The Body Snatchers Affair

by Marcia Muller

  Quincannon read the accompanying story as he walked, then the one in the Call. Both were about as he’d expected, more speculation than fact in linking Scarlett’s murder to the theft of Bing Ah Kee’s corpse four nights previous and the general state of unrest in the Quarter. On the positive side, his name was not mentioned and the writing was far more restrained than what was sure to appear in the afternoon rags. Homer Keeps, the Evening Bulletin’s muckraking crime reporter, would be sure to use the death of a white man at the hands of a highbinder to stir up more virulent hatred of the Chinese among the populations of Tar Flat and the Barbary Coast, where such sentiments ran strongest. And if one of the less scrupulous coppers at the Hall of Justice leaked Quincannon’s name for a price, Keeps would gleefully insinuate that he was either directly or indirectly responsible.

  The reporter had had it in for him since his days as a Secret Service operative and the tragic incident in Virginia City, Nevada, when a stray bullet from Quincannon’s pistol during a battle with a gang of counterfeiters had taken the life of an innocent woman bystander and her unborn child. As if his guilt hadn’t been crippling enough, Keeps and others of his ilk had made it worse by mercilessly condemning him in print. His subsequent plunge into drunkenness would have cost him his job if it hadn’t been for the charity of Mr. Boggs, head of the Service’s San Francisco field office, and perhaps then doomed him to permanent ruin. It was only after coincidentally meeting Sabina, while they were both working undercover on separate cases in Idaho, that he’d retaken command of his life and become the sober detective he was today. Keeps, however, had no forgiveness in his soul, and continued to hound him whenever the opportunity presented itself.

  Sabina was already at her desk when he entered the offices of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, a few minutes later. She invariably arrived earlier than he did, to tidy the office as well as to begin her daily activities. Much of the paperwork—reports, invoices, payment of bills—was her responsibility by choice. He was organized when it came to work on a specific case, disorganized where routine business matters were concerned. It was paperwork she was attending to this morning when he entered.

  The look of her had two distinct effects on him. The first was an unpleasant feeling that his fears of the night before might be justified, for she seemed distracted, as if something were weighing on her mind—something to do with that fop Carson Montgomery. Had she succumbed to his advances and was having second thoughts about such a dalliance? Had he—God forbid—proposed to her in or out of bed and was she considering whether or not to accept?

  The other, contradictory feeling was a surge of jealousy-fueled desire. Such an intelligent, skillful, and good-hearted woman. And such a desirable one, her glossy black hair piled high on her head and fastened with her favorite jeweled barrette, her ample bosom made even more prominent by the tight bodice of her shirtwaist. The two feelings combined to stoke the wicked side of his imagination, bring into his mind’s eye a slightly feverish image of that fine figure divested of its skirt and jacket, shirtwaist and lacy undergarments, submitting to the leering gaze of that society coxcomb Montgomery …

  She narrowed her eyes at him as he shed his derby and Chesterfield and crossed to his desk. “Before we get down to business,” she said, “I’ll thank you to put my clothes back on.”

  “Eh?” Sudden warmth crept out of Quincannon’s collar. “Sabina! Surely you don’t think that I—”

  “I don’t think it, I know it. I know you, John Quincannon, far better than you think I do.”

  He said defensively, “Perhaps, though you often mistake my motives.”

  “I doubt that. Was your sleepless night the result of rewarding that lascivious mind of yours?”

  “How did you know I spent a sleepless night—”

  “Bloodshot eyes in saggy pouches. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you had forsaken your temperance pledge with whatever wench you were canoodling with.”

  “I was not canoodling with anyone last night.” It was on the tip of Quincannon’s tongue to ask her the same question; he managed to bite it off just in time. He was not supposed to be aware that she was keeping company with the socially prominent Carson Montgomery. She hadn’t said a word to him about the man, of course, her steadfast position as always being that the details of her private life were not to be shared. If he were to ask pointed questions or to speak Montgomery’s name, it would cause immediate friction. And gain him no knowledge of the extent of their relationship. She would simply tell him to mind his own business and immediately change the subject.

  No, the time had not yet come to let her know that he was aware of her attachment to Carson Montgomery. Might never come, if his jealous imaginings turned out to be unfounded. He consoled himself with the thought that he’d misinterpreted her distracted look, that something that had little or nothing to do with Montgomery was the cause of it. Still, the possibility that she had granted the confounded socialite her favors, or was about to do so, would continue to plague him until he found out the exact nature of their relationship.

  And he would find out, not by resorting to spying but by judicious detective work when time permitted. Theodore Bonesall, the banker and former client from whom he’d learned of Sabina dining tête-à-tête with her new beau on at least two recent evenings, was only one of many well-placed acquaintances he could call on for the necessary information …

  “What’s the matter, John?”

  “Eh? Matter?”

  “Your expression. You look as though you’re having a gastric attack.”

  Gastric attack. Faugh! He couldn’t help a wry grimace as he said, “My innards are fine, thank you.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear it. If that expression is because I offended you with my canoodling remark, I apologize. It was inappropriate, given our agreement to limit our daily intercourse to professional matters only.”

