The Flimflam Affair

23 Sabina

The morning having been quiet and uneventful, Sabina took a longer than usual noontime break. On Geary Street just off Market was one of her favorite luncheon places, the Midtown Bakery, which specialized in custard-filled éclairs, scones with clotted cream, and other pastries of the sort favored by Cousin Callie. Unlike Callie, whose sweet tooth had broadened her hips and waistline, Sabina had been blessed with the ability to eat anything she chose, in any quantity, without gaining an ounce; her weight was the same as it had been as a young girl, her figure just as svelte.

The bakery’s more sugary confections held no appeal for her today, however. She lunched on two extra-large buttered muffins, one banana and one blueberry, a glass of milk, and a cup of tea. And bought a chocolate chip cookie to take back to the agency for a mid-afternoon snack.

The afternoon mail had arrived in her absence, and along with it, a messenger-delivered Western Union telegram. At her desk she glanced through the mail, none of which was important enough to be opened immediately, and then turned her attention to the wire. Intuition told her that it was from the Seattle Pinkerton office. If so, John should be the one to read it first. But she couldn’t know who it was from without opening it, and she, after all, had been the one to send the original request. She picked up her letter opener, slit the envelope, and removed the wire.

Yes, it was from the Pinks office in Seattle. A rather lengthy synopsis of their findings, semicoded as usual in sensitive cases and ending with the phrase “full report to follow by mail.” And an enlightening conspectus it was.

The shipping firm whose name and address were on the trunk label had been hired by a law firm in charge of the estate of Maureen Cooley, deceased sister of Esther Jones. Mrs. Cooley had been a childless widow of little means. Her husband, Thomas Cooley, a printer and engraver by trade, had served four years in the Washington State penitentiary on a forgery charge. And his involvement in the counterfeiting of United States currency had led to his death, as John had told her, during the April 1887 warehouse raid.

The answer to what Dinger Jones had found in the trunk seemed clear to Sabina now. The plates made by Thomas Cooley had not been destroyed in the fire; John was wrong about that. For some reason, Cooley must have liberated the plates shortly before the incursion. There were at least two possible explanations: Darrow had gotten wind that government agents were close on his trail and made plans to move his counterfeiting operation elsewhere; or Cooley had had a falling-out with Darrow, and decided to skip out with the plates and establish a new coney game of his own. That part of the truth might never be known.

In any event, Cooley must have taken the plates home and hidden them in the trunk containing his wife’s family possessions. He hadn’t informed her of the fact, and when both he and Darrow were killed — there seemed little doubt now that Long Nick had failed to survive his plunge into the harbor — the plates had languished undiscovered for a decade. And representatives of the law firm had not seen fit to take inventory of the trunk’s contents before arranging for shipment to Esther Jones.

What had her son done after finding them? Taken the plates to Paddy Lasher, who had in turn passed them on to a local printer/engraver who then used them as prototypes for the new, photoengraved plates? Or had Dinger himself known of such an individual? In any event, it seemed probable that that unknown, whoever he might be, was “boss” of the present operation.

The proper procedure, even more so now with this information, was to turn the investigation over to Mr. Boggs and his operatives; it was their job to round up Lasher and Jones, identify the ringleader and the place where the bogus notes were being manufactured. But would John agree, or stubbornly insist on continuing to pursue his own course of action? Briefly, very briefly, Sabina considered contacting Mr. Boggs herself. But that would be a breach of their partnership trust and John might never forgive her. No, she would have to rely on her powers of persuasion, if not his good judgment.

And where was John? He had not presented himself at the office this morning, as he had told her last night he intended to do, nor did it seem that he’d put in an appearance during her noon-hour absence. Off somewhere chasing a lead that had come his way or on one of his hunches. He could be irresponsibly secretive when he was on the scent. And too often inclined to rush in where fools feared to tread...

Oh, stop acting like a mother hen, she told herself. What happened to Stephen is not going to happen to John. He has survived twentysome years of adventures far more dangerous than the present undertaking, and he’ll go right on surviving. Why must you worry so about him? You didn’t for most of the previous six years of the relationship.

I didn’t love him then. Now I do.

The self-admission was not a little jarring. She had carefully avoided the word “love” in her thoughts about John; never quite been willing to admit that her feelings for him had deepened to an emotional level akin to that she’d had for Stephen. Stephen was the only man to whom she’d said, “I love you,” out loud or to herself. But now...

There was no denying it any longer. She was in love with John Frederick Quincannon, despite or perhaps in part because of his shortcomings and his less than endearing traits.