The Bags of Tricks Affair

4 Sabina

In the morning she spent the better part of half an hour once again turning herself into the Saint Louis Rose.

First she pinned up her hair, then carefully applied pancake makeup and rouge — just enough of both to enhance the somewhat bawdy appearance of a lady gambler without crossing the line into that of a strumpet. The false eyelashes were appropriate enough at night, but in the daylight they would be grotesque; she left them off. Although her svelte figure had no real need of a corset, she wriggled her way into the one she’d brought and tightened the straps. In deference to the summer heat, she donned the lightest of her three Rose costumes, a yellow silk dress with a bosom cut somewhat less boldly low than her evening attire. She had a little trouble with the red wig. Dratted thing wouldn’t fit as it should, requiring a number of repinnings.

She smiled with wry satisfaction at the image of herself, or rather of the Saint Louis Rose, in the gold-framed wall mirror. She really did enjoy this sort of playacting, but only on a limited basis. How professional actresses could endure all the time and effort necessary to prepare for regular performances was beyond her.

It was a quarter of nine when Sabina shouldered the folded, gaily colored parasol, the final fillip to her costume, and left the room, locking the door behind her. John had told her he would be taking the Nevada County Narrow Gauge train to Nevada City early this morning, so there was no need to stop at his room. They had arranged to meet at three P.M. on the City Hall green to discuss the day’s inquiries.

She descended the staircase to the lobby. The young desk clerk watched with avid eyes as she crossed to the dining room. She favored him with a smile and a broad, bold wink that caused him to blush noticeably and avert his gaze. Oh, what a wicked wench the Saint Louis Rose was! Nothing at all like the proper, well-bred Sabina Carpenter.

Among the several people having breakfast in the dining room were Lady One-Eye and Jeffrey Gaunt. It was no surprise to find them there; the Holbrooke’s dining facilities were open to the public and they reportedly served the best fare in Grass Valley. The poker sharp wore either the same long-sleeved black dress as the night before or its twin; her brother was also garbed in his usual black frock coat and striped gray trousers — an outfit that put Sabina in mind of a mortician. They were presently engaged in what, judging from their expressions, was a rather intense conversation. Sabina detoured to a stop alongside their table.

“Good morning, Mr. Gaunt. Hello, dearie.”

Gaunt nodded, Lady One-Eye fixed her with her Cyclopian stare. Neither of them spoke.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Yes, we do mind,” Lady-One Eye said in her icy drawl. “Find someone else to annoy.”

“You’ll find me more than annoying when we play poker again tonight, dearie, for I’ll be the one to do the trimming.”

“Like hell you will.”

Sabina laughed. “Such language from an alleged lady,” she said mockingly, and hip-swayed to an empty table not far away.

Gaunt and Lady One-Eye resumed their conversation, in voices too low for Sabina to hear. They seemed to be at odds about something, she tight-lipped with evident anger, he calm and stoic. The attention Jack O’Diamonds was paying to Lily Dumont, perhaps?

A waitress brought Sabina’s breakfast order: two eggs, a large slice of ham, bread and butter, coffee. An expense-account meal, not that paying for it herself would have deterred her. Thank goodness she was blessed with a metabolism to match her considerable appetite. Unlike most other women she knew past the age of thirty, she never gained weight no matter how much she ate or how rich the food.

She was mopping up the last of the egg yolk with a morsel of bread when Lady One-Eye abruptly shoved back her chair, levered herself upright, and limped out with the support of her gold-knobbed cane. Gaunt remained seated, watching his sister until she disappeared into the lobby. Then he removed a small, black ledger book from the inside pocket of his coat and began making pencil notations in it.

Sabina dabbed at her mouth with her cloth napkin, stood, adjusted her dress, and once again approached Gaunt’s table. Without being invited, she sat down in the chair Lady One-Eye had occupied. “Toting up your sister’s winnings from last night?” she asked.

He sat back, regarding her with his frosty blue eyes. “That is no concern of yours.”

“Yes it is, since a fair lot of that money was mine until the last hand. It will be mine again tonight, plus a good deal more.”

“So you stated earlier.” Gaunt closed the ledger book, returned it to his coat pocket. “I wouldn’t be so confident if I were you, Miss Rose.”

