The Bags of Tricks Affair

9 Quincannon

His wait was not a long one. At 3:41 by an ornate lobby clock, a portly middle-aged gent with long bushy side whiskers like miniature tumbleweeds strolled in from the circular Grand Court where carriages and hansoms delivered and picked up guests, and approached the desk. Aram Kasabian? Yes. A bellboy crossed to where Quincannon sat and confirmed it.

The banker, to Quincannon’s practiced eye, appeared to be the prosperous sort. Well and conservatively dressed in a black cheviot suit, starched shirt, and starched collar, his ruddy skin testimony to a liking for rich food and strong spirits. And he was plainly relieved that Quincannon had seen fit to meet him. He said as they shook hands, “I appreciate this, sir, more than I can say. I was afraid when I didn’t receive an answer to my wire that I would have to seek out another private investigator.”

“My partner and I were out of town on an investigation. We returned only last evening.”

“Oh, I see. Yes. Well, I’m certainly glad you did.”

Don’t be, Quincannon thought, until I decide whether or not your case is worth taking.

He suggested either a corner of the lobby or Kasabian’s room for their consultation, but the banker had another suggestion. “I believe I would prefer one of the bar lounges,” he said. “After the long train ride, I’m in need of, ah, a small libation while we talk.”

They found their way to the nearest of the lounges, settled themselves at a corner table removed from the handful of other patrons. Kasabian’s idea of “a small libation” was a double whiskey and soda. Quincannon ordered a glass of plain soda water.

“A temperance man, are you?” Kasabian asked.

“Not at all. I choose not to imbibe for personal reasons.”

“Ah, I see. Commendable.” His tone of voice indicated that he thought otherwise.

“Is it only the problem mentioned in your wire that has brought you to San Francisco, Mr. Kasabian?”

“Primarily, yes, though I do have other business interests here.”

“How long will you be staying?”

“Until Friday. Is that long enough for you to conduct a swift but thorough investigation?”

“That depends on the nature of the suspected pluviculture fraud.”

“Yes, of course. I—”

The banker broke off as the uniformed waiter arrived with their drinks. He took a long, deep draught of his whiskey and soda, smacked his lips delicately. Without setting the glass down he reached into the breast pocket of his coat with his free hand and produced a worn leather billfold. From that he extracted an engraved business card, slid it across the table.

“Is the name familiar to you, Mr. Quincannon?”

“No.”

“Do you believe rain can be induced by man and machine?”

“It would have to be proven to my satisfaction, and it never has been.”

“Nor to mine. Or to O. H. Goodland’s. But the other members of the Delford Coaltion feel differently—”

Quincannon cut him off with a raised hand. “Not so fast, sir. Who is O. H. Goodland?”

“Yes, I’m getting ahead of myself.” The banker took another pull at his drink. “O.H. owns one of the larger wheat farms in our area. He... well, he can be rather prickly when he gets his back up. He was against the hiring of this man Daks from the beginning, and has locked horns with him on more than one occasion and for more than one reason.”

“And the coalition you mentioned?”

“Other prominent farmers and local businessmen. A dozen, all told. Mr. Goodland and I were outvoted ten to two on the hiring of a ‘peerless drought breaker.’”

“How long has Daks been in Delford?”

“A little more than a week.”

“Without producing rain.”

“Not a drop, not even so much as a cloud. All he has done is assault the heavens and the ears with his infernal device.”

“What sort of device?”

“He calls it his ‘miracle cloud-cracking machine.’ Balderdash.”

“How does it operate?”

Kasabian finished his drink and signaled to the waiter for another. Then he explained. Leonide Daks had installed his “infernal machine” in an old watchman’s shack at the edge of the Delford railroad yards. Inside, hidden from curious eyes, were what the banker referred to as “a weirdly distorted steam boiler,” a variety of chemicals in jars, coils of copper tubing, a galvanic battery, and two large crocks. The combination of items poured streams of yellowish gas into the sky through a tall stovepipe.

