The Flimflam Affair

26 Sabina

She was worried about John.

He hadn’t been the same in the two weeks since his single-handed cracking of the counterfeiting ring. There had been little of his usual ebullience at the successful culmination of an investigation, his explanations to her relatively brief and lacking in dramatics. He’d become quieter, more withdrawn in a brooding kind of way. Part of the reason, she supposed, was that Mr. Boggs, while grateful for the results, had expressed in no uncertain terms his disapproval of John’s “vigilante tactics” in obtaining them.

But she suspected that a larger part of the reason was John’s brush with death. She had been horrified when she saw the wound in his scalp, the missing earlobe; the knowledge that Paddy Lasher’s bullet had come within a fraction of ending his life was chilling. He had attempted to brush off the near miss, terming it another in a long line of occupational hazards. He had been wounded before in the heat of battle, he said, and survived with no lasting ill effects. Which was quite true, yet she sensed that this encounter had had a more profound effect on him than any other except the accidental shooting of the pregnant woman in Arizona.

He kept self-consciously fingering his damaged ear, as if he couldn’t quite believe the lobe, a small piece of himself, was gone and could never be replaced. The deformity, small though it was, embarrassed him, too; now that the bandage had been removed, he sought to cover the ear with an unbecoming beaver hat in place of his usual derby. A constant reminder of how near he had come to perishing.

For most of his adult life he had been courageous to a fault. This had led to his reckless behavior, for he had convinced himself that he was fated not to die in the line of duty as his father had — and as Stephen and so many others in their profession had. Now, it seemed, the once iron-willed belief had been shaken; that this narrow escape had finally made him realize he was not indestructible after all, forced him to confront his mortality. Whether the effect would be permanent or not remained to be seen. If the incident made him wiser, more cautious, and less cocky, then that was all to the good. What concerned her was that it might have an adverse effect, erode his skills and his self-confidence and render him less effective.

She attempted to draw him into talking about his feelings, but neither direct nor subtle overtures succeeded. The lack of success only made her more determined. If he remained uncommunicative and morose, she would take drastic measures. Just what those measures might be she wasn’t sure yet. Not quite sure, anyway.

But it might not come to that. The first indication that he might be ready to emerge from his shell came late Friday afternoon of the third week. Since returning from a routine insurance claim investigation, he had been sitting tilted back in his desk chair, smoking his pipe and lost in thought. When she brought him out of his reverie by informing him that it was nearly five o’clock, he tilted forward, touched his ear, and said without preamble, “Have dinner with me tomorrow evening, Sabina.”

It was the first social invitation he had tendered since his close call. “Oh,” she said lightly, “are you finally going to honor your promise?”

“Promise?”

“Of dinner in payment for my interviewing Dinger Jones’s mother. You do remember?”

“I remember.”

“The name of the restaurant I suggested, too?”

“Delmonico’s.”

“Yes. Delmonico’s.”

Sabina expected a whimper if not a bleat of protest, and was prepared to substitute a less expensive selection, but John didn’t bat an eye; she might have suggested a food cart at the nightly Market Street bazaar for all the reaction he exhibited. He merely nodded and said, “I’ll call for you at seven o’clock.”

Curious, Sabina thought. Normally his invitations were put forth with smiles, banter, terms of endearment. This one had been solemn and earnest, as if there were more to it than a desire to spend a pleasant evening out with her.

Delmonico’s was a purveyor of French cuisine, arguably the finest such fare in the city. Onion soup, sole meunière, coquilles Saint-Jacques, blanquette de veau, and for dessert, the house specialty of fried cream flambé. Sabina ate with her usual hearty appetite, but Quincannon picked at and barely tasted any of the dishes. It was an effort to maintain polite, much more so intimate, dinner table conversation. His mind wandered, his nerves felt so tightly strung he could almost hear them twanging. And he couldn’t seem to stop fingering his mutilated ear, which he was sure every other diner in these opulent surroundings had noticed when he removed his hat and was covertly studying.

The multicourse meal, one he would have enjoyed in different circumstances and in spite of the outrageous prices, seemed interminable. Sabina, always sharp-eyed and intuitive, noticed his discomfort, of course. Twice she asked if he was feeling well, and twice he assured her that he was in fine fettle — half-truths that sounded false even to him.

When she had finished the last of a large portion of the rich fried cream, she sighed contentedly, dabbed at her lips with her linen napkin, and said she believed she had just enough room for a cup of café au lait. The last of Quincannon’s patience evaporated at this. He leaned forward, reached out to touch her hand.

“My dear, we needn’t have it here.”

“No? Where, then?”

He drew a deep breath. “At my flat.”

“Ah. Your flat.”

“I have no designs on your virtue,” he said, and was unable to resist the urge to dandle his ear again. “There is something important I want to discuss with you.”

“Why can’t we discuss it here?”

“Best said in complete privacy. And the night is too cold for a buggy ride or a long walk. Will you come?”

He managed not to fidget while she studied him for what seemed like a long time. Finally, to his relief, she said, “Yes, I’ll come.”

A hansom delivered them, none too soon to suit Quincannon, to his rooms on Leavenworth. The one time Sabina had been there previously she had commented on his seductive — her word — taste in furnishings, especially the large gilt parlor mirror adorned with mostly nude naiads that he’d purchased on a whim. This time she said nothing, simply perched on the velveteen settee after allowing him to take her wrap.

“You needn’t bother with coffee, John.”

“Brandy instead? Sherry?” He kept bottles of both on hand for his lady visitors, when he’d had lady visitors other than Sabina.

“Nothing, thank you. Just tell me what’s on your mind. You’re as nervous as a cat tonight.”

He sat down beside her. His collar felt tight; he resisted the urge to loosen it, fingered his ear instead. His mouth was very dry. “I have been doing quite a lot of thinking,” he said. “You and I...”

“Yes?”

“You and I... well, we’ve been together, partners, for six years now—”

“Almost seven.”

“Yes, almost seven. And we have been keeping company outside the office for nearly a year now—”

“Eight months, to be exact.”

She was not making this any easier for him. He coughed to clear his throat, started over. “Life is short, and we’ve reached a point when... ah... when neither of us is getting any younger—”

“So good of you to remind me!”

“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” he said hastily. “I only meant...” What had he meant? His mind seemed to have gone temporarily blank. He shook his head. “Sabina...”

“Yes?”

“Sabina...”

“Yes, John?”

“Sabina...”

“For heaven’s sake, what is it?”

Now his collar felt very tight. “I’ve given this a great deal of thought and I... have something to ask you.”

“Go ahead, then.”

“Will you...” The words seemed to clog in the vicinity of his esophagus. Say it, you blasted dolt! Say it before you choke on it!

And say it he did, after another harrumph to clear his voice box. “My dear Sabina, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

She stared at him for several seconds and then burst out laughing.

He was taken aback. “You find the proposal amusing?” he said with wounded dignity.

“No, no. I’m sorry, my dear, I couldn’t help it. The expression on your face, like a little boy with a bad tummy ache... oh, my.”

“Faugh. Does that mean your answer is no?”

“On the contrary,” she said. “I accept your proposal, John Frederick. Of course I’ll make an honest man of you.”

She kissed him soundly, passionately. And then she stood, and to his utter astonishment, she took his hand and led him into his own bedroom.