The Bags of Tricks Affair

8 Quincannon

His first order of business the morning after their return to San Francisco was a visit to the Hall of Justice at Portsmouth Square and the office of the only man in the police department he trusted, William Price, head of the Chinatown “flying squad.” He had been instrumental the previous year in helping Price avert a deadly tong war and put an end to one element of police corruption, and the lieutenant had been grateful. When he explained what had taken place in Grass Valley, Price agreed to grant him the favor he asked: any information that could be obtained through official channels on the activities of Jeffrey Gaunt and Blanche Gaunt Diamond, aka Lady One-Eye, in California and other western states.

Quincannon’s next stop was the Western Union office on Market Street, where he composed and sent two wires. One was to Sheriff Hezekiah Thorpe in Grass Valley, apprising him of Gaunt’s threat, asking that he, Quincannon, be notified immediately if Gaunt were to suddenly leave Nevada County. The other wire, marked “Urgent reply requested,” was to the Pinkerton Detective Agency’s branch office in New Orleans. If Gaunt, Lady One-Eye, and/or Jack O’Diamonds had run afoul of the law in that part of the country, the Pinks would find it out and supply details.

Stop number three was the newsstand of the blind vendor known as Slewfoot, their most reliable informant and information peddler. And number four was Ezra Bluefield’s Redemption Saloon on Ellis Street in the Uptown Tenderloin. He had once saved Bluefield’s life when the old reprobate owned the Scarlet Lady, a Barbary Coast deadfall, and later helped him realize his desire to purchase the much more respectable Redemption. Quincannon had long since used up his quota of return favors, but this was a special case; he knew he wouldn’t be turned away with Sabina’s welfare at stake, and he wasn’t.

Slewfoot had contacts among the shady characters who operated on the edges of the city’s underworld, Bluefield many acquaintances still among the denizens of the Coast. If anyone in San Francisco knew anything about Jeffrey Gaunt and his sister, as problematical as that possibility was, one or both men would ferret it out. Leave no stone unturned.

It was past noon when he entered the offices of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services. Sabina, cool and radiant as always (except when she’d been guised as the Saint Louis Rose), looked up from behind a pile of paperwork on her desk and said, “Well, it’s about time, John. Where have you been?”

He told her. “The more we know about Gaunt, the better. He may even be wanted somewhere.”

“Possible, but unlikely. You don’t intend to keep focusing your energies on him, I trust.”

“That depends on what we find out about him.”

“If anything other than what little we already know. We’ve other business to attend to after a five-day absence. Elizabeth received three inquiries from prospective clients during that time.”

Elizabeth Petrie, a widowed former police matron and sometime operative when a woman’s services were required, had kept the agency open while they were away. She was more than competent. In fact, Sabina had suggested that, considering the amount of work that often kept them both away from the office, hiring Elizabeth as a full-time employee might be a sound idea. The widow, whose only other activity was quilting, and who thrived on detective work, might be amenable to the idea. Quincannon had no objection other than the cost of her salary, but he hadn’t voiced this to Sabina; she considered him tight-fisted and money-grubbing enough as it was. (Which was nonsense, of course; he was merely a thrifty Scot.) Besides, they could afford the expense, the more so now that he had badgered Amos McFinn into paying the balance of their fee before they departed Grass Valley.

“What sort of inquiries?” he asked as he shed his coat and derby. The office was warm, as opposed to the day outside, which was overcast and chilly — typical summer weather in San Francisco. The steam radiator made its usual hissing, clanking noises, tolerable enough because it was efficient, but nonetheless distracting at times.

“A routine insurance investigation,” Sabina said, “which went to another detective agency when we weren’t available. A woman seeking divorce evidence against her philandering husband — Elizabeth told her we don’t accept that sort of case. And a wire from a banker in Delford concerning a possible fraud in his community.”

“Delford?”

“A small farming town in the San Joaquin Valley.”

Quincannon said, “Doesn’t sound particularly lucrative, small towns and small-town bankers being what they are.”

“That’s not necessarily true. And the fraud problem does seem somewhat unusual.”

“Yes? What is it?”

“See for yourself. Here’s his wire.”

