The Flimflam Affair

24 Quincannon

72 Folsom 2 turned out to be a surprise.

An address, yes, but not a lodging house, hotel, or other type of residence as he’d expected.

A harness and saddlery shop, or rather what was left of one.

Part of one half of the old building had been charred by a fire that had spread to and damaged its roof, as well as the side wall of an ironworks firm next door. The fire hadn’t been recent; there was no odor of burned wood, and the plywood square nailed across what had presumably been a side window had a weather-warped appearance. A handmade sign on the locked front entrance read: CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. T. HOOPER, PROP.

A narrow areaway separated the harness shop from its fire-scorched neighbor, but it was impassably choked with blackened debris. There was no such passage on the opposite side, merely a tall board fence separating it from the business next door. The lot was deep — deep enough so that a second structure existed behind the shop? That might well be the meaning of the numeral 2 in the scrawled street address.

Quincannon half circled the block. A carriageway bisected it, giving access to the buildings that fronted on Folsom and Howard. The harness shop had been fifth from the corner; when he reached that point in the presently empty carriageway, he could see the backside of an outbuilding above another tall board fence.

The fence had no access door. He jumped to catch hold of its top, lifted himself up, held there long enough to determine that the outbuilding was squat and gray-shingled — a storage shed, likely — and that there was enough room to pass between its near wall and the boundary fence, and then swung over and down.

He made his way around to the front of the shed. Its wide single door was secured by a heavy brass padlock, the staples hooked through an iron hasp. He tested the padlock, squinting at the keyhole. Stout, fairly new, and of quality manufacture. He ought to be able to pick it, but doing so would take time. There might be an easier way of gaining entrance — a window in the side wall he had just passed by.

He went back to it. Locked, but neither shuttered nor barred. He cleared off a section of outside grime with his palm, laid an eye close to the glass. The inside of the pane was also dirty and flyspecked, but he could make out enough of the interior to identify the various shapes that crowded it.

Much of the contents appeared to be business storage: saddles and saddlemaker’s forms; various types of harness hung on wall hooks; a stack of leather skins; buckles, rings, and other hardware on a bench beneath the window. But there was also a cot covered by a heavy blanket, a table with a lantern on it, a small oil stove, what appeared to be an old steamer trunk. Crude living quarters. Dinger’s, no doubt. Not as a squatter, but with the permission of T. Hooper.

Was Hooper the ringleader? Unlikely, given his profession. Probably an old acquaintance of Dinger’s talked into providing temporary lodgings. Was Jones still occupying the premises, or had he made enough from passing queer to have moved to more agreeable accommodations? A good look around inside might provide the answer.

The window’s sash had been tightly latched into its frame, but not so tightly as to avoid a small amount of play when Quincannon pushed upward. He took out his pocket knife, opened and slid the largest blade into the crack at the bottom, and tried maneuvering it inside to get at the latch. But the opening was too narrow, the sash too well embedded. Blast! The only way he could enter through the window was to break the glass, and he was not about to do that. He would have to try picking the padlock—

Sounds, shuffling footsteps.

He was no longer alone on the property.

He stood motionless, ears straining. Whoever it was crossed the weedy patch of open space between the shop and the shed, the single set of steps neither slow nor rapid. The rattling and scraping sounds that followed could only be the opening of the padlock. Then came the creaking of wood as the door was opened, then closed again seconds later.

Quincannon crouched for another squint through the window glass. The man inside was an indistinct shape until a match flared and the table lantern bloomed with light. Medium height, red face, crooked nose that had once been broken and improperly set, and when he removed his hat and tossed it onto the cot, a head speckled-egg bald, a face as red as Mollie’s hair and a rooster’s comb.

Dinger Jones had returned to his lair.

Jones wore a plain sack coat, striped trousers, and scuffed half boots, all of which he immediately began to remove. Down to a pair of baggy long johns, he helped himself to a swig from a pint of whiskey perched on the table next to the lantern. Then he opened the steamer trunk, rummaged around inside, and produced what appeared to be the coat and trousers of his new S. Funderburke-tailored suit.

Quincannon ducked under the window, cat-footed around to the front with his coat swept back to reveal the Navy Colt holstered on his hip. He pulled the door open and stepped inside, saying, “Hello, Dinger.”

Jones, in the process of putting on the trousers, was standing on one leg like a skinny-shanked heron and so startled that he almost toppled over. He managed to remain upright by hopping on the one foot to maintain his balance. His mouth hung slackly open in a blend of surprise, bewilderment, and fear.

