“I’m afraid he isn’t.”
Damn! “Gone out for the evening at what time?”
“To my knowledge, he has been away since early this morning.”
“I see. Do you know where I might find him?”
“I do not. Nor when he might return.”
“Then I’ll leave a message for him.”
“As you wish.”
“A written message.” Frustration sharpened Sabina’s voice. “In a sealed envelope.”
The butler was unperturbed. “Certainly, madam. Would you like me to supply stationery and a pen?”
“A sheet of paper and an envelope, yes. I have a pen.”
“Very good.” He studied her for a moment, apparently decided she was respectable and not likely to steal anything if left alone, and said as if bestowing a favor, “You may enter and wait in the drawing room.”
The high-ceilinged drawing room was empty except for heavy Victorian furnishings and several large paintings of members of the Montgomery clan, most of them done at advanced ages and rather forbiddingly austere. Sabina fancied the multitude of eyes appraising her as she stood waiting. None of the chairs and settees looked the least bit comfortable.
When the butler returned, she took to a secretary desk the letter-sized sheet of vellum and matching envelope he handed her. Both pieces of stationery bore an embossed Montgomery family crest. She wrote Carson’s name on the envelope, checked the time on the grandfather clock across the room, and then proceeded to write her message.
Thursday, 9:20 P.M.
Carson:
I must speak with you on a matter of considerable urgency. Will you be so good as to meet me tomorrow at one P.M. in the Grand Central Court at the Palace Hotel? If you are unable to do so, please let me know at my office by telephone or messenger, but I sincerely hope that will not be necessary.
Sabina
She folded the paper and sealed it into the envelope, which she then gave to the butler. “Please put this where Carson will be certain to see it when he comes home.”
“Very well, madam.” He held the envelope gingerly between thumb and forefinger as he ushered her out, as if he couldn’t wait to be rid of it.
Sabina gave the waiting hack driver her home address and settled back on the cushions. She felt almost relieved that Carson had not been at home tonight. Coming here had been an impetuous act; it would have been awkward and unpleasant confronting him, implying criminal guilt if not actually accusing him of it, in his own home. A public place such as the Palace Hotel was more suitable for the task.
She wondered if she should have requested an earlier meeting time in her message. This distressing situation with Carson and the Gold King scandal and the death of Artemas Sneed was a heavy weight on her mind; the sooner she had a firm grasp on the truth, the better able she’d be to deal with it. But no, one o’clock was soon enough. She might well have pressing agency business to attend to in the morning.
Briefly she considered, as she had on the ride up from Davis Street, whether she should notify the police—anonymously—of the dead man in Sneed’s room at the Wanderer’s Rest. It was the proper thing to do. John might be cavalier about bending and breaking the law, but she wasn’t; Stephen and the other Pinkerton agents she’d known had taught her to obey it except in incidents of dire necessity. There was no such necessity in this case. The body would be discovered soon enough, she had no specific knowledge of who had committed the crime, and the police would have little interest in the violent death of an ex-convict and Barbary Coast hanger-on—except, she thought wryly, to “confiscate as evidence” the sixty dollars in his purse if the money was still there when they arrived on the scene. Only the hack driver had seen her entering and leaving the rooming house, she was sure of that, and he would have no reason to come forward; homicides were so common in the rougher sections of the city that they were seldom reported in the newspapers. Her wisest course of action was to do nothing at all until she met with Carson tomorrow.
She closed her eyes, shifted her tired body into a more comfortable position, and let the rattling of the wheels and clopping of the horse’s hooves lull her into a half-doze the rest of the journey to Russian Hill.
20
QUINCANNON
Friday morning was bright, sunny, the air crisp and winey as well as briny, and Quincannon whistled “The Drunkard’s Funeral,” one of his collection of temperance tunes, as he alighted from the Powell Street cable car and proceeded at a brisk pace down Market Streeet. The briefcase he carried swung loosely at his side, but his grip on it could not have been tighter.
