EQMM, February 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Quincannon could. There were no powder marks on the door or other evidence that explosives had been used, nor did the center hole for the dial and spindle show any damage. Yet the door had clearly been forced somehow; the bolts were badly twisted. There were marks along the bottom edges of the door, the sort a wedge or chisel struck by sledgehammers would make, but a safe of this construction could not have been ripped open in that fashion, by brute force.

  A whitish residue adhered to the steel along where the wedge marks were located. Quincannon scraped it with a thumbnail. Hard and flaky—dried putty, from the look and feel of it.

  Another substance had dried on the safe, on one of the outer sides—brownish smears of what was certainly blood. Teague said, “One of ‘em must've gashed hisself when they busted into the express office. There's blood on the door and the floor inside, too."

  Quincannon said nothing. Something else had drawn his attention—a piece of straw caught on one of the skewed bolts. He plucked it loose. Ordinary straw, clean and damp.

  He leaned forward to peer inside the safe. Completely empty—not a gram of gold dust or speck of the other variety remained. He ran fingertips over the smooth walls and floor, found the metal to be cold and faintly moist.

  When he straightened, Cromarty asked him, “Have you any idea how it was done?"

  "Not as yet."

  "If I weren't seeing it for myself, I wouldn't believe it. It just doesn't seem possible."

  Again Quincannon had no comment. Actions and events that didn't seem possible were his meat. There was nothing he liked better than feasting on crimes that baffled and flummoxed average men and average detectives.

  "Leave the safe here, Mr. Cromarty, or take it back to town?” Teague asked.

  "Leave it for now. We'll send some men out for it later. Unless you'd rather have it brought in for further examination, Quincannon?"

  "Not necessary. I've seen enough of it."

  The rancher, Higgins, had no additional information to impart. Nor did the place where the safe had been dumped, or the section of meadow between the oak and the road, or the road itself. The ground was too hard to retain more than vague impressions.

  The men rode back into Tuttletown. At the depot, Quincannon asked to have a look at the scene of the robbery both inside and out. Teague and Booker accompanied him to the rear of the building that housed the baggage and express office.

  A trio of poplars grew close together near the door on that side; at night a wagon could be drawn up under them and be well hidden in their shadows. The jumbled tracks of men, wagons, and horses told him nothing. He stepped up to look at the door. Its bolt lock had been forced with a pinch bar or similar instrument.

  Booker said, “There's a wood crossbar on the door inside, but they got it free somehow. It was on the floor when I come in in the morning."

  There was no mystery in how that had been accomplished. Once the bolt had been snapped, the thieves had pried a gap between the door edge and jamb just wide enough to slip a thin length of metal through and lift the crossbar free. He tried the door, found it secure; Booker had replaced the crossbar. Quincannon asked him to go inside and remove it.

  While the station agent was obliging, Quincannon studied the broken lock, the gouged wood, the crusty brown stains on the door edge. A fair amount of blood had been lost during the robbery; there were splatters on the platform as well. And more on the rough wood floor inside, he saw when Booker opened up for him.

  A dusty square in one corner outlined where the safe had stood. It had been bolted to the floor, the bolts pried loose with the same instrument that had been used on the door. Still more dried blood stained the boards here.

  "You know, I looked the place over pretty good myself,” Teague said. His patience seemed to be wearing thin. “Thieves didn't leave nothing of theirselves behind, else I'd've found it."

  Except for the blood, Quincannon thought but didn't say.

  "If you ask me,” Booker said, “the ones that done it are long gone by now. And the gold with ‘em."

  "Possibly. And possibly not."

  "Well, they dumped the empty safe, didn't they? What reason would they have for sticking around?"

  "Strong ties to the community, mayhap."

  "You think they're locals, then?"

  "If so, the gold is still here as well."

  "That don't put us any closer to finding out who they are."

  "Or how they got that safe open,” Teague said. “Dynamite wasn't used and they couldn't've done it with hammers and chisels."

  "Nor a pile driver,” Quincannon said wryly, echoing Newell's words in Jamestown.

