Beyond the Grave

THREE

Quincannon wandered down State Street, marveling at the big electric arc lights set atop tall wooden poles every half block that produced a white glare so bright the thoroughfare was like a strip of noonday cut from the darkness. Santa Barbara, he reflected, was quite a progressive and attractive little community. Still, he preferred San Francisco. Not only did it contain much that satisfied his broad and sometimes eccentric tastes, it also contained Sabina.

Near Stearns Wharf he found a seafood restaurant that served plump raw oysters and a substantial crab bouillabaisse as palatable as any in San Francisco. It was while partaking of such meals as this that he most regretted being a drunkard. A bottle of chilled French chardonnay would have offered an excellent compliment to the bouillabaisse.

He smoked a post-prandial pipe and considered the rest of the evening. The sulfur spring on Burton Mound? He had taken the waters there on his last visit to Santa Barbara-he had needed a little relaxation after his harrowing experience in Spookville-and had found them invigorating. But it was a long way to Burton Mound, as he recalled, he was not sure the spring was open to visitors after dark, and the waters did smell unpleasantly of rotten eggs.

A show at Lobero's Opera House? A quiet evening in bed with William Wordsworth? No, neither of those seemed appropriate to his mood. Well then? What was appropriate to his mood?

He still had not decided when he left the restaurant. It was a fine night, cool without being chilly, the sky a silky purple-black brimming with stars and a pale white moon that reminded him of the flesh of a woman's thigh. He stood for a moment in wistful contemplation and then sighed and set out aimlessly along Rancheria Street to the north.

He walked for some time, enjoying the feel of the evening and the silvery shimmer of moonlight on the ocean. There were fewer buildings in this direction, and consequently fewer people; the solitude and the quiet were soothing. Ahead and some distance to his left, a narrow strip of beach gleamed an almost luminescent white beyond a fringe of palm trees. It was an attractive sight, and it drew him toward it. He stopped alongside one of the palms and began to pack fresh tobacco into his pipe, watching the waves break gently around the dark remains of a derelict fishing boat that lay humped and half-buried near the water's edge. The beach was deserted. It might have been a beach on some tropical island, one of those where the native women reportedly went about with bare breasts for all eyes to feast upon. He might be alone upon it, with no other human being within miles-except, of course, for a bare-breasted native girl awaiting his return to their palm-roofed hut….

So he was thinking, fancifully enough, when he became aware of the soft shuffle of movement through the sand behind him. He turned just in time to hear a familiar voice say, “Gawddam, if it ain't Mr. Boggs. How are ye this evening, Mr. Boggs?”

Quincannon smiled wryly and without mirth as Oliver Wither-spoon and another, smaller man came up to him. Witherspoon was dressed as he had been that afternoon, in teamsters' garb-and the smile he wore with it was no more humorous than Quincannon's, and no friendlier than a shark's. But it was the other man who was responsible for the tension Quincannon felt. In the moonlight he could see a thin, sharp face, like a fox terrier's, but the eyes were shadowed under a cloth cap that covered most of his head. The man stood with his legs slightly apart, one hand out of sight under his coat, Napoleon-fashion. There was no doubt in Quincannon's mind that the hand held a pistol or some other lethal weapon, and that as fast as he himself was on the draw of his Navy revolver, he was at a mortal disadvantage if violence was in the offing.

He said slowly, speaking to Witherspoon but keeping his eyes on the smaller man, “Fancy this. Gut for a stroll, are you, Ollie?”

“You might say that. We been followin' you, Boggs.”

“Is that so?”

“Ever since you left the Arlington Hotel.”

“How did you know I'm stopping at the Arlington?”

Witherspoon tapped the peanut atop his shoulders. “I got brains,” he said, lying shamelessly. “I noticed the brand on that horse you was riding this afternoon. Didn't take no time to track it down and find out who done the hiring.”

“Very shrewd, Ollie. But why track me down at all? What's the game?”

“That's what we want to know.”

“We, is it? And who would this gent be?”

“You don't know him?”

“No.”

“Well, this here's Jimmy Evans. And he don't know you, either.”

Quincannon feigned surprise. “Well, well. I heard you blew wise to better pickings down south, Jimmy.”

“I did, but now I'm back.” Evans owned a hard, clipped voice as deep as Witherspoon's was thin and reedy. “Ollie's right-I never heard of you. What're you after me for?”

“Luther Duff sent me to look you up.”

“The hell he did. I've done business with Luther a lot of years. Nobody works for him; he squeezes a nickel hard enough to make the eagle shit. He wouldn't hire his mother if he had one. And he'd sure never put her up at a fancy hotel like the Arlington.”

“The Arlington was my idea. I favor living high.”

“On whose jack? Not Luther's.”

“Mine.”

“Where'd you get it?”

“On the game with Luther. I met him in Frisco a couple of months ago-put him onto a couple of things. Told him I'd double his business inside a year, and he took a flier on me. I've done all right.”

“Maybe you have,” Evans said, “but not for Luther. He's a wise old bugger-too wise to send a sharpie like you out on a daffy hunt for gold statues. Who are you, Boggs? What's your real game? And damn your eyes, why're you after me?”

“I'm not after you, not anymore. I told Ollie-”

“I don't believe it, by God.” Evans jerked his hand from under his coat and showed his weapon-a small Colt automatic, by the moonlit looks of it. “I want the truth, Boggs, and I want it fast.”

“You've already had it, I tell you.”

“Shoot him in the leg, Jimmy,” Witherspoon said. “It hurts 'em in the leg real bad. Then they talk so's you won't shoot 'em in the other leg.”

“No,” Quincannon said, “don't shoot me! Don't shoot me!”

“Shut up, Boggs.”

Evans said, “Somebody might hear the shot.”

“Not out here. There's nobody around.”