For once, he arrived at the office before Sabina. The morning mail had already been delivered; he scooped it up from the floor under the mail slot and tossed it on his desk. Went to turn up the steam heat to dispel the lingering night’s chill, then knelt and twirled the combination lock to open the office safe. It was a Mosler, one of the best manufacturers of strongboxes; large, bolted to the floor, and as secure as any private business could expect. Far more secure than the small one in his bedroom.
He opened the briefcase and transferred the files he’d appropriated from James Scarlett’s law office to the safe. They constituted important evidence and now he didn’t have to worry about their safety until the time came to turn them over to the authorities.
The mail wasn’t such-a-much—only one containing a check in payment for services rendered, the rest circulars, bills, this month’s issue of the Police Gazette. There was also a sealed envelope with “Mrs. Carpenter” scrawled on it in a barely legible backhand. The writing was familiar, that of the news vendor, Slewfoot, one of their more reliable informants. A communication from him, as from others in the city-wide network of information sellers, was often delivered in this fashion after office hours.
He was putting the envelope and the bills on Sabina’s desk blotter when the telephone bell jangled. Alexander Graham Bell’s invention had its uses, but he had yet to get used to the sudden shrill clamor of its summons. He cut off the noise on its second ring.
A woman’s imperious voice said, “Is that you, Blackbeard?”
Mrs. Harriet Blanchford. Not even such as the Blackbeard slight bothered him this morning. He said cheerfully, “John Quincannon, Mrs. Blanchford,” listened, said, “No, Mrs. Carpenter, hasn’t come in yet this morning. I imagine she’ll arrive shortly.” Listened some more and then said, “Yes, I’ll make sure she gets the message,” and was rewarded with an abrupt termination of the call. Ah, well, the elderly had their privileges, a tolerable amount of rude behavior among them. The more so when the party involved was wealthy and destined to be another satisfied client.
He would be leaving shortly, so he sat down to commit Harriet Blanchford’s message to paper. He was in the process when the door opened to admit his erstwhile and much coveted partner.
“Good morning, my dear. Beautiful day, isn’t it.”
“Is it?” she said. Her tone was uncharacteristically bleak. “What makes you so jolly today?”
“Considerable progress on the Scarlett case. What makes you so dispirited?”
Sabina didn’t respond. Instead, she went about unpinning her hat and hanging up her cape on the coat tree. He inspected her more closely as she did so, and what he saw was alarming. She looked even more tired today, her eyes betokening a sleep-deprived night. There was a remoteness about them, too, as if her mind were heavily burdened. And her mouth and jaw bore the kind of tightness that came from teeth-clenching. Carson Montgomery again? If the man had harmed or severely upset her in any way …
Quincannon watched her sit at her desk. She noticed the “Mrs. Carpenter” envelope immediately, opened it, read the paper inside without a change of expression, reinserted it, and put it aside.
“Good news?” he asked.
“Expected news.”
“The Blanchford case?”
“Yes. Is this the only message that came for me?”
“Were you hoping for another?”<
br />
“No. Just the opposite.”
“Well, I have more Blanchford news for you,” he said. “The widow telephoned not five minutes ago. It seems the kidnappers kept their promise after all.”
“Her husband’s body is back in the family crypt?”
“Brought there and deposited sometime last night. Her son found it there this morning.” Sabina’s expression prompted him to add, “You don’t seem surprised.”
“I’m not. Also as I expected.”
“The body was returned in the same mysterious manner as its taking, Mrs. Blanchford said. What did she mean by that?”
“It was allegedly stolen in what appeared to be an impossible fashion, the crypt being still sealed with no tampering of its door lock and Mrs. Blanchford in possession of the only key.”
This announcement warped Quincannon’s brow. He said, “And returned in the same fashion, evidently, if the crypt was locked again this morning.”
“Not quite, but close enough.”
“So. A seemingly impossible crime, and you didn’t tell me about it?”
“I didn’t need to.”
