”
“What sort of man places a statue like that in his garden?”
“Perhaps one who wishes to warn of the temptations of evil.”
“Then why does he have it hidden in the shrubbery?”
“The bush may have grown around it.”
“Then he should have his gardeners trim the branches. If I owned property with Satan sitting on it, I’d want the damned thing in plain sight where I could keep track of it.”
That remark, too, was typical of her partner, Sabina thought. For as long as she’d known him, he had confronted his devils face on.
He parked the rented carriage in line with the others and helped her step down. For a little time he stood looking at the house, then out at the near-side gardens. “It was across there,” he said, motioning, “that you pursued the St. Ives girl?”
“Yes. Toward that line of trees bordering the seaward path.”
&
nbsp; “Suppose we retrace the course you and she took.”
Sabina led the way through the gardens to the cypress trees, onto the path past the ornate French gazebo. John cast a narrow-eyed look at the structure. His grimace made plain what he thought of Adolph Sutro’s eccentric taste in statuary and other garden ornaments.
When they reached the stone stairs to the overlook, he asked, “How far ahead of you was Virginia at this point?”
“Thirty yards or so. About the same distance that separated us when she jumped from the parapet.”
John took her arm as they climbed up, a gentlemanly gesture except for the fact that it allowed him to press in close to her. She permitted the contact, but moved just enough away so that a gap remained between his hip and hers. Several people were on the overlook, some at the parapet examining the statuary, others on the observation platform looking out at the sun-dappled ocean, still others exclaiming over the glass-encased photographs in the gallery. The sea breeze was on the chilly side, just strong enough for Sabina to put up a hand to make sure the valuable Charles Horner hatpin fastening her bonnet remained in place.
A little more than halfway across the flagstone floor, she stopped. “This is about where I was when I first saw her.”
“And she was where, exactly?”
“Straight ahead. No, at a slight angle to the left, between those two statues there.”
“More statues. At least these aren’t devils and animals.”
“Grecian goddesses,” Sabina said. “Athena and Persephone, I believe.”
“With all their clothes on, unfortunately.”
No one stood at the parapet between the two statues. She and John moved ahead to occupy the space. He leaned forward with his hands on the stones and she did the same. This was the spot where Virginia had jumped; the matted down trail through the ice plant was still visible below.
John scrutinized that, then the narrow strip of ground that ran between the wall and the cliff’s edge. Stunted cypress grew on it to the left and to the right. The rest was packed earth and stones and tufts of grass.
2 The Spook Lights Affair Page 7