But that was but one part of the alleged cloud-cracking machine. Alongside the shack Daks and his assistant, a man named Ben Conley, had constructed a platform that supported another odd contraption, a sort of small, strange-looking cannon. This was used to fire rockets said to contain the “secret chemical gas” manufactured inside the shack. Daks and Conley had touched off their makeshift cannon several times and planned to continue doing so until the coming weekend.

“He promises at least one-half inch of rain by Saturday evening,” Kasabian said, “else he’ll admit defeat and return the money the coalition has already paid him.”

Quincannon asked how much that was.

“Two thousand dollars. Half the total fee, with the other half to be paid if and when rain is produced.”

“And you suspect that unless a natural storm appears, Daks intends to vanish with the money by Friday night.”

“Yes. That is what O. H. Goodland and I believe.”

“You may well be correct. There have been a number of such frauds perpetrated since the debunking of the practices of Frank Melbourne in 1891.”

“Who was he?”

“A confidence man of considerable audacity. He billed himself as the Australian Rain Wizard and bilked thousands of dollars from citizens in Ohio and Wyoming by allegedly ‘squeezing rain from cloudless skies as one would squeeze water from a sponge.’”

Quincannon went on to explain that Melbourne had so thrived at first that other opportunists began claiming to have fantastic chemical or electrical machines and formulas of their own devising. Some, such as Clayton B. Jewell and the Kansas-based Inter State Artificial Rain Company, were quasi-legitimate exploiters who utilized Melbourne’s trick of consulting long-range almanac forecasts and then gambling on natural storms to follow their cloud-milking folderol. These men operated on a “no rain, no pay” basis. The out-and-out fleecers worked only in communities where drought-weary citizens could be inveigled to pay half their exorbitant fees up front. If no natural storms arrived, allowing them to collect the balance, they were content to disappear with the half already collected.

Kasabian said, “And Leonide Daks is surely another cut from the same cloth. I wish the coalition had known about Melbourne and the rest before they hired him.”

“Ignorance and desperation often lead to unwise decisions,” Quincannon observed sagely. “How are the other members taking Daks’ failure to manufacture rain?”

“There has been some grumbling, but he’s a slick-tongued devil. Rainmaking is an inexact art, he says, and it sometimes takes more than a week to produce results. Most of the members and other citizens still have faith in him.”

“How exactly did Daks become known to the coalition? By advertisement, or did he simply show up in Delford one day?”

“Advertisement. In the Sacramento Union. James Parnell, our mayor, replied and issued an invitation. Daks arrived in a large wagon with his wife, his assistant, and his paraphernalia. Naturally he had all sorts of testimonials to his rainmaking prowess — all of them fake, no doubt. But Mayor Parnell and the others were impressed.”

“Where were these testimonials from? What part of the country?”

“Arkansas, Oklahoma, Texas. He had only just moved his operation into the western states and territories, he claimed.”

Quincannon considered. Anyone could place a newspaper advertisement; confidence tricksters often did so, in the hope of hooking gullible fish. In Leonide Daks’ case, apparently, an entire school of gullible fish. Rainmaking was an elaborate confidence game, requiring such paraphernalia as Kasabian had described, but most of the items — with the possible exception of the cannon — could be had cheaply, abandoned once the marks had been sufficiently milked, and later replaced. Escape from Delford in the middle of the night would not be all that difficult, nor would vanishing to some prearranged hideout before the law could catch them.

He said as much to the banker, who nodded his head between nibbles at his second whiskey and soda. “Can you prevent that from happening, Mr. Quincannon?”

“I can certainly try.”

“Then you’ll undertake an immediate investigation?”

“If you’re in agreement with our standard fee.” He named the figure. “Plus any necessary expenses, of course.”

Kasabian didn’t turn a hair. “Agreed. Mr. Goodland and I will pay it, and gladly, out of our own pockets if our suspicions prove correct.”

“Half the fee in advance is customary,” Quincannon said, stretching agency policy only slightly.

“A personal check is acceptable, I trust?” At Quincannon’s nod, the banker produced a checkbook and proceeded to write.

When Quincannon had the check tucked into his own coat pocket, he said, “Now then. I’ll need as much additional information as you’re able to provide. A description of Leonide Daks, to begin with.”

“Quite tall, thin, with a full beard and a silver-black mane.”

“Age?”