  "Then how the devil did they do it?"

  "The how and the who may well be linked. The answer to one question will provide the answer to the other."

  "Well now, Mr. Quincannon,” Teague said, “that sounds like double-talk to me. Ain't no shame in admitting you're as fuddled as the rest of us."

  No shame in it if it were true, but it wasn't. For one thing, he prided himself that he was never fuddled and only occasionally puzzled. For another, he had already discovered a number of clues which his canny brain was busily piecing together.

  Teague mistook his silence for tacit agreement. “So then how you going to go about finding the answers?"

  "A detective never reveals his methods until his investigation is complete,” Quincannon told him. And sometimes, he added silently, not even then.

  * * * *

  Cromarty had invited him to spend the night in his private car, but Quincannon preferred a solitary environment and his own company when he was in the midst of a case. He took a room at Tuttletown's only hostelry, the Cremer House—the best room the hotel had to offer, which turned out to be cramped, spartan, and stuffy. He stayed in it just long enough to deposit his bag. Downstairs again, he asked the pudgy desk clerk if Tuttletown had a doctor.

  "Sure have. Doc Goodfellow."

  "Where would his office be?"

  "Upstairs above the drugstore, one block east."

  Quincannon found the doctor in and not busy with a patient. Goodfellow was a tall, saturnine gent who bore a superficial resemblance to Honest Abe. He was evidently aware of the resemblance and proud of it; even the beard he cultivated was Lincolnesque.

  Quincannon identified himself and stated his mission in Tuttletown. He asked then, “Have you treated anyone for a severe gash or cut on the hand, wrist, or forearm in the past three days?"

  "I have, yes. Two men and a boy."

  "Who would the men be?"

  "A miner named Jacobsen was the most badly injured,” Goodfellow said. “Consequences of a fall at the Rappahanock. Gashed his arm and broke his wrist in two places. I had a difficult time setting the bones—"

  "And the other man, Doctor?"

  "One of the Schneider brothers—Wilhem. Deep cut on the back of his left hand."

  "Miners also, the Schneiders?"

  "No, sir. They own the icehouse."

  "Ah. Big men, are they? Brawny?"

  "Yes, of course. Men who make their living cutting and hauling ice can hardly be puny."

  "Have they been in Tuttletown long?"

  "Not long. They bought the business about three years ago."

  "Where did they come from?"

  "I've heard that they owned a similar business down in Bishop,” Goodfellow said, “but I don't know for certain. They're a close-mouthed pair when it comes to themselves."

  "Peaceable men, law-abiding?"

  "Well, the younger, Bodo, has a reputation for rowdiness when he's had too much to drink. But so do half the men who live and work in these parts."

  "Do the Schneiders live at or near the icehouse?"

  "No. In a cabin on Table Mountain.” The doctor frowned. “Do you suspect them of stealing the safe from the express office?"

  "At this point,” Quincannon said, “I suspect everyone and no one.” Which wasn't quite the truth, but it permitted him to take his leave without further q
uestions.

  He returned to his room at the hotel, where he stretched out on what passed for a bed—it felt more like an uneven pile of bricks—and tucked his nose into Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass. Poetry was one of his two favorite forms of reading material, the other being intemperate temperance tracts. It soothed and relaxed him and allowed for proper brain-cudgeling.

  Some time later, just past nightfall, he laid the book aside and left the room and the hotel wearing what Sabina referred to as his John-is-pleased-with-John smile. A thickening layer of clouds deepened the night's blackness, he noted with satisfaction as he stepped outside. The lamplight that shone within some of the business establishments on Main Street seemed pale by contrast; electric lights had been installed in Jamestown, but not here as yet.

  He made his way through the town center, whistling one of his favorite temperance tunes, and turned down the side street that led to Icehouse Road. Here, he had the night to himself. The darkness was unbroken except for distant flickers that marked the locations of mines and cabins at the higher elevations. Under the tall cottonwoods that lined the road and nearby creek the shadows were as black as India ink.

