He ordered a dozen oysters on the half shell, a bowl of clam chowder, and a plate of sourdough bread and butter. The oysters were a day old, the chowder watery, and the bread on the stale side, but he ate it all nonetheless. Waste not, want not. Then he filled and lighted his pipe and settled back to wait.
Time passed slowly, as time always did at times like this. He was a man of action, and forced inactivity chafed at him and soured his mood. The substandard food and the cups of bad coffee he poured on top of it soured his stomach as well. By the time the hands on his stemwinder pointed to three thirty, he was uncomfortable enough and restless and frustrated enough to snap and snarl at anyone who looked at him askance.
A newsboy with an armload of evening papers entered the café just then. Quincannon bought a copy of the Bulletin from him, to help pass the time and to see if Homer Keeps had had any more scurrilous, if not libelous, remarks to make about himself and Sabina. If he had, Quincannon vowed to pay Keeps a visit and make him eat his derby hat and celluloid collar.
But he hadn’t. A follow-up story on the Sutro Heights incident, in fact, bore another reporter’s byline and had been consigned to an inner page. There was nothing like a sensational sex-based murder case to crowd all other news off the front page, and just such a case had broken this day.
Boldface headlines told of the arrest by two of Police Chief Crowley’s ace detectives of “the Demon of the Belfry”—one Theo Durrant, a twenty-three-year-old student at Cooper Medical College and assistant Sunday School superintendent at the Twenty-first Street Emanuel Baptist Church. Durrant had been charged with the brutal murders of two young women, whose nude and badly mutilated bodies had been found in the church the day before, one stuffed into a cabinet and the other, of a model who had disappeared nine days earlier, laid out as if for ritual burial on a platform in the church belfry.
Grisly stuff, not at all to Quincannon’s liking. He quit reading before he finished the main story and tossed the paper aside; contemplation of this monster Durrant’s atrocities soured his stomach even more than his meal had. Bloody sex murders were the most heinous of all crimes; he had never been confronted with or called upon to investigate one and never hoped to be. He had no love for Chief Crowley or any of his “ace detectives,” but he had to admit that in this case they had done a proper and commendable job in ridding the streets of the so-called Demon of the Belfry.
Another fifteen minutes of waiting and watching for Cantwell, and Quincannon had reached the limit of his endurance. Pacing the crowded sidewalks outside was better, if potentially somewhat riskier, than sitting here on his backside. He could always resume this post after walking off some of his pent-up energy. Or return to the building and continue his vigil there, for as long as he could stand it.
He called for the bill and piled coins on top of it—the exact amount. The common practice of adding a gratuity offended his thrifty Scots nature, though he did so grudgingly whenever Sabina deigned to dine with him because she believed in rewarding good food and good service. She wouldn’t have objected if she had shared this meal with him.
The temperature had dropped by several degrees during the past two and a half hours. Tattered streamers had obscured the sun and were rapidly turning the sky from pale blue to gray. Another foggy night coming up, one more in an unbroken string of more than a week’s duration.
Quincannon started up the near sidewalk, walking briskly. He hadn’t gone more than fifty yards, into the middle of the block, when he made an abrupt half turn into the doorway of a shoemaker’s shop.
His long determined surveillance had finally paid off. The lad weaving his way in and out of pedestrian traffic on the opposite side of the street was Bob Cantwell.
11
SABINA
The Montgomery Block, or Monkey Block as the locals referred to it, was the tallest building at four stories and the most prestigious business address in the city. Built in 1853, it was home to many of San Francisco’s prominent attorneys, financiers, judges, engineers, theatrical agents, and business and professional men. With masonry walls more than two feet thick, and heavy iron shutters at every salon, library, and billiard parlor window as protection against fire, it was considered the safest office building on the West Coast.
A uniformed operator in one of the Otis elevators took Sabina up to St. Ives Land Management’s suite of offices on the fourth floor. Even the elevator was richly appointed, paneled in rosewood and carpeted in thickly piled blue wool. Sabina checked her appearance in the ornately framed mirror as the cage rose. She looked somewhat pale, she decided, and pinched her cheeks to put some color into them. Not too much; it would be unseemly for a former Pink Rose to come calling on one or both of the St. Ives men looking like that same flower in bloom.
The anteroom in the St. Ives suite was presided over by a young, dark-complexioned male receptionist. On the wall behind him was a large map showing the company’s many holdings in the city and the East Bay. Two large oil paintings decorated another wall, the largest of them of Joseph St. Ives, the smaller of his son.
Both men were present, the receptionist told Sabina, but when she admitted that she didn’t have an appointment with either man, his manner grew stiff and less courteous. Neither St. Ives senior nor St. Ives junior, he said archly, saw anyone without an appointment.
She took two of her business cards from her handbag and laid them on the desk. “I guarantee they will see me,” she said in peremptory tones. “Both of them.”
Joseph St. Ives was in a meeting, which was just as well; it was David she wanted to see first. With some reluctance the receptionist took her card away into the inner sanctum.