“Forty, perhaps a bit younger.”

“He has a wife, you said.”

“Gloria by name. Fair-haired and quite attractive. In her mid-twenties, I should say. Quite, ah, buxom.”

“And the assistant, Conley?”

“A dandy. Several inches shorter than Daks. Sports a thin handlebar mustache and wears his hair slicked down and curled forward above his ears.”

Quincannon recorded all of the pertinent information in the little notebook he carried. “One more thing. You stated earlier that O. H. Goodland has locked horns with Daks for more than one reason, his inability to produce rain being one.”

“Yes. Mr. Goodland called him a charlatan and worse to his face.”

“And the other reason?”

“Mr. Goodland’s daughter, Molly. She is young, impressionable. And, well, somewhat smitten with Daks.”

“And he with her?”

“Not in the same manner,” Kasabian said pointedly.

“As a potential conquest, despite the presence of his wife?”

“Mr. Goodland thinks so. Hence heated warnings to both his daughter and Daks. A potentially volatile situation.”

“So it would appear. I take it Mr. Goodland knows you’ve come to the city to hire a detective?”

“He does, and I have his full backing. How will you conduct your investigation, Mr. Quincannon?”

“A detective never reveals his methods, sir. You’ll have to trust me to do whatever is necessary on your behalf. Satisfactory?”

“Satisfactory. But you will want to travel to Delford—”

“Eventually, perhaps. I’ll notify you if so. And of any developments immediately.”

He got to his feet; Kasabian rose long enough to shake hands, then sat down again. Quincannon left him peering into his now empty glass as if contemplating the advisability of having it replenished a third time before proceeding to his room.

Quincannon went straight from the Palace to the Miner’s Bank on Montgomery Street, where he deposited Aram Kasabian’s check. First things first. Then he hied himself once again to the Western Union office a few blocks away.

The first step in a case such as this was the same as that regarding Jeffrey Gaunt, though by different means — to determine just who Leonide Daks (if that was his real name, which likely it wasn’t) and his two accomplices were, what sort of criminal records they might have, and whether or not there were any outstanding warrants against them. He composed a semi-coded message containing his requests and the relevant information his client had provided and asking for an ASAP response collect. He had six of them sent, one each to the Pinkerton Agency’s branch offices in Chicago, St. Louis, Kansas City, Denver, and Washington, D.C., the last to a private agency in Cincinnati with which Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, had done business in the past. Given the length of the wires, the charges were substantial. Not that this mattered, of course. He made a note of the total amount, to be added, along with the collect reply fees, to the Kasabian expense account.

Sabina was just finishing up the last of the paperwork when he returned to the agency. Had there been any further word from William Price regarding Jeffrey Gaunt? he asked her. Or from Slewfoot or Ezra Bluefield? No, nothing as yet. She told him not to be impatient, it was too soon to expect results, and of course she was right.

He filled her in on his meeting with the Delford banker and the probable rainmaking fraud. “It’s just the sort of investigation you thrive on,” she said when he finished. “A trip to Delford certainly seems indicated.”

“Perhaps. It depends on the answers to the wires I sent.”

He asked her if she would mind transcribing his notes into a case file. She told him a bit snippily to do it himself, it was his case. This was the answer he’d expected, and the proper one, but his dislike of paperwork had led him to ask. Every now and then, if she were in the right mood, she would accommodate him.

When he finished preparing the file, it was nearly five o’clock. He set down his pen, tapped dottle from his pipe into the desk ashtray. “Will you have dinner with me tonight, my dear?” he asked. “I thought perhaps the Old Poodle Dog—”

“No, not tonight. I have things to attend to.”

“What things?”

“Errands. Personal matters. Don’t be so inquisitive.”

“At least let me see you home—”

“For heaven’s sake, John, you’re as transparent as glass. How many times do I have to tell you I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself?”

It was on the tip of his tongue to say he couldn’t help worrying about her, he wanted her to be safe, he... well, dammit, he cared for her. But he couldn’t get the words out, and it was just as well he couldn’t. It would have embarrassed him, because he knew he was being overprotective and because he was not ready to declare himself. Soon, mayhap, but not yet. Not yet.