The Bughouse Affair

10

QUINCANNON

He was late reaching the agency on Thursday morning, through no fault of his own. The cable car he regularly rode to Market Street from his apartment building on Leavenworth failed to come by-some sort of mechanical problem, probably, as all too often happened with the cable and trolley lines. The distance was too far to walk; he hired a cab instead, with every intention of adding the cost to the Great Western expense account.

Sabina was present when he arrived, but about to depart. She was in the process of putting on her long coat over her shirtwaist and bell-bottomed skirt-a slender vision in no need of the tight corsetting most women favored. He held his scrutiny to a minimum; the tight set of her mouth plainly indicated that she was in no mood today for bandinage.

He shifted his gaze to his desktop, which was conspicuously bare. “No word yet from Ezra Bluefield,” he said. Messages from the Scarlet Lady’s owner sometimes came at night or in the early morning hours, in the form of an envelope slipped under the door. “Dodger Brown’s hideout must be well concealed. Either that, or he’s riding the rods for parts unknown.”

“If he is still in the area,” Sabina said, “I hope it’s in the company of Clara Wilds.”

“The extortionist? Why mention her name?”

“She has another trade now. Picking pockets. She’s the dip who has been menacing customers at the Chutes and on the Cocktail Route.”

“Ah. You crossed paths with her again.”

“Last night at the bazaar opposite the Palace.” Sabina’s voice was bitter. “I caught her robbing another mark, but she got away from me again. She’s as slippery as an eel.”

“What happened?”

Sabina provided terse explanations, making no excuse for Clara Wilds having now twice eluded her. She was even more determined to locate and nab the woman, now that she knew Wilds’s modus operandi had rendered her a murderess as well as a thief.

“Did she recognize you?” Quincannon asked.

“She may have. I’m not certain. In any case, the close call may keep her from plying her new trade for a time.”

“Gone to ground with Dodger Brown, mayhap.”

“There’s no mention in her dossier that the pair ever cohabited, merely that they were known consorts.”

“Do you have her last known address?”

“A rooming house on the edge of the Barbary Coast. The information is some months old, but perhaps someone there has knowledge of her current whereabouts. That’s where I’m bound now.”

Quincannon said, “I’d go with you, but I should keep myself available for a message from Bluefield. And I have an appointment with R. W. Jackson at one o’clock.”

“I’m perfectly capable of pursuing Clara Wilds on my own.”

“Of course you are-”

“I’ll telephone or send word by messenger if I learn anything you should know.”

When Sabina had gone, Quincannon spied the Wilds dossier on her desk and sat down to read it over. The information on the woman was scant. Born on a farm in the San Joaquin Valley twenty-eight years ago; orphaned at age ten and sent to live with an aunt in Carson City, Nevada, from whom she picked up some of her wicked habits-extortion primary among them. Expert at collecting damning information on individuals in positions of trust or power and then using her knowledge to extract cash or favors from them. Arrested and tried for attempted fraud in Nevada, but acquitted for lack of evidence. Moved to San Francisco four years ago and arrested twice here on similar charges, the second time last year-Sabina’s initial encounter with her, the agency having been hired by the victim-but again escaped conviction as a result of police and judicial incompetence.

Since then, there was no record of any criminal activity. To the unschooled eye, Wilds might have been inactive during this period. At the extortion game, possibly, but not in her other criminal pursuit. She may have been picking pockets for years, and managed to avoid being caught, or she may have learned the game more recently and spent the past year or so perfecting it. Not surprising in either case; criminals of both sexes sometimes adopted new and more lucrative or less risky specialties.

If Wilds was still keeping company with Dodger Brown, Quincannon reflected, it would make his and Sabina’s tasks much easier. Snaffle one, snaffle both. The difficulty lay in finding one or the other.

* * *

His first order of business was to write the letter of reference he’d promised Ezra Bluefield. When he left to keep his one o’clock appointment with R. W. Jackson, he would give the letter to the messenger service in the building next door. It would cost extra to have it delivered to the Barbary Coast, but that was a small price to pay for Bluefield’s continued assistance.

Next he finished his report on the Jackson investigation, a chore he disliked even though it allowed him to do a certain amount of justifiable boasting; he was a man of action, not a sedentary wordsmith. The client, R. W. Jackson, was an investment broker who ought to have known better than to fall victim to a stock swindle, but instead had been gullible enough to lose five thousand dollars to a pair of confidence men known in the underworld as Lonesome Jack Vereen and the Nevada Kid. Quincannon had tracked down the thimbleriggers, who were in Redwood City running another of their con games, the gold-brick swindle, and not only pinched them but recovered the full amount of R. W. Jackson’s loss. The five thousand dollars was being held in escrow for him, payable once he had in turn paid the agency’s fee. Which he would do today upon receipt of the final report.

Still no word from Bluefield by the time Quincannon finished. He was about to put on his coat when the door opened to admit a frog-faced youth wearing a cap with a sewn decal proclaiming his employers to be Citywide Messenger Service. Quincannon’s first thought was that old Ezra had taken to employing a legitimate service rather than sending a Coast runner as was his usual custom, but no such luck. Nor was the message from his partner. “For Mr. John Quincannon, Esquire,” the youth said-a term neither Sabina nor the deadfall owner would ever have used.

He accepted the envelope, signed for it, and tore it open. The messenger, looking hopeful, remained standing in place. “Well?” Quincannon said to him. “You’ve done your duty, lad. Off with you!”

The command, accompanied by a scowl and a step forward, sent the youth into a hurried exit. If Sabina had been there, she would have insisted that he be tipped the customary nickel. But Sabina wasn’t there and Quincannon didn’t believe in tipping. As a matter of fact, he felt that he’d done the lad a good turn by not giving him a nickel; at his young age, he would only have spent it profligately.

The envelope contained a sheet of bond paper that bore the letterhead and signature of Andrew Costain, Attorney-at-Law. The curt message, written in a rather shaky hand, read:

I should like to discuss a business matter with you. If you will call on me at my offices at your earliest convenience, I am sure you will find it to your financial advantage.

A business matter, eh? It must have something to do with the burglaries; Costain had never before sought his professional assistance. The lawyer’s name was one of the three left on Dodger Brown’s target list, and the man had struck him as a Nervous Nelly.

Quincannon glanced again at the paper. The number of lawyers he liked and trusted could have danced together on the bowl of his pipe. The phrase “financial advantage,” however, was too powerful a lure to be ignored.

“At your service, Mr. Costain,” he said aloud. “For the right price.”