The Flimflam Affair

6 Quincannon

Dr. Amos Goodfellow — his full name was lettered on a small sign tacked to his office door — had evidently not yet returned from his ministrations at the Rappahanock mine when Quincannon sought him out at nine o’clock Tuesday morning. The door was locked, and several knuckle raps produced no response.

The dry-goods store downstairs was open for business. He asked the middle-aged, sour-faced clerk if Doc Goodfellow had treated anyone for a severe gash or cut on the hand, wrist, or forearm in the past three days. The clerk either didn’t know or refused to say. His only comment was, “Doc treated plenty of cuts and gashes up at the Rappahanock yesterday, I’ll wager. Broken bones and worse, too.”

Quincannon saw no point in asking his question of any of the other citizens abroad this morning, cooperation being at a minimum in Tuttletown’s closed environment. The only person who could answer it was Amos Goodfellow... if he turned out not to be as closemouthed as the rest of the locals.

With another unsatisfactory café meal stirring gaseously in his innards, Quincannon rented a horse at the hostelry and rode out Icehouse Road to the field where the breached safe had been abandoned. No one had attempted to move the safe since yesterday, nor come to paw over it so far as he could tell. He examined the box once again, carefully, not expecting to find another useful clue. He didn’t, but his peering and probing at the damaged door and hinges did produce a glimmer of an idea as to how the alleged burglarproof safe had been opened.

The morning was warming, the road and meadow completely deserted; except for birdcalls and the distant pound of the stamps, silence prevailed. Quincannon settled himself under the oak tree, gave a satisfactory belch, filled and lighted his briar, and began toying with the idea. Possible, yes, he decided. But he needed more information before he could be even halfway sure.

He rode back to town and once again climbed the outside stairs to Amos Goodfellow’s second-floor office. This time he found the door unlocked; the doctor had returned. When he entered, a tall, saturnine man seated at a rolltop desk lifted his head from where it had been resting on folded arms and regarded Quincannon with bleary eyes. He bore a superficial resemblance to Honest Abe and was evidently proud of the fact; the beard he cultivated was decidedly Lincolnesque.

His “Yes?” was followed by a weary, jaw-cracking yawn. “Sorry. I’ve been up most of the night.”

“The Rappahanock mine cave-in.”

“That’s right. Two men dead, nine injured.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Dangerous profession, mining.” Goodfellow yawned again. “You look hale and hearty, whoever you are. What can I do for you?”

Quincannon identified himself. Goodfellow had heard of the theft of the safe and its discovery, naturally, but because of the mine cave-in he wasn’t aware of Quincannon’s mission in Tuttletown. He seemed less wary of outsiders than most of his fellow citizens, and willing to cooperate when the question of whether he had treated anyone for a severe gash or cut in the past three days was put to him.

“I have, yes,” he said. “Two men and a ten-year-old.”

“The men were locals, I take it?”

“Yes.”

“Who would they be?”

“A railroad section hand named... let’s see, Jacobsen, I think it was. Consequences of a fall. Gashed his arm and broke his wrist in two places. I had a difficult time setting the bones.”

“And the other man, Doctor?”

“One of the Schneider brothers — Bodo. Deep cut on the back of his left hand and wrist.”

“Miners? Railroad men?”

“No. The Schneiders own the icehouse.”

“Ah. Big fellows, are they? Brawny?”

“Yes, of course. Men who make their living cutting and hauling ice can hardly be puny.”

“Have they been in Tuttletown long?”

“Not long. They bought the business about three years ago.”

“Do you happen to know where they came from?”

“I’ve been told they owned a similar business down in Bishop,” Goodfellow said, “but I don’t know for certain. They’re a closemouthed pair.”

“Peaceable men, law-abiding?”

“Well, the younger, Jakob, has a reputation for rowdiness when he’s had too much to drink. But so do half the men who live and work in these parts.”

“Do the Schneiders live at or near their icehouse?”

“No. In a cabin on Table Mountain.” The doctor frowned. “Do you suspect them of stealing the safe from the express office?”