While she waited, Sabina studied the oil painting of David St. Ives. There was no question that he was handsome, much more so than his heavyset and jowly father, but the artist had captured a hint of the cold arrogance and vanity in his blue-eyed gaze that had caused her to dislike him on their previous meeting.
The receptionist returned presently, to announce in the same stiff voice that Mr. St. Ives had consented to give her a few minutes of his time. “Follow me, please, madam,” he said, and conducted her to David’s sumptuously decorated private office.
The young man’s hostility toward her hadn’t abated; that was evident in his expression and his refusal to stand and greet her in a cordial and gentlemanly fashion when she entered. He remained tilted back in an insolent pose behind his desk, and continued his rudeness by not inviting her to be seated. He was nattily dressed in a gray coat with matching waistcoat, dark trousers, and a floppy bow tie, but the sartorial effect was spoiled by his pale, somewhat blotchy face and red-veined eyes. Suffering a hangover from the previous night’s revelries, Sabina thought.
He said without preamble, “Have you brought word of my sister?”
“Not yet, I’m afraid.”
“Then what are you doing here? You should know by now that you’re not welcome.” He leaned forward to pluck a greenish cheroot from a desktop box. “If my father has his way, the next time we meet will be in a court of law. Or hadn’t you heard that he is contemplating a civil suit?”
“I’ve heard,” Sabina said. “Be that as it may, I intend to learn exactly what happened on Sutro Heights and why before such a suit can be filed.”
“You’re still investigating? For what purpose? You must be aware of the fact that you’re no longer employed by my family.”
“For the sake of my reputation, and my partner’s, of course.”
“And what have you found out so far? Nothing, I’ll wager.”
“More than you might think.”
“But not what happened to her body.”
“No, not yet.”
“Incompetent as well as negligent.”
Sabina swallowed a sharp retort. “I should think you and your father would want to know why Virginia did what she did, as well as the whereabouts of her remains.”
David St. Ives said nothing. He rolled the cheroot between his fingers
, snipped off the end with a gold cigar cutter, and fired it with a flint lighter.
“The answer may have something to do with Lucas Whiffing,” Sabina said. “That is why I’m here, Mr. St. Ives. To ask what you know about him and his relationship with your sister.”
“I know nothing whatsoever about that good-for-nothing whelp, except that my father forbade her to see him.”
“You’ve never had any dealings with him?”
“Never laid eyes on the man.”
“So you have no idea of how he and your sister met.”
“None. Virginia never mentioned it to me.”
“According to Lucas Whiffing, they met by happenstance when she stopped into F. W. Ellerby’s sporting goods emporium one day. But that has turned out not to be the truth.”
“Well? It’s not surprising his sort would lie.”
“I’d like to know why he lied. And why you’ve just compounded his lie with one of your own.”
The young man scowled. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do,” Sabina said. “You do know Lucas Whiffing because she met him through your acquaintance with him.”
“What? Who told you that?”
“Who told me isn’t important.”
“The devil it isn’t because he’s the liar, whoever he is.”
“The person had no reason to lie.”
“Nor have I. A man in my position does not hobnob with a common clerk. Nor invite or allow such an individual to keep company with his sister.” He drew angrily on his cheroot, blew a stream of smoke in Sabina’s direction. “I don’t care to listen to any more of your preposterous notions, Mrs. Carpenter. I’ll thank you to leave my office at once. We have nothing more to say to each other.”
Sabina complied, returning to the anteroom. There was no doubt in her mind that David St. Ives was as much of a liar as Lucas Whiffing. But why? What was the connection between the two of them and why did David, at least, want it kept secret? It might be because he was afraid of his father finding out he was responsible for the liaison between Virginia and Whiffing, but that didn’t explain his relationship with the “common clerk.” Or why his eyes had flashed with anger at the mention of Whiffing’s name, and why he’d referred to him as “a good-for-nothing whelp.”
She waited half an hour for a five-minute audience with Joseph St. Ives, and wished she hadn’t by the time she left him. She had thought she might be able to reason with him, convince him to give her time to finish her investigation, if not to cancel his plans for a lawsuit, but her pleas fell on deaf ears. He was too upset over his daughter’s evident death, too furious over what he termed Sabina’s “criminal negligence.” He hurled invective at her in a voice that lashed like a whip. If she had been a weak woman, she might have fled from his wrath in tears. As it was, she bore it stoically and without comment, and left his office with her head held high and her dignity intact.
12
SABINA
It was after two o’clock when she entered the agency offices for the first time that day. John had been there before her, she discovered when she sank wearily into her desk chair. His note and the attached business card on her blotter had not been there on Saturday.
Barnaby L. Meeker, Western Investment Corporation. Your services required on matter of bizarre nature. Please communicate at your earliest convenience. Cryptic handwritten words of the sort that would usually have stirred John into an immediate follow-up. He must have been in a hurry to have left her to deal with Mr. Meeker.
She had no desire to consult with a prospective new client, even a prospective new client with an impressive sounding business name and offices on Sansome Street, but neither was there anything more she could accomplish on the Virginia St. Ives investigation this afternoon. She sat for a time, to gather herself, and then once again picked up Barnaby Meeker’s card.