Quincannon took it to his desk to read. It was addressed to him, dated the previous day, and had been delivered in the late afternoon.

He laid the wire down, ran fingers through his trimmed whiskers. Sabina liked the beard this way. He wasn’t sure he did — he had kept it thick on purpose to project a fierce image to the malefactors he dealt with — but she had implied that it made him even more attractive to her. More than enough reason to keep it in its shortened state.

“Pluviculture,” he said. “A fancy word for rainmaking.”

“Yes. The San Joaquin Valley is suffering through a severe drought, and Delford’s well-being is dependent on sufficient water for wheat and other crops.”

“Which makes them a prime target for a rainmaking fraud.”

“If it is fraud. Not all pluviculturists are swindlers.”

“Most of them are. Disciples of Frank Melbourne, the so-called Australian Rain Wizard.”

“We’ve never handled that type of case before,” Sabina said. “Does the prospect appeal to you?”

Quincannon considered. The prospect did in fact hold some appeal. And the Palace Hotel was San Francisco’s most luxurious hostelry, which indicated that Aram Kasabian might be a more successful small-town banker than most. But on the other hand...

“It’s probably not for us,” he said.

“No? Why not?”

“It might require a visit to Delford, and we’ve only just returned from Grass Valley.”

“And it might not,” Sabina said reasonably. “Besides, back-to-back trips out of town have never bothered you before.”

“We’d have to close the agency again.”

“Not if you are the only one to go to the San Joaquin Valley.”

“And leave you here alone? No.”

“Oh, so it’s Jeffrey Gaunt you’re worried about. John, you can’t turn down an investigation because of some nebulous fear for my safety.”

“I don’t believe it’s a nebulous fear.”

“I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself and you know it. You act as though I’m a babe in the woods who needs to be watched over twenty-four hours a day.”

Quincannon was tempted to say that he would like nothing better than to watch over her twenty-four hours a day. That if he had his druthers she would spend her nights in his flat until the Gaunt concern was resolved. But even if he made such a suggestion, and included a promise that he would sleep on the sofa and make no attempt to seduce her, she would adamantly refuse. And her feathers would be even more ruffled.

He settled for saying, somewhat lamely, “I am only being cautious.”

“Overly and unduly cautious. Well, then? Does the Delford inquiry interest you?”

“It does,” he admitted, “provisionally.”

“Then talk to the banker and find out the details. He is already on his way here, so you’ll need to contact him at the Palace when he arrives.”

“All right. Where’s that batch of train schedules?”

“Where it always is, in the second drawer in the file cabinet.”

The daily Southern Pacific train from the San Joaquin Valley was due to arrive at the Third and Townsend depot at three o’clock. Given the fact that train timetables were as inaccurate as often as they were accurate — “flexible” was the word the railroad companies used — the actual arrival time might be anywhere from three to four or even later. Transport from the depot to the Palace would take ten to fifteen minutes by cab. No Palace guest, unless he was penurious in the extreme, would care to arrive at a luxury hotel by trolley car. If Aram Kasabian was one of that tightfisted breed, he was not a suitable client.

Several bills, invoices, and requests of one kind and another had piled up during their absence. Quincannon actively hated paperwork and avoided it whenever possible, but he failed to wiggle out of it today. Sabina insisted he help her whittle down the pile and he grumblingly gave in. Until the Seth Thomas on the wall read ten minutes till three, at which time he made haste to depart — just in case, he said to Sabina, the Southern Pacific train defied statistical precedence and arrived on or before schedule.

The Palace, at Third and Market, was a short walk from the agency. A massive, seven-story structure, it had been built in 1875, covered an entire block, and contained more than seven hundred rooms and suites, forty-five public and utility rooms, three inner courts, and an opulently furnished lobby. The time was 3:25 when Quincannon entered. Aram Kasabian had not yet checked in, one of the desk clerks told him. So the good old SP was indeed up to its usual flexible standards today.

He asked the clerk to notify him when the banker arrived, and to tell Mr. Kasabian that John Quincannon was waiting to see him. After which he went to sit in one of the more comfortable of the lobby chairs and tried not to brood about Jeffrey Gaunt while he waited.