  It was a brisk five-minute walk to the icehouse. The building sat creekside a short distance off the road, connected to it by a graveled lane—a low, bulky shape silhouetted against the restless sky. Set apart from it on the near side was a shedlike structure, lamplight making a pale rectangle of its single window. One or both of the Schneider brothers working late in what was probably their office.

  Quincannon strolled on past, getting the lay of the place. The wagon entrance was at the far end, barred by a set of wide doors. A livery barn and rough-fenced corral occupied a grassy section between the road and the creek. No conveyances or animals were visible. The wagon and dray horses used for delivering ice would have been put away inside the barn for the night.

  When he'd seen enough, he walked at a leisurely pace back to Main Street. The stone-housed general store near the hotel, Swerer's by name, was still open for business. Inside, as he paid for his purchases, the garrulous young fellow behind the counter took considerable pride in informing him that the writer Bret Harte had once clerked there. Quincannon was more impressed by the outlandish prices charged for one dark lantern, one small tin of lamp oil, and a plug of Navy Cut tobacco. Not that the outlay bothered him; the amounts would be added to the expense account he would present to the Sierra Railway Company along with his bill for services rendered.

  Hunger prodded him into Miner's Rest Cafe, where he ate a bowl of mulligan stew and sampled a Mother Lode country favorite, a pie made with vinegar and raisins. The dessert turned out to be more appetizing than its name, fly pie.

  Once more in his room at Cremer House, he stripped to his long johns and again made an effort to settle himself on the mound of bricks. He set his internal clock, a mechanism so unfailing that he never used one of the alarm variety. He was asleep within minutes.

  * * * *

  At three a.m. Quincannon slipped out of the hotel's side entrance carrying the dark lantern, its wick already lit and the shutter tightly closed. Main Street was all but deserted at this hour; even the saloons had closed. He avoided the one man he saw, a lurcher under the influence, and in less than ten minutes he was hurrying through the deep shadows on Icehouse Road.

  No lamplight showed now in the shedlike office next to the icehouse. Darkness shrouded building and outbuildings alike, as well as the road in both directions. Quincannon paused under one of the trees to listen. A night bird's cry, a faint sound from the direction of the corral that was likely the restless movement of a horse. Otherwise, silence.

  He picked his way through dew-wet grass to the rear of the icehouse. As he'd expected, the pair of heavy wooden entrance doors were locked. He opened the lantern's shutter a crack, shielding the light with his body, and quickly examined the iron hasp and padlock. Well and good. The padlock was large and looked new, but it was of inferior manufacture.

  He closed the shutter, set the lantern down. The set of lock picks he carried, an unintentional gift from a burglar he'd once snaffled, were the best money could buy, and over the years he had learned how to manipulate them as dexterously as any housebreaker. The absence of light hampered his efforts here; it took him three times longer, working by feel, than it would have under normal circumstances to free the padlock's staple. Not a sound disturbed the stillness the entire time.

  He removed the lock, hung it from the hasp, and opened one door half just wide enough to ease his body through. The temperature inside was several degrees colder. When he opened the lantern, he saw that he was in a narrow space that sloped downward and was blocked on the inner side by a second set of doors. These, fortunately, were not locked.

  The interior of the icehouse was colder still, as frigid as a politician's heart. Quincannon put on the gloves he'd brought with him, then widened the lantern's eye to its fullest and shined the light around. The stone walls, he judged, were at least two feet thick and the wooden floor set six feet or so below ground level. Large and small blocks of ice lined both walls, cut from the creek or hauled from the Stanislaus River during the winter months. Thick layers of straw covered the floor and was packed around the ice; the low ceiling would likewise be insulated with straw to keep the sun's heat from penetrating. A trap door in the middle of the floor would doubtless give access to a stone- or brick-walled pit that would also be ice-filled, a solid mass ready to be broken by axe and chisel into smaller chunks as needed.

  He played the light around more slowly, looking for a likely hiding place. None presented itself. The cold had begun to penetrate his clothing; he hurried to the far end and began his search, stamping his feet to maintain circulation.