  The word “intercourse” caused him to grimace again, somewhat wistfully this time, though he managed to turn his head so that Sabina was not witness to it. He sighed inaudibly as he sat at his desk. Love, especially unrequited love, was not only a difficult proposition, it was a confounded nuisance.

  He produced and began to charge his briar, preparatory to giving Sabina a full dramatic report of the previous night’s events. But just as he was about to speak, Mr. Alexander Graham Bell’s invention filled the office with a sudden clamoring.

  Quincannon glowered at the telephone, which was closest to Sabina’s desk. She lifted the receiver in the middle of a second jangle. Static crackled audibly from the line, enough interference, judging from her end of the conversation, to make communication with the calling party, evidently a woman named Blankford or Branchford, difficult. He gave his attention to his small stack of morning mail. Checks were what he was looking for; bills and solicitations all that he found.

  When the call ended, Sabina said, “It appears we have a new client, or at least the strong prospect of one. Mrs. Harriet Blanchford, Ruben Blanchford’s widow.”

  “Ruben Blanchford? Ah!” Quincannon’s interest perked. “The financier. Made a fortune from the Comstock Lode along with Hearst, William Sharon, and Alvinza Hayward.”

  “Yes, and spent his later years engaged in philanthropic enterprises. He died a few days ago of a heart ailment.”

  “Worth several millions, as I recall.”

  “Evidently. Quite a pleasant gentleman, too.”

  “That sounds as though you knew him.”

  “Hardly. I happen to have met him at a reception at the Palace Hotel a year or so ago.”

  “Reception? I don’t recall you mentioning that before. Were you there in conjunction with a case?”

  “No.”

  “As an invited guest? Or in the company of one?”

  “That’s neither here nor there.” Sabina’s narrow-eyed look chastised him for prying into her personal life again. Blast her passion for privacy! “Don’t you want to know the reason fo
r Mrs. Blanchford’s call?”

  “Naturally. What’s her trouble?”

  “Well, I’m not quite sure. Something about a kidnapping.”

  “Oh? Who has been abducted?”

  “Her husband, I thought she said, but that’s hardly possible. As usual with the Telephone Exchange, the connection was poor. I managed to make an appointment with her at her home at one-thirty.”

  A kidnapping, eh? That sort of major crime usually involved considerable investigative time and effort. Visions of a handsome fee danced in Quincannon’s head, overshadowing the unpleasant ones involving Sabina and Carson Montgomery.

  He said, “Of course we’ll do all we can to give the poor woman whatever help she needs.”

  “Of course. Especially since the poor woman is anything but poor.”

  Quincannon forbore comment on this. Instead he said, “Now would you like to know what I was actually doing all of last night?”

  “If it involves business, I would.”

  “It does. Hunting for James Scarlett, as promised to his wife.”

  “And did you find him?”

  “Oh, I found him well enough. As you’d know if you’d seen the morning newspapers.”

  “The newspapers? That sounds ominous. What happened, John?”

  “He was shot to death in Chinatown while in my charge,” Quincannon said, and added after a deliberate pause, “It was only by the narrowest of margins that I escaped the same fate.”

  One of Sabina’s fine dark eyebrows lifted and the corners of her mouth tightened. “Who was responsible?”

  “A hatchet man posing as a food seller.”

  He went on to describe in detail the events in Ross Alley and his activities afterward, including the things that bothered him about the incident and the speculations he’d shared with the three ranking police officers. When he finished, the smooth skin of Sabina’s forehead and around her generous mouth bore lines of concern.

  “Bad business,” she said. “And bad for business. Not that you’re to be blamed, of course.”

  “No, but others will surely blame me. The only way to undo the damage is for me to find out who ordered the murder and why, before any more blood is shed and before Horace Keeps and his ilk crucify me in print.”

  “Us to find out, you mean.”

  “Us,” he agreed. “Though you’d be well advised not to venture into Chinatown.”

  “I have no intention of it. Though I suppose you do.”

  “It’s where the truth lies.”

  “And Fowler Alley?” Sabina asked. “What do you suppose that has to do with Scarlett’s death?”

  “Perhaps nothing, if his mutterings were part of a hop dream.”

  “You said he sounded frightened when he spoke the name. Opium dreams are seldom nightmares. Men and women use the drug to escape from nightmares, real or imaginary.”

  “True.”

  “Then his mention of Fowler Alley has some significance, wouldn’t you say? ‘Blue shadow’ as well.”

  “Possibly,” Quincannon allowed. “Though I can’t be positive of the latter phrase. I may have misheard it.”

  “Was it spoken in the same fearful tone?”

  He cudgeled his memory. “I can’t be certain.”

  “If it was ‘blue shadow,’ you’ve no idea what it might mean?”

  “None.”

  “Our client may have,” Sabina said. “If she’s home or to be found elsewhere today.”

  “Will you see if you can locate her before you keep your appointment with Mrs. Blanchford?”

  Sabina hesitated. “I had another matter I intended to pursue … but it can wait. The Scarlett case takes precedence. Yes, I’ll try to find her.”

  “Good. And if you talk to her, ask her where she was last night. A woman is more apt to confide in another member of her sex.”