“Who the hell’re you?”

“Flynn’s my name.”

“Flynn. Flynn. Christ, you’re the bird come around the Red Rooster askin’ Mollie about me.”

“That’s right.”

“How’d you find me? Mollie don’t know about this place.”

“Paddy does.”

“Paddy? Paddy who?”

Quincannon moved forward a few paces, into the glow from the lantern so Jones would be sure to see the Navy. “Don’t be dense, Dinger. We both know who Paddy is.”

Dinger saw the pistol, all right. He pulled his gaze away from it, licked his lips before saying, “He don’t go around tellin’ birds where to find me. Why’d he tell you?”

“Why do you think?”

“I never seen you before, never heard of you. Paddy never said nothing about nobody named Flynn. What you want with me?”

“Not with you, with the man in charge.”

“Huh? Man in charge of what?”

“Taking the Treasury Department for a ride.”

“I dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”

“I told you not to be dense,” Quincannon said. “The blackleg who makes the queer you and Paddy have been passing.”

Dinger pulled on his other pant leg, began buttoning the trousers before speaking again. “Paddy never told you about that,” he said.

“Never mind how I found out. I want in on the game.”

“Yeah? Why you think you’d get let in?”

“I have a way of passing those counterfeit hundreds in large quantities. Large, quick profits instead of small, slow ones.”

“What way?”

“I’ll tell that to the man in charge,” Quincannon said. “Suppose you introduce me to him.”

“Hah. Go talk to Paddy, you think you know so damn much.”

“Paddy’s not available right now.”

Dinger was dim-witted, but not completely devoid of animal savvy. A light had begun to dawn in his small brain; Quincannon could tell by the tightening of jaw and narrowing of gaze.

“That’s right, he ain’t. Over in Oakland today. So how could he tell you where to find me?”

“I saw him before he left the city.”

“Like hell you did.” Dinger’s eyes widened with sudden understanding. “You ain’t one of us,” he said, “you’re a goddamn copper!”

Quincannon didn’t deny it. Sudden panic seized the scruff; he lunged forward, one shoulder lowered, in a misguided attempt to bowl Quincannon over and flee.

Nimbly, Quincannon sidestepped the blind rush, thrust out a leg that tripped Jones and sent him staggering sideways. Dinger lost his balance, fell atop the table; it collapsed under him in a splintering crash, dislodging the lighted lantern in the process. The glass shattered, spilling oil from the font, which the flaming wick immediately ignited.

Dinger was struggling to disengage himself from the table’s remains. Quincannon fetched him a skull clout with the drawn Navy, scotching the effort to rise; a second blow stunned him into immobility.

The burning lamp oil was just starting to spread across the warped floorboards. Quincannon pulled the blanket off the cot, used it to halt the spread of the flames and then to smother them. When he was certain the fire was completely extinguished, he tossed the blanket aside and returned to where Dinger lay twitching now and groaning.

He dragged the mug off the table wreckage, rolled him over onto his back, pulled his arms down at his sides. Then he straddled him at the waist, leaning forward so that his knees pinned the arms to the floor. Dinger’s eyelids fluttered, opened halfway with returning awareness. He started to struggle again, spewing fumes of cheap whiskey. Whereupon Quincannon employed a trick he had used before to good advantage. With his left hand he took a firm grip on one of Jones’s ears and then inserted the Navy’s muzzle into the opposite ear, being none too gentle about it.

Dinger squawked like a frightened parrot, his eyes bulging wide again. His struggles ceased when Quincannon applied wiggling pressure with the tip of the gun barrel.

“In my twenty years as a detective I’ve killed fourteen men,” he lied, “including two who withheld vital information from me. I won’t lose any sleep tonight if you’re number fifteen.”

A strangled noise came from Dinger’s throat. His eyes were so distended they might have been on stalks.

“Now then,” Quincannon said. “The name of the man running the coney operation.”

“Ung... ung...”

“No man in the world is named Ung. Long Nick Darrow, is it?”

“Who?”

“No, I thought not. His right name, Dinger. You have five seconds before I pull this trigger.”

It took only two for Jones to say, “Paddy.”

“Paddy? Paddy’s the boss?”

“Yeah.”

“Is that straight goods?”

“Straight, yeah, I swear.”

So then the little snitch Owney had either misheard the conversation in the noisy confines of the Red Rooster, or Lasher had been referring to himself when he said “the boss’ll cut your tongue out.” Quincannon had been on the trail of the ringleader all along.

“Then who is making the queer?” he demanded.

