The Spook Lights Affair

3

The note, just delivered by runner to Quincannon’s Leavenworth Street flat, was printed in Ezra Bluefield’s distinctive back-slanted hand and typically brief and to the point:

A smile pleated Quincannon’s thick freebooter’s beard. Leave it to Bluefield to ferret out a lead no one else had yet discovered. Saving the life of the owner of the Scarlet Lady saloon, one of the less odious Barbary Coast deadfalls, and then cultivating the ex-miner’s friendship had been repaid many times over. Bluefield had his pudgy fingers on the pulse of the city’s criminal activities in and out of the Coast and there was little he didn’t know or couldn’t find out through his extensive contacts.

The Express matter referred to a daring robbery by a lone masked man of the Wells, Fargo Express office one week ago, in which nearly $35,000 in greenbacks — a special company shipment that had just come in from the south by railroad — had been taken. The company’s detectives and the city’s bluecoats had failed to turn up a single lead, not surprisingly in the latter case given the general incompetence of the police.

In such cases as this, when all else failed, Wells, Fargo had been known to pay a reward of ten percent to private agencies such as Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, for the return of the stolen cash and the arrest and conviction of the thief. Thirty-five hundred dollars was a considerable lure and Quincannon had undertaken his own investigation in pursuit of it. Thus far he had made as little headway as the other investigators, but if Bluefield’s tip panned out, he would lay claim to the reward and add another triumph to an already auspicious career.

Bob Cantwell, eh? Quincannon, whose memory was both photographic and encyclopedic, knew the names of most of the city’s snitches and information sellers, as well as those of scores of grifters, yeggs, confidence tricksters, and other criminals, but Cantwell’s was not among them. Yet the lad must be on the shady side if he possessed knowledge of the Wells, Fargo Express robbery. A gambler, professional or amateur? Charles Riley was the hardshell owner of the House of Chance, one of the Uptown Tenderloin sporting palaces.

Before Bluefield’s runner had brought the sealed envelope, Quincannon had resigned himself to a lonely evening in his rooms, reading from Wordsworth’s Poems, in Two Volumes. Usually both solitude and poetry relaxed him; on this evening, however, neither helped ease a brooding restlessness. His mind kept straying to Sabina’s presence at one of Adolph Sutro’s lavish parties. Unescorted presence, blast it, in the midst of what was sure to be a gaggle of predatory males, accompanied and unaccompanied, who considered a comely widow fair game. Why the devil had she refused to allow him to join her tonight? True, she was on a job, a rather dull one with no real need of his company, but that had nothing to do with her refusal. “I’ll be busy, John, and you know you dislike formal gatherings among the social elite.” Social elite. Bah! Hobnobbing with highbrows may have been one of his least favorite activities, but where his partner was concerned, he was willing to put up with anything in order to forestall a potential assault on her favors.

Well, he would just have to trust to Sabina’s avowed distinterest in the attentions of the male sex in general, and to his conviction that if anyone succeeded in breaking through her defenses, that someone would be John Quincannon. Now that he had a lead to the Wells, Fargo reward, he would be too busy himself for any more brooding. Money honestly earned and the thrill of the chase were even stronger motivations than his pursuit of Sabina, and $3,500 was the kind of prize that stirred his blood to a fine simmer.

He shut off the gas heater, strapped on his Navy Colt, plucked his greatcoat from the hall tree, and hurried out into the cold foggy night in search of a cab.

The section of Spear Street where Bob Cantwell resided was close to the Embarcadero and the massive bulk of the Ferry Building. Flanking its dark length was a mix of warehouses, stores operated by ship’s chandlers and outfitters, cheap saloons, and lodging houses that catered to seamen, laborers, and shop workers. Whoever Cantwell was, he was none too well off to call this district home.

Quincannon stepped out of the hack on the corner of Spear and Mission streets. There was no one abroad as he started down Spear, at least no one visible to him in the swirling gray mist that blanketed the area. He walked swiftly and watchfully nonetheless, one hand inside his coat resting on the holstered Navy. Muggings were not so common here as in the Barbary Coast, north of Market, but the waterfront was still a rough place on dark nights; a man alone, particularly a man who was rather well dressed, was fair prey for footpads. Out on the Bay foghorns moaned in ceaseless rhythm. As he crossed Howard he had glimpses of pier sheds and the masts and steam funnels of anchored ships, gray-black and indistinct like disembodied ghosts.

Number 209 took shape ahead — a three-story firetrap built of warping wood, unpainted and sorely in need of carpentry work, set between another, smaller lodging house and a rope-and-twine chandler’s. Smears of electric light showed at the front entrance, illuminating a painted sign that grew readable as he neared: DRAKE’S REST — ROOMS BY DAY, WEEK, MONTH.