“We're too close to the road.”

“Down the beach, then, by that old derelict.”

“No!” Quincannon yelled. “No, you can't-!”

Witherspoon cuffed him above the right ear-a casual blow that knocked his head against the palm bole and set up a ringing in both ears. “I told you once, Boggs. Shut up.”

“Down the beach it is,” Evans said. “Frisk him, Ollie. See if he's heeled.”

Witherspoon stepped around behind Quincannon, expertly frisked him, and removed the Remington Navy from its holster. “Nice rod,” he said admiringly. “How many muggs you shoot with this, Boggs?”

“None. I never shot nobody with it.”

“Well, maybe we'll shoot you with it.”

“No, no!”

“Shut up, I said.” He caught Quincannon's shoulder, spun him around, and gave him a shove. “Get movin'.”

Quincannon obeyed. He slogged through loose sand until he was fifty yards from the derelict; then the footing became somewhat firmer. The break and roll of the surf was no louder than a whisper, even this close to the water's edge. The night was still except for random sounds in the far distance.

When they got to within a few feet of the derelict, Evans told him to stop. The boat was a big trawler and had been there for some time; there were gaping holes in its hull and what was left of its superstructure, and sand was mounded all around it. The shadows it threw over the moonlit beach were long and deep; Quincannon moved another pace into them before he obeyed Evans's command. He turned to face the two men again.

“All right, you son of a bitch,” Evans said, “now you'll tell me your game or by Christ you'll walk with crutches the rest of your days.”

“No, please, don't shoot me!” Quincannon sank to his knees in the loose sand and ducked his head between hunched shoulders. “I'll talk, I'll talk, only please don't hurt me!”

Witherspoon made the rumbling and squeaking-mice sound that passed for laughter. “Didn't I tell you, Jimmy? Big as he is, he's a gawddam yellow-back-”

Quincannon reared up and threw a handful of sand into Witherspoon's face. At the same time he hurled another handful of sand into Evans's face. His aim was better with Witherspoon: the sand struck the peanut square on, stung the eyes, and sent him staggering backward, bellowing. Evans managed to avoid most of the handful that was flung his way; he twisted his body to one side, and the Colt automatic made a flat cracking sound. But Quincannon was moving by then, in a forward roll, and the bullet came nowhere close to him. An instant later, before Evans could set himself to fire again, Quincannon's shoulder connected with the little man's legs and pitched him sideways and down on his back. Quincannon rolled atop the thrashing figure, clamped hard fingers around the wrist that held the weapon. With his other hand he cracked Evans smartly on the point of the jaw. Evans said “Uh!” and assumed the flaccid aspect of a pile of seaweed.

Quincannon rolled off him and made an agile move to gain his feet just as Witherspoon, still bellowing, pawing at his eyes with one hand and brandishing a leather cosh with the other, charged him. He ducked away from the first wild swing, or would have if he'd had firmer footing. As it was one boot got mired and the cosh struck him a glancing blow on the left shoulder. The force of it was enough to knock him down, which gave Witherspoon sufficient time to kick him in the shin. This made Quincannon angry. He dodged another wild swing, successfully this time, and delivered a mighty blow to the side of Witherspoon's peanut. Witherspoon grunted and lunged again, unhurt. The head, clearly, was not the place to attack if you intended to stretch out the likes of Ollie Witherspoon.

Taking another offensive tack, Quincannon succeeded in knocking the cosh out of Witherspoon's hand on the next swing and then smote him in the stomach. The blow broke him at the middle but it, too, failed to stop him. He struck Quincannon in the chest, once more in the right side; the second punch might have caved in his rib cage if it had come straight on instead of at a glancing angle. This made Quincannon even more angry. To hell with the Marquess of Queensbury, he thought. He ducked another punch, feigned one of his own, and promptly kicked Witherspoon in the crotch with all the force he could muster.

Witherspoon lay down on the sand and commenced screaming. It was an unpleasant noise on such a peaceful night; Quincannon found his Navy revolver in the big man's pocket and used the butt of it on the Witherspoon peanut. Witherspoon stopped screaming immediately. And the night was quiet again except for the soothing whisper of the surf as it rolled in over the beach.

Quincannon limped to the derelict and sat down on a driftwood log that had washed up next to her. His shin hurt where Witherspoon had kicked him; his shoulder hurt and his ribs hurt and the knuckles on his right hand hurt. And as if that wasn't enough, there was a six-inch rend in the sleeve of his new Cheviot coat.

He sat there for five minutes, holding the Navy revolver and alternately looking at the ocean and the two inert forms on the sand a few feet away. Twice during that time he considered going over and presenting each of them with another bruise or two, but he did not give in to the impulses. He was a civilized man, after all, not a ruffian of their ilk. He had no taste for violence. He was a detective who preferred to use his wits, like that fictional fellow in London Conan Doyle wrote about. What was his name? Holmes? Yes, like Sherlock Holmes. Refined. Cerebral. Genteel at heart.

He wondered if he had ruptured Witherspoon. He hoped so. If not, and if Ollie ever came after him again, he would deliver a kick of such magnitude that it would explode the bastard's scrotum like a balloon.

He stood finally and went to where Evans lay and had a look at him. Then he had a look at Witherspoon. Neither man had moved; neither man was likely to move for some time yet. Moonshine showed him where Evans's Colt automatic and his own derby lay. He picked up the gun first, hurled it through one of the holes in the derelict's hull. Then he picked up the derby and clamped it on his head.

“Let that be a lesson to you,” he said to the two unconscious felons, and limped away toward Rancheria Street.

Now he knew how he would spend the rest of the evening. He would spend it in bed, nursing his wounds and sleeping. A pox on Charles Nordhoff. Santa Barbara was not good for everyone's health, especially not John Frederick Quincannon's.