“Miss Rose. Hoo! I do like a courtly Southern gentleman.”

Gaunt said nothing. The deep, wide cleft in his chin was somewhat disconcerting when seen up close like this. On most men such a cleft would have been an attractive feature, but not on him. It gave his face a different kind of sinister cast from his sister’s, as if a hole had been bored below his mouth, or a bullet had once been lodged there and dug out to leave a crater.

“Are you and the Lady from New Orleans?” Sabina asked.

“Who told you that?”

“No one. Your accents suggest it. Not so?”

“Louisiana, yes. N’Orleans, no. Baton Rouge.”

“But your sister’s played her share of poker in the Vieux Carré, no doubt, same as I have. On the Mississippi River packets, too — I expect that’s where Jack O’Diamonds once did much of his gambling. Surprising our paths never crossed until now.”

“Yes, isn’t it.”

“But I’m known as the Saint Louis Rose for good reason. That city was my home base for some time before I came west. The Lady and Jack do much business in the Missouri Belle or any of the other Saint Louie parlors?”

“Some.”

“Must have been before my time,” Sabina said. “Where else has she plied her talents?”

“Various places.”

“Austin? San Antonio? Tombstone?”

“Various places, as I said.”

“Where are you bound after Grass Valley? Another town in the Mother Lode? San Francisco?”

“That hasn’t been decided yet.”

“But you will be on your way soon?”

“You think so? Why?”

“The kettle’s getting a bit hot here, wouldn’t you say?”

“No, I wouldn’t. Why should you think that?”

“I have eyes, mister. Good, sharp eyes.”

Gaunt refused to take the bait. “You’re quite inquisitive, aren’t you, Miss Rose,” he said flatly.

“I like to know who I’m dealing with. Especially when I’ve been trimmed as neatly as I was last night.”

“That is the second time this morning you have used the word ‘trimmed.’ I don’t care for your inference.”

“What inference?”

“That my sister is anything but an extremely skilled poker player.”

“Well, now, the thought did cross my mind.”

Gaunt’s mustache twitched. “Lady One-Eye has no need of trickery,” he said. “She is in a class by herself.”

“Oh? Has she ever sat at table with Poker Alice?”

“Not yet. It will be a match for the ages when she does.”

“If she does. And if she’s as honest as you claim she is. Poker Alice would spot a mechanic straightaway, no matter how skilled her gaff.”

“So would you, I should think, if you possess the credentials you claim to have.”

“I’ve been fooled before by expert mechanics, but not for long. I intend to keep an extra sharp eye on the cards when the Lady and I play tonight.”

Gaunt’s piercing gaze remained fixed on her for several more seconds. Then, abruptly, without so much as a by-your-leave, he pushed to his feet and walked out.

There was no sign of Jack O’Diamonds, Lily Dumont, or Lady One-Eye when Sabina entered the Gold Nugget. One of the bartenders told her that Amos McFinn was in his office.

The little man was in his usual jittery state. “It’s about time you reported, Mrs. Carpenter. I—”

“The Saint Louis Rose,” she reminded him.

“Yes, yes, there’s no one else here. Well? What’s your opinion of Lady One-Eye’s game after losing to her last night? Is she honest or not?”

“I’d rather not say just yet. I’ll have to play her once more before I can be sure.”

“But you think she may be a clever sharp, is that it?”

“You’ll have my answer tonight, Mr. McFinn. Another hour at table with her ought to be sufficient, win or lose. For which I’ll need an additional stake.”

McFinn made a groaning sound. “How much this time?”

“Five hundred.”

“For a total of two thousand if you lose again and she’s honest.”

“And full restitution if she’s not.”

He went to a large Mosler safe behind his desk, removed five hundred dollars in greenbacks. “I’d rather forfeit the two thousand,” he muttered as he handed the money to Sabina. “My house percentage on her winnings already amounts to twice as much.”

Sabina tucked the bills into her bag without comment.

“Do you have anything else to report?” McFinn asked.

“Again, not yet. I had a conversation with Jeffrey Gaunt a few minutes ago, but it yielded nothing of import.”

“He didn’t say anything about that damned... the threatening letter?”