  “I will.”

  “You might also ask her if she has any idea where her husband might have kept sensitive material pertaining to his Hip Sing activities, other than in his office files. Whoever searched the office before I did may not have found what he was after.”

  “You don’t think the search was made by the highbinder who shot Scarlett?”

  “It seems unlikely.”

  “Has it occurred to you that Mrs. Scarlett may have done it? To look for evidence of her husband’s criminal activities, perhaps destroy it?”

  “It has. But the search was made either before or shortly after he was murdered. I see no way she could have known of the shooting before I made my search last night, and it doesn’t seem likely she would have invaded his office while believing him to be alive. It would have served no purpose.”

  “True. Then who do you suppose is responsible, if not a highbinder or our client? Whoever is behind Scarlett’s murder?”

  “Likely. Whoever in Chinatown that may be.”

  “Is there anything you can remember about the gunman that might help identify his tong affiliation?”

  Quincannon puffed up a great cloud of tobacco smoke, scratched irritably at his freebooter’s whiskers. “No, confound it. It was too dark and his hat was pulled too low for a clear squint at his face. Average size, average height. Black coolie clothing. Dark-colored topknot on his hat of the sort highbinders wear.”

  “Did he say anything before he began shooting?”

  “Not a word.” Quincannon stood and went to don his Chesterfield and clamp his derby on his head, squarely, the way he always wore it when he was about to embark on a mission. “Enough talk. It’s action I crave and action I’ll have.”

  “Not of the sort you had last night, I hope,” Sabina said.

  “If there’s to be any more shooting,” he vowed, “it will be my finger on the trigger and a highbinder on the receiving end of the bullet.”

  5

  SABINA

  She hadn’t told John about the bughouse Sherlock Holmes’s evident interest in Carson Montgomery for three reasons. The first was that it would have upset him unnecessarily, considering how he felt about the poseur. The second: She wasn’t completely positive that the Englishman had been following Carson last night, and even if she had been, she needed to know the reason why before she considered taking John into her confidence. The third: her embryonic relationship with Carson was too personal and too uncertain, and any mention of it to John was sure to bring down an avalanche of disapproval. There were moments when she thought of him as an overprotective father, rather than a professional associate and wistful suitor.

  Still, keeping silent on the matter gave her an odd sense of disloyalty to him. Her personal life was her own, as was his, and that was as it should be, but from the inception of their partnership they had been completely candid with each other on business matters. She really didn’t like keeping secrets from him.

  Nonetheless, Holmes’s inexplicable actions and Carson’s apparent secretiveness continued to prey on her mind. Her original intention this morning had been to consult with those among the agency’s informants who might be able to discover where the fake Sherlock could be presently found, if not what he was up to, as well as those who had occasion to deal with the city’s upper classes and might have knowledge of anything disturbing in Carson’s past. Cousin Callie would have been the most likely person to see first, but Callie was a staunch admirer of Carson and would have been horrified to hear that Sabina had any doubts that he was a social and personal paragon. Better that she should conduct her inquiries through professional channels.

  But seeing informants would have to wait until later. The Scarlett case, now that the attorney had been slain and John nearly so, was of much greater importance. And there was the afternoon appointment with Harriet Blanchford to be considered as well. So when she left the agency, she proceeded directly to the Scarletts’ home at the edge of Cow Hollow.

  The neighborhood was an unusual one, even for San Francisco. Irrigated by several freshwater creeks, it had been ideal grazing land where many dairies and vegetable f
arms had been established in earlier times. By the late eighties, tanneries, sausage factories, and slaughterhouses began moving into the area, and for a time there had been numerous episodes of hoodlumism. Now it was slowly becoming gentrified. A number of prominent individuals had moved there, into new two- and three-story apartment buildings that overshadowed their more plebeian neighbors.

  The Scarletts’ address was one of those new buildings, in the lower section of the Hollow overlooking what once had been a lake, now filled in, called “Washerwoman’s Lagoon.” Sabina was about to ring the bell in the vestibule for the third-floor apartment when, keen-eyed as always, she noticed a small hole in the wall next to the front door. It was waist high, so that she had to stoop to examine it.

  It was a bullet hole, with the lead pellet still embedded in the wood. And judging from the look of its splintered edges, it had been recently made.

  She entered and quickly climbed the stairs to the Scarlett apartment on the third floor. Two twists on the doorbell key and two raps on the panel produced no response. The door was locked, as John had apparently left it last night. He’d been inside and found nothing, so there was no need for her to make use of her own limited lock-picking skills.

  She descended to the second floor. No one answered her summons at that apartment, either. But when she rang the bell to the first-floor unit, the door opened on a chain, and a rather amazing eye, kohl-rimmed so that it resembled a raccoon’s, peered out at her.

  “Yes? What is it?” The woman’s voice was a rusty contralto.

  “I’m looking for one of your neighbors, Mrs. Andrea Scarlett.”

  “You a friend of hers?”

  Apparently the woman hadn’t yet heard the news of James Scarlett’s murder. Sabina had one of her cards ready; she held it up for the eye to scrutinize. It widened, narrowed, widened again. “Well, my goodness! A detective! A woman detective!”