Inside he found a short hallway, a set of stairs, and a small common room, all of which smelled of salt-damp and decay. In the common room, a scrawny harridan stood feeding crackers to an equally scrawny parrot in a wire cage. It was even money as to which owned the more evil eye, the woman or the bird. Her watery gaze ran Quincannon up and down in a hungry fashion, as if she would have liked nothing better than to knock him on the head and relieve him of his valuables.

The hunger, he soon discovered, was because she was the owner of the lodging house and there was a vacant room that wanted filling. Her interest in him waned when he informed her that he was there to see one of her tenants, Bob Cantwell, on a business matter.

“What business would a swell like you have with the likes of Bob Cantwell?” she asked.

“Mine and his, madam.”

“Madam,” she said. “Hah! Number three, upstairs, but he’s not in. Seldom is, nights.”

“Do you know where I can find him?”

“No. How would I know?” But the gleam in her eye said otherwise. She was another of the breed, Quincannon thought sourly, who gave out little or no information free of charge.

He fished in his pocket for coins. Faugh. He had only two, both silver dollars. Reluctantly he removed one, flipped it high so that it caught the light from a pair of lamps. The woman’s greedy gaze followed the coin’s path up and back down into his palm. She licked her thin lips.

“Now then,” he said. “Where does Bob spend his evenings?”

“I don’t keep track of my lodgers.”

The devil she didn’t. He flipped the coin again. “Frequents the Tenderloin, doesn’t he?”

“So I’ve heard. Among other sinful places.”

“Such as the Barbary Coast?”

“The devil’s playground,” she said, and the parrot cackled as if in agreement.

“A gambling man, is he?”

“Aye, and what man isn’t?”

“What’s his business, that he can afford such a pastime?”

“Real estate salesman, so he claims.”

“Which firm?”

“Hammond Realtors, Battery Street. But you won’t find him there this time of night. Off carousing and playing devil’s dice, or drinking in some saloon if he can’t afford worse.”

“Dice is his preferred game, is it?”

“So I hear tell. More’n once he’s lost his wages and been late with his rent. Next time he’ll be out on the street.”

That explained the connection between Cantwell and Charles Riley. Dice games, craps, and chuck-a-luck were the House of Chance’s specialties. Cantwell must have approached Riley with an offer to sell him his information in exchange for cash or gambling chits, and been turned down; Riley’s only business interest was in relieving his customers, more or less legitimately, of their hard-earned dollars.

“Where does Bob do his drinking in this area when he’s shy of funds?” Quincannon asked. “Any saloon in particular?”

The crone’s eyes were still on the silver dollar. Its shine and her greed kept her from any more pretense. “The Bucket of Beer,” she said.

“And where would that be?”

“Clay Street, near the Embarcadero.”

“Any others?”

“None as I know of.”

Quincannon tossed her the silver dollar. She caught it expertly, bit it between snaggle teeth. The parrot cackled and said, “Ho, money! Ho, money!” She glared at the bird, then cursed it as Quincannon turned for the door. She seemed genuinely concerned that the parrot might break out of its cage and take the coin away from her.

The Bucket of Beer Saloon was a typical waterfront watering hole tucked in among the dingy warehouses strung along lower Clay Street — smoky and poorly lighted, decorated with seafaring impedimenta and redolent of beer, tobacco, and close-packed humanity. The usual sifting of sawdust shared the floor with a rank of none-too-clean spittoons. There were less than a dozen customers on this night, most of them bellied up to the long bar — all male except for a plump and painted soiled dove trolling for a customer and having no luck. She spied Quincannon as he entered, sidled over to him.

“Foul night, ain’t it, dearie?” she asked hopefully.

“It is that.”

“Kind of night it takes more than liquor to warm a man’s cockles.”

Quincannon allowed as how his were warm enough as they stood.

“Pity. You’re a fine-looking gent, you are, just the sort little Molly likes.”

At a guess, “little” Molly weighed in the neighborhood of a hundred and fifty pounds. “Some other time,” he lied. “I’m here on business tonight, with a lad named Bob Cantwell. Know him, Molly?”

Her rouged mouth pinched into a lemony pucker. “Know him and wish I didn’t. Cheapskate. Won’t never even offer to quench a lady’s thirst.”

“Is he here now?”

“Oh, he’s here. Don’t know him, eh? Buy a lady a whiskey to keep off the chill if I point him out?”

The only coin Quincannon had in his pocket