Western Investment Corporation was on the city telephone exchange; the number was printed on the card. Sabina placed a call. Barnaby Meeker was evidently a highly placed member of the firm; less than thirty seconds after the call was answered and she gave her name and asked to speak with him, he was on the line.
“I’ve been waiting to hear from you, Mrs. Carpenter.” He sounded harried, as if his day had gone no better than hers. “I left my card before nine this morning.”
“My apologies for the delay, Mr. Meeker. My partner and I have both been out of the office and I’ve only just seen your card.”
“Yes, well, I’m glad you called. I would rather not have to consult with another detective agency.”
“May I ask why you chose us?”
“All the flap in the newspapers about the incident at Sutro Heights. I believe your version of the events.”
“Thank you, but I—”
“They bear a certain similarity to my predicament, you see.”
“I’m afraid I don’t. A matter of a bizarre nature, your note said?”
“Strange happenings in the fog. Ghostly illusions—the phrase one of the reporters used to describe what you witnessed. The beach near my home has been plagued with such unexplained phenomena and my wife is frankly terrified. I want you to get to the bottom of what is going on.”
“Where exactly do you live, Mr. Meeker?”
“Carville-by-the-Sea.”
Carville. He now had Sabina’s full, undivided attention. “What sort of ghostly illusions?”
“I would rather discuss the details in person, if you don’t mind. I would come to your offices, but I have an important meeting at two o’clock. Could you come here immediately? If not, a meeting later this afternoon will do.”
The Sansome Street address was only a short distance from the agency. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” she said.
* * *
According to a discreet sign on its door, Western Investment Company dealt in railroad and mining stocks. It was a fairly small operation, with a pair of clerks and three inner doors to private offices occupied by the firm’s president and two vice presidents. The fact that Barnaby Meeker’s name was one of the latter two confirmed his highly placed position with the company.
Sabina gave her name to one of the clerks and was immediately ushered into Meeker’s private office. He turned out to be a short, fidgety man of some forty years, the owner of an abnormally large head perched atop a narrow neck and a slight body. A tangle of curly brown hair made his head seem even larger and more disproportionate. He invited her to sit down, but instead of sitting himself, he lighted a fat and rather odorous cigar without asking her if she minded and then began to pace about restlessly with the aid of a cane topped by a black onyx knob carved in the shape of a bird. The cane was necessary because something was amiss with his right leg that caused a slight limp.
“Yes, Mrs. Carpenter,” he began without preamble, as if continuing their telephone conversation after a short pause, “an apparition of unknown origin. I’ve seen it myself, three times.”
“Near your home in Carville-by-the-Sea.”
“In a scattering of abandoned cars nearby, that’s correct. Floating about inside different ones and then rushing out across the dunes and suddenly disappearing.”
“Are you saying that a group of abandoned horse-traction cars are haunted?”
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Meeker said, “or at least I didn’t until this past week. Now I’m not so sure. After what I’ve seen with my own eyes, my own eyes, I repeat, I am no longer certain of anything.”
“This apparition fled when you chased after it?”
“Both times I saw it, yes. Bounded away across the dune tops and then simply vanished into thin air.” Meeker stopped pacing and thumped the ferrule of his cane on the floor for emphasis. “Well, into heavy mist, to be completely accurate.”
“What did it look like, exactly?”
“A human shape surrounded by a whitish glow. Never in my life have I seen an eerier sight.”
“And it left no footprints
behind?”
“No impressions in the sand of any sort. Ghosts, if they do exist, would hardly leave footprints, would they?”
“I suppose not.”
“The dune crests were unmarked along the thing’s path of flight,” he went on, chewing the end of his cigar as he spoke, “and it left no trace in the cars—except, that is, for claw marks on the walls and floors.”
Sabina had begun to wonder if Mr. Barnaby Meeker might be more than a little eccentric. John would no doubt refer to him as a rattlepate. And no doubt scoff at his story. She could just hear him saying, “Glowing apparitions, unmarked sand, claw marks on walls and floors … balderdash! Confounded claptrap!” And yet, were those fog-shrouded things really any stranger, any more seemingly impossible, than Virginia St. Ives’s apparent death leap and the disappearance of her body?
“Have others in Carville seen what you have?” she asked.
“My wife, my daughter, and one of my neighbors. They will vouchsafe everything I have told you.”
“The neighbor wouldn’t be a member of the Whiffing family, by any chance?”
“No, it wouldn’t.”
“But you do know the Whiffings?”
“Yes, of course I know them. Fine people, James and his wife—forward-thinking like myself in their selection of Carville-by-the-Sea for their residence. Why do you ask?”
“Their son Lucas was a friend of Virginia St. Ives.”
“Was he? Not a close friend, I hope.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The lad is too brash for his own good, or that of any young woman who catches his eye.”
“That sounds as if you don’t approve of him.”
“I don’t. Ambitions above his station and dubious morals. He made advances to my daughter Patricia last year, before I put a stop to it.”
“By confronting him?”
“There would have no point in that. No, I had a stern talk with my daughter. She’s an obedient girl—she has had nothing to do with young Whiffing since.”
2 The Spook Lights Affair Page 10