“You mean you’ve solved the mystery? How?”
“That’s a silly question, John. By detective work and deductive reasoning, of course. You don’t honestly believe you’re the only one adept at that sort of conundrum, do you?”
“No, but I’ve had a great deal of experience—”
“And I haven’t? Oh, but naturally my skills are nowhere as preeminent as yours.”
Quincannon felt himself being boxed into an uncomfortable corner. He squirmed his way to safety by saying, “That’s not true. They’re every bit the match of mine,” but the words weren’t merely a convenient sop; he meant them, much as it bruised his ego to admit it. “So now you know who’s behind the Blanchford snatch.”
Sabina seemed mollified, at least temporarily. “Who, and how their tricks were worked. A bumbling fool’s game from start to finish.”
“How so?”
Instead of answering his question, she changed the subject—or so he thought at first—by asking a question of her own. “Have you found out the significance of Fowler Alley yet?”
“Fowler Alley? No, but I will.”
“Yes. Right now.”
“What do you mean?”
“I believe I know what it is.”
“You do?” He peered at her with his head tipped forward like a crane’s. “What? How?”
“You’ll know when I tell you the solution to the Blanchford crime. The details make it apparent.”
Sabina proceeded to do so, not taking time to savor her prowess as he might have done in a reversed role; her explanation was specifically brief and to the point. When she revealed the gaffe, he saw immediately how it related to James Scarlett’s last words. He smote himself on the forehead. “By Jove, that must be the answer! I’m a rattlepate for not seeing it myself.”
“Well, those are your words, not mine.”
Quincannon bounced to his feet, favored her with a radiant smile as he clamped on his derby. “Sabina, my dear, you’re truly wonderful. I could kiss you.”
“If you try, I’ll box your ears until they bleed.”
He laughed, impudently blew her a kiss anyway from a safe distance, and then went haring out the door.
21
SABINA
It was a few minutes before noon when Sabina arrived at the Blanchfords’ Nob Hill mansion. On the one hand she didn’t relish her mission; on the other hand she was looking forward to it. Like John, she derived satisfaction from the successful conclusion to an investigation, even one as unpleasant as this. She could only hope that the matter with Carson could be untangled satisfactorily as well, for his sake as well as hers.
The houseman, Edmund, a thin old man with the face of a mournful hound, admitted her, left her waiting in the front hall while he went to announce her, and then showed her out to the side terrace where Harriet and Bertram Blanchford were having a late breakfast or early lunch at a table overlooking the rose garden. Mrs. Blanchford no longer seemed quite so frail today; her relief was evident in the erect set of her body, the color in her cheeks, the brightness of her eyes. She offered Sabina a thin but welcoming smile.
“I take it you’re here because Blackbeard delivered my message?”
“Yes, as soon as I arrived at the office.”
“I didn’t expect you to come in person, but I’m not displeased that you did. Isn’t the news splendid?”
Indeed it was, Sabina agreed, managing to keep tartness out of her voice. She declined a cup of tea, but accepted the widow’s invitation to occupy the heavy wrought-iron chair between her and her son. Bertram was smoking an expensive cigar—evidently Mrs. Blanchford’s prejudice against tobacco didn’t extend to the outdoors—and wearing an expression of smug solemnity.
“Paying the ransom demand was absolutely the right thing to do, Mrs. Carpenter,” he said. “When I opened the mausoleum this morning, there Father was—back safe and sound in his casket. Though how he was returned is as much a mystery as how he was taken. The door was locked as before and nothing was disturbed.”
“So I understand.” Sabina shifted her gaze to his mother. “I’d like another look at the crypt, if you don’t mind.”
“Why do you find it necessary?”
“I have my reasons.”
“Very well, then.”
“Will you accompany me, Mr. Blanchford?”
Bertram shrugged. “As you wish.”