“No. The Saint Louis Rose has no way of knowing about it, and he wouldn’t bring it up to her in any case. Nor would he be drawn into a discussion of Jack O’Diamonds’ infatuation with Lily Dumont.”

“Quincannon mentioned his suspicion of an affair last night,” McFinn said. “I asked the girl about it this morning, straight-out.”

“She denied the involvement, of course.”

“In no uncertain terms.”

“And you believed her?”

“She... well, she seemed sincere.”

“Glen Bonnifield, Lady One-Eye, and her brother all seem to suspect infidelity. As do John and I. If we’re correct, it makes the situation even more volatile and potentially violent.”

McFinn groaned again. “As if I need anything more to worry about.”

He would have been all the more fretted if Sabina had told him about the shooting at Lily Dumont’s cottage. The decision she and John had made not to reveal it yet was the right one.

“You and your partner had better get to the bottom of things in a hurry. Where is he today, by the way? I haven’t seen him since he left at the end of his shift last night.”

“In Nevada City.”

“Doing what?”

“The same as I’ll be doing today and tonight,” Sabina said. “What you’re paying us to do — investigate.”

She spent the rest of the morning once again asking veiled questions of various habitués of the Gold Nugget and Grass Valley’s other gaming parlors, seeking information on locals whose anti-gambling sentiments were strong enough to have resulted in the threatening letter, and on the activities past and present of Lady One-Eye, Jack O’Diamonds, and Jeffrey Gaunt. One of those she wanted to speak to, but didn’t, was Lily Dumont; the faro dealer was nowhere to be found at her cottage, in the parlors, or anywhere else in town.

She learned nothing of significance.

After she had her midday meal at a fairly good restaurant, the humid summer heat drove her back to the relatively cool confines of the Holbrooke Hotel. As she entered the lobby, she thought — not for the first time — what a curious coincidence it was to have undertaken a case that brought her to Grass Valley and the Holbrooke. For they were where Carson Montgomery had worked as a young metallurgist in the rough-and-ready boom years of Nevada County gold mining.

It had been during that period that Carson committed the transgression that left him open to blackmail and threatened his successful career as a mining engineer — a dark secret uncovered by Sabina that had led to the end of their brief romance less than a year ago. She hadn’t seen him since. Although she was not sorry they’d parted company, she retained pleasant memories of the interlude and wished him well. And from what she’d read in the newspapers’ social columns, he had recovered from the incident quite nicely: he was now engaged to the daughter of a wealthy stockbroker.

The thought of Carson led naturally, as she ascended the staircase to the second floor, to Charles Percival Fairchild III. It had been Charles the Third who had learned of the blackmail attempt and alerted her to it. The daft but shrewdly clever fellow who fancied himself to be the great detective Sherlock Holmes, but who was in fact scion to a Chicago meatpacking fortune, had for nearly a year skulked among the denizens of San Francisco’s underworld and insinuated himself into several of her and John’s cases, often with startling results. He could be highly annoying, with his secretive ways and outlandish disguises, yet also quite charming and helpful. And the last time she’d seen him, at the close of the Plague of Thieves Affair in January, he had literally saved her life.

He had left the city shortly afterward, to avoid the police and legal ramifications, and hadn’t been heard from or about since. She wondered again what had become of him. Had he returned to England, where he’d lived in self-exile for several years? To Chicago, to claim his father’s inheritance despite the unshakable conviction that he was Sherlock Holmes, Esquire? To some other city, where he was now continuing to indulge his delusion? She would have liked to know; in spite of herself she almost missed having him around. Not so, John, however. Charles had been a thorn in his side too long, upstaging him on more than one occasion with some rather amazing detective work and earning his everlasting enmity...

In her room, she pulled the cord to the ceiling fan, then removed the itchy wig, slipped out of Rose’s dress, and lay down on the bed. Afternoon naps were a luxury she hardly ever had the time or inclination to indulge in in the city. Here, one was a necessity as well as a relief, given the likely stresses of the evening ahead.

Her internal clock woke her after forty-five minutes. Another fifteen were sufficient to refresh her guise as the Saint Louis Rose. The clock in the lobby read 2:50 when she left the hotel to keep her three o’clock appointment with John on the City Hall green.