  By the time he had covered three-quarters of the space, finding nothing but ice and straw, he was chilled to the marrow. But his high good humor remained intact; so did his confidence. The stolen gold was hidden somewhere in here. Logic dictated that it couldn't be anywhere else.

  Five minutes later, his faith in himself and his deductions was rewarded.

  At one wall not far from the entrance, he uncovered a cavelike space formed by ice blocks and a thick pile of straw. The bullion and sacks of dust were piled under the straw—the entire booty, from the look of it.

  A satisfied smile creased his pirate's beard. He pocketed one of the sacks, heaped straw over the rest of the gold. Quickly, then, he made his exit, making sure before he stepped outside that the night was still untenanted. He replaced the padlock without closing the staple, then hastened back into town to locate Constable Teague.

  * * * *

  Shortly past dawn, in C.W. Cromarty's private car, Quincannon prepared to hold court.

  He and Teague, accompanied by a group of deputized citizens that included the express agent, Booker, had taken the Schneider brothers by surprise at their cabin and arrested them without incident. The two thieves were now ensconced in the Tuttletown jail. The gold had been removed from the icehouse and turned over to Booker for safekeeping. With Teague in tow, Quincannon had then come here to tell the superintendent and his chief engineer the good news.

  Cromarty was effusive in his praise. “Splendid, Mr. Quincannon,” he said. “Bully! And the job done in less than twenty-four hours. You're something of a wizard, I must say."

  "I prefer the term artiste,” Quincannon said. Humility was not one of his virtues, if in fact it was a virtue. Why shouldn't a man at the zenith of his profession be boastful of the fact? “You might say that I am the Rembrandt of crime solvers."

  Teague said, “Who's Rembrandt?” but no one answered him.

  "Tell us how you deduced the identity of the thieves and the location of the gold,” Newell urged.

  "And how they got the safe open.” The constable appealed to the two railroad men. “He wouldn't tell me before, just said he'd explain everything when we come here."

  Quincannon took his time loading and lighting his briar, drawing out the moment
. This was the time he liked best, the explanations that demonstrated the breadth and scope of his prowess. He admitted to a dramatic streak in his nature; if he hadn't become a detective, he might have gone on the stage and become a fine dramatic actor. “Ham, you mean,” Sabina had said when he mentioned this to her once, but he'd forgiven her.

  The others waited expectantly while he got the pipe drawing to his satisfaction. Then he fluffed his beard and said, “Very well, gentlemen. I'll begin by noting clues that led me to the solution. When I examined the safe on Icehouse Road, I found two items—a hard residue of putty where the wedge marks were located on the door, and a piece of straw caught on one of the bolts. Straw, as you all know, is used to pack blocks and chunks of ice to slow the melting process. Also, the walls of the safe were cold, too cold for the night and morning air to have been responsible."

  "Pretty flimsy evidence,” Teague observed. “And what's putty got to do with it?"

  Quincannon addressed the constable's statement, ignoring his question for the moment. “On the contrary, the evidence was not at all flimsy when combined with other factors. Such as where the damaged safe was discarded—less than a mile from the icehouse. The thieves saw no need and had no desire, as heavy and cumbersome as it is, to transport it any farther than that meadow. They were foolishly certain no one would suspect them of the crime."

  "How did you know the gold would be hidden in the icehouse?” Cromarty asked. “They might just as well have hidden it elsewhere."

  "Might have, yes, but it would have required additional risk. The weight of the gold and the necessity of finding another hiding place also argued against it having been moved elsewhere. As far as they were concerned, it was perfectly secure inside the icehouse until it could be disposed of piecemeal."

  "Are you saying that the icehouse was where the safe was opened?"

  "I am. It's the only place it could have been managed in this region at this time of year.” Quincannon shifted his gaze to Teague. “Do you recall my stating yesterday that the how and the who of the crime were linked?"

  "I do."

  "And so they are. Once I determined that the Schneiders were guilty, it was a simple matter of cognitive reasoning to deduce the how."