Mrs. Blanchford took the large brass key from her dress pocket, handed it to him. As before he fetched a lantern from inside the house, then he and Sabina set off to where the mausoleum squatted, cool and dark, at the foot of the garden. When the heavy bronze door was unlocked, the young man stepped back and to one side.
“I’ll wait here while you have your look inside.”
“I have no need for a look inside.”
“But you said—”
“A ruse to bring you down here alone.” Sabina fixed him with a narrowed and knowing eye. “Now, then. Where is the ransom money?”
“What?”
“Have you shared it with your confederate and debtors yet? Or is it all still in your possession?”
“I … I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, yes you do. You no more delivered the seventy-five thousand dollars to Golden Gate Park than I flew upside down in the last windstorm. The plain truth is, you’re the one who planned this body-snatching business. And wrote and ‘delivered’ the ransom demands.”
Bertram blinked, sputtered, then made an effort to draw himself up indignantly. “That’s a slanderous accusation. How dare you!”
“A copycat crime if ever there was one. Inspired by the newspaper accounts of the Chinese tong leader’s stolen remains that appeared just after your father’s death. There’s no use denying it.”
“I do deny it. You know full well that I had no access to the key, no way of getting inside the crypt—”
“Nonsense,” Sabina said. “All that mystification was designed to cloud the truth, keep your mother from becoming suspicious, and focus attention on a nonexistent gang of body snatchers. There is no mystery about the alleged disappearance of your father’s body or its delivery last night.”
Bertram wagged his head, but not in denial. His eyes had already taken on the shine of a trapped animal’s.
“We both know the body was never in the mausoleum,” Sabina said. “It was removed from the casket at the Evergreen Chapel, after the service and before the procession here. The casket is heavy and your father was a slight man—you counted on none of the pallbearers noticing the disparity in weight and none did. Joshua Trilby did the removal work, under the guise of a faked delay with the hearse. He also cut the piece from the satin lining and removed the ring, which he then turned over to you, and stored the body at the mortuary until last night.
“Its reappearance was even more simply managed. The
mausoleum key was still in your mother’s possession, though not as well cared for because of the circumstances. I expect you managed to appropriate it while she was asleep. You came down here to meet Trilby at a prearranged time, opened the crypt, helped him with the transfer, locked the door again afterward, and put the key back where you got it. Then, this morning, you pretended to discover your father’s shell.”
“How … how could you know…”
“I began to suspect the truth when I examined the empty casket,” Sabina said. “If a gang of genuine body snatchers had been at work, all the heavy silver handles and other valuable silver trim would have been stolen as well. The casket’s pillow bed was just as telltale. If a body had lain there for even a short length of time, the satin would have retained some impression of it. But there was none; it was completely smooth.”
Bertram said desperately, “If Trilby is guilty, he acted alone. I’m a wealthy man, I have no need for a large sum of cash.…”
“You’re not a wealthy man. The estate your father left is not nearly as large as has been generally assumed, and as you no doubt knew; the Blanchford Investment Foundation drained away much of your father’s wealth, and ill-advised stock-market purchases depleted it further.” This information had come from the financial wizard Matthew Wainwright. What she went on to say was courtesy of Slewfoot. “Your own funds you depleted with large bets on slow horses and your impulsive investment in the Ingleside racetrack. You’re presently in debt to Billy the Bookie and other sure-thing operators, and you have no means of borrowing enough to pay the markers. Your mother controls the family purse strings and she doesn’t approve of your passion for horse racing and your penchant for consorting with touts and bookmakers. Don’t bother to deny any of that, either. I know it all for a fact.”
Bertram’s mouth hinged open, clamped shut again. His face had paled to the color of tallow.
“Trilby also has financial troubles, partly the result of mismanagement of his mortuary and partly horse-race gambling losses. Birds of a feather. You met him at one of the county fair races—you were seen together at the Alameda and other tracks on several occasions, thick as the thieves you are. You had no trouble talking him into becoming your accomplice in the scheme to dupe your mother, I’m sure.”
The Body Snatchers Affair Page 15