“At this point,” Quincannon said, “I suspect everyone and no one.” Which wasn’t quite the truth, but it permitted him to take his leave without further questions.

Having returned his rented horse to the hostler’s, he walked to the side street that led to Icehouse Road. A brisk five-minute stroll brought him to the icehouse. He had paid little enough attention to it the times he had passed by yesterday and only slightly more this morning; now he paused at the edge of the road for a closer study while he loaded the last of his tobacco into his briar.

The ivy-covered stone building sat creekside a short distance off the road, connected to it by a graveled lane. Set apart from it on the near side was a shedlike structure with a single facing window, likely the business office. There was no sign of activity there or at a wagon entrance barred by a set of wide double doors at the far end. A somewhat dilapidated wooden livery barn and a rough-fenced corral occupied a grassy section between the road and the creek. No conveyances or animals were visible from where Quincannon stood. Either one or both of the Schneider brothers were out delivering ice, or their wagon and dray horses were tucked up inside the barn.

When he’d seen enough, he walked at a leisurely pace back to Main Street and entered the stone-housed general store near the hotel, Swerer’s by name. As he paid for his purchases, the garrulous young fellow behind the counter took pride in informing him that the writer Bret Harte had once clerked there. Quincannon was more impressed by the outlandish prices charged for one small dark lantern, one tin of lamp oil, and a plug of shag-cut tobacco. Not that the outlay bothered him; these amounts, along with the price of the horse rental and other expenses, would be added to the bill he would present to the Sierra Railway Company for services rendered.

He took the lantern and lamp oil to the hotel and stored them in his room. Then he went to the railroad depot. C. W. Cromarty’s private car, he was pleased to see, still sat on the siding onto which it had been shunted the day before.

“Well, Mr. Quincannon?” Cromarty said. He was alone in the car, seated at a desk almost as cluttered with papers as the one in his Jimtown office. “Have you come to report progress in your investigation?”

“Not exactly, though progress has been made. Do you intend spending another night here in Tuttletown?”

“Not unless there is good cause.” He removed a lighted cheroot from one corner of his mouth, though not in time to prevent an inch of ash from spilling onto the front of his vest. “Is there?”

“There may well be. Unless you have pressing business in Jamestown, I suggest you lay over until tomorrow morning.”

“Why? Do you expect to have finished your investigation by then?”

“Perhaps, if all goes well.”

“Does that mean you know how the safe was breached?”

“Perhaps.”

“And who stole it? And where the gold is?”

“Perhaps.”

Cromarty aimed the cheroot at Quincannon as if it were a pistol. “Dammit, man, don’t be evasive. If you know the answers to this confounded mystery, let me hear them.”

“Not until I’m certain. You’re paying me for definite results, corroborated facts, not premature speculation.”

“You expect to have those results by morning?”

“I do. One way or another. Either the matter will be resolved by then, or I’ll need more time to explore other possibilities. Will you be staying over, Mr. Cromarty? Or shall I report to you in Jamestown tomorrow?”

The division superintendent restored the cheroot to his mouth, bit down hard on the end of it. “You leave me little choice in the matter,” he said. “Adam Newell and I have no urgent need to return to Jamestown. I’ll be here in the morning.”

Quincannon spent the remainder of the day in what amounted to a waiting mode. He asked as many Tuttletown residents as deigned to be responsive discreet questions about the Schneider brothers, learning little more than what Doc Goodfellow had told him; they were not well liked, the prices they charged for blocks and bags of ice being considered exorbitant, and so evidently made a less than comfortable living from their business. Yet another poor dinner at the Miners Rest Café and unproductive visits to a trio of saloons occupied his time until an hour past nightfall.

Once more in his room at Cremer House, he stripped to his long johns and again made an effort to settle himself on the mound of bricks disguised as a mattress. He set his internal clock, a mechanism so unfailing that he never had cause to use one of the alarm variety. He was asleep within minutes, this time without the aid of a temperance tract.