The Bags of Tricks Affair

24 Quincannon

The nearest physician he knew of was one he’d had dealings with before — Dr. Emil Jorgensen, whose home and practice were on Third Street. The doctor provided regular treatments for the chronic gout suffered by Mr. Boggs, head of the San Francisco branch of the Secret Service and Quincannon’s former boss, and Quincannon had once had occasion to call on him for treatment of a minor gunshot wound. Jorgensen was competent, trustworthy, and discreet.

On the interminable buggy ride, there was little conversation until after they had crossed out of the marshland. Sabina pressed close, her hands thrust into the pockets of the greatcoat; its woolen warmth and Quincannon’s body heat ended her shivering except for a few random tremors. He was chilled himself, dressed as he was now in only his suit, vest, and gloves, but his own discomfort was of no consequence to him. His concern was entirely for Sabina’s welfare. He urged her to close her eyes and try to sleep, but the lurching and rattling of the carriage rendered that impossible.

Once they were back on city streets, she roused somewhat and asked him again how he’d known where she was. He told her. Then he asked the question that was uppermost in his mind.

“Did Gaunt harm you in any way?”

“No. Not in the sense you mean. An arm around my neck and a cloth soaked in ether over my nose and mouth. He was gone when I woke up in that... place.”

“And he didn’t come back at any time?”

“No. Simply left me there without food or water.”

To die of starvation or, far worse, the merciless assault of hungry rats. Damn Gaunt’s black soul to hell!

“How did you manage to escape?”

“By luck and force of will.” She briefly summarized the method she’d used; it was plain that she had no desire to relive the experience in detail. “If I had had an inkling that you’d be able to find me, I wouldn’t have been quite so desperate to get out.”

“But you didn’t. You couldn’t have. You did what you had to do to save yourself.”

It must have been after six o’clock when they finally reached Dr. Jorgensen’s. Fortunately he kept late office hours and there were no patients present when Quincannon helped Sabina inside. The doctor’s wife also served as his nurse; she took immediate charge of Sabina, ushering her into the surgery to cleanse her and provide hot liquids and garments to cover her nakedness, while Quincannon tersely explained to Jorgensen what had happened, making no mention of Jeffrey Gaunt’s name or the circumstances that had led to Sabina’s weakened and wounded condition. No questions were forthcoming; the doctor’s only interest, as always, was in fulfilling his Hippocratic oath and otherwise minding his own business. When Sabina was ready to be examined and her injuries treated, he hurried out without a word.

Quincannon waited, pacing and fidgeting in the anteroom. Every time his thoughts touched on Jeffrey Gaunt, a wild fury took hold of him. But it was an impotent fury, here and now, and served no purpose except to raise his blood pressure to the danger level. The time for retribution would come. Not soon enough to suit him, but not far off, either.

Mrs. Jorgensen appeared with a steaming mug of coffee for him. She wouldn’t say anything about Sabina’s condition; that was the doctor’s purview when he finished his ministrations.

Half an hour crawled away. And another fifteen minutes before Jorgensen appeared. His thin, ascetic face was as expressionless as always, but there was reassurance in his voice when he spoke. “Mrs. Carpenter is as well as can be expected under the circumstances. Hypothermia, three days without water or nourishment, numerous lacerations and abrasions... most women would be prostrated by such an ordeal.”

“She will be all right?”

“Barring the onset of pneumonia, yes, and I could detect no pulmonary edema — fluid in the lungs. Complete bed rest is indicated. I recommend she remain here for two or three days, where my wife and I can keep a close eye on her. We have the facilities, as you know.”

“Whatever you say, Doctor. I’d like to see her before I leave.”

“I’ve given her a sleeping draught. But yes, briefly, if she is still awake.”

Sabina was in the Jorgensens’ two-bed ward at the rear of the house. Both her hands had been bandaged, iodoform dabbed on a facial cut, and her hair rubbed dry and covered with a woolen cap. She appeared small and pale and very young — an image that brought a lump to Quincannon’s throat.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “I know I look a fright, but I’m not at death’s door yet.”

He managed a small smile. “Of course you’re not. You’ll be fine after a few days’ rest.”

“John... what are you going to do about Gaunt?”

“Find him, as fast I can.”

“He’s not in the city. He had no reason to stay. I think he went back to Grass Valley to be near Lady One-Eye.”

“Yes. So do I.”

“So you intend to go up there after him. And then what?”

Quincannon said carefully, “That depends on him.”

“You mustn’t shoot him down in cold blood. I don’t want that kind of vengeance.” Her eyelids fluttered, closed, as the sleeping draught took effect. “Promise me, John.”

He didn’t have to promise her, for in the next few seconds, consciousness left her. Just as well, because the promise would have been one he was not at all sure he’d be able to keep.

Before leaving, Quincannon told Dr. Jorgensen that a pressing business matter would prevent him from returning for at least two days. There was no need to impart this information to Sabina when she awakened, he said; she would know where he’d gone and why. Payment for the physician’s services was not mentioned. Jorgensen’s fees were reasonable, and he knew that Quincannon, like Mr. Boggs, was scrupulous in honoring his debts.

He drove to the United Carriage Company’s stables on Eighth Street, where he relinquished the rented horse and buggy. Without objection, he paid an extra fee for what the dour hostler referred to, after a brief examination, as “undue wear and tear” on both animal and equipage. Then he hired a cab to take him to his flat.

Although he had no appetite, he hadn’t eaten a bite in twenty-four hours — a sandwich quickly consumed during his Sunday-night rounds. And Sabina’s weakened condition was a sharp reminder of the need for sustenance. He kept little enough in the way of provisions at the flat, taking most of his meals in restaurants and Hoolihan’s Saloon, but he found a wedge of cheese and half a loaf of stale bread and forced down another sandwich.

Rest was another necessary commodity, the more so for what lay ahead of him on the morrow. He packed a few things into his traveling valise, among them extra cartridges for his Navy Colt, then crawled into bed. As weary as he was, sleep came easily enough — but not before he set his reliable internal clock for five A.M.