“Appleby.”

“And who is Appleby?”

“Half... half brother.”

“Paddy’s half brother?”

“Yeah. Otto Appleby.”

“Printer and engraver, is he?”

“Yeah.”

“Located where?”

“Ung...”

“Don’t start that again.” Quincannon screwed the Navy’s muzzle another quarter inch deeper, eliciting a bleat of protest. Dinger’s voice, when it came again, had an odd scratchy sound, as if his vocal chords had acquired a coat of rust.

“Jesus, my ear...”

“Where is Appleby’s press located?”

“His shop. Twenty-fourth and... Church.”

Noe Valley. A respectable, mostly residential neighborhood — the perfect blind for a small-scale coney operation. “And that is where the queer is being manufactured?”

“Yeah.”

“How? Using what method?”

“Plates. New ones made from old.”

“Old plates. Is that what you found in your mother’s trunk?”

“How did you—”

“Never mind that. Answer the question.”

“Yeah. In the trunk.”

So that was it, Quincannon thought. He’d been wrong after all about Long Nick Darrow’s counterfeit plates being destroyed in the warehouse fire. Somehow they’d survived and found their way into the possession of Dinger Jones’s aunt in Seattle, where they’d remained for a decade. Just how didn’t matter at the moment.

He said, “You found them, gave them to Lasher, and he worked out the counterfeiting scheme with his brother. Is that the way it was?”

“Paddy’s idea. Talked Appleby into it.”

“And Paddy’s in Oakland today, passing more queer.”

“Yeah.”

Something in Dinger’s swift response told Quincannon it wasn’t quite the truth. “Is he in Oakland?”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

“But not passing queer. Doing what over there?”

“I... I don’t...”

Quincannon rotated the Navy’s muzzle again. “Doing what?”

“Setting... setting up a deal.”

“What kind of deal? And don’t tell me you don’t know.”

“With a bird from KC for a bundle.”

“A bundle of counterfeit hundreds?”

“Yeah.”

No doubt part of a plan to expand distribution of the queer to other cities.

“The bird’s name?”

“I don’t know.”

“Five seconds, Dinger. One, two, three—”

“I swear I don’t! Paddy wouldn’t say his name.”

“All right. Everything you’ve told me had better be the truth.”

Jones swore again that it was. The fear in his eyes and the sweat on his brow confirmed it.

Quincannon removed the Navy, lifted himself onto his feet. He ordered Dinger to roll over onto his belly and clasp his hands behind him. When the scruff obeyed, Quincannon went to where various pieces of finished harness and strips of leather hung on the back wall. He took several of the strips back to where his prisoner lay, straddled him again. Dinger hadn’t moved, nor did he now; he was as tame as a frightened puppy. Holstering the Navy, Quincannon tied the mug’s hands and then his ankles, securing another strip of leather between the two restraints that drew the legs up into a position rendering him even more immobile.

“Don’t bother trying to get loose,” he said. “The more you wiggle, the tighter the bonds become.”

“You... you just gonna leave me here like this?”

“For the time being.”

“Listen, Flynn—”

“Quincannon’s the name.”

“None of this was my idea, see? All I done was pass a few bills. The game’s Paddy’s, him and Appleby. They’re the birds you want.”

“And they’re two more I’ll get. Birds of a feather.”

“Huh?”

Quincannon showed him a wolfish grin, picked up his derby from where it had fallen onto the floor, donned it, and took his leave. Outside, to make doubly sure the prisoner would stay put, he snapped the heavy padlock shut through its hasp. Then he hurried around to the rear fence, climbed over and down into the carriageway.

As hot on the trail as he was now, he was more determined than ever to see matters through to the finish on his own. A citizen’s arrest of Otto Appleby — and Paddy Lasher, should Lasher have returned from Oakland — and confiscation of the new counterfeit plates, and he would have ended the game as neatly as he had similar ones during his days with the Secret Service. Yaffling Lasher would make the coup perfect, but if such weren’t feasible, Mr. Boggs’s operatives could take him into custody easily enough.

He didn’t miss his time with the Service, but the thrill of the chase to thwart those who sought to defraud the government and the general populace with bogus currency remained strong in his memory. He was in for a tongue-lashing from his former chief, to be sure, but it would be tempered by the success of his actions. And worth it for that reason and his personal satisfaction. Further proof, as if any were needed, that he was the best detective west of the Mississippi, if not in the entire nation.

So thinking, he hurried to the Embarcadero where he hailed a cab to take him to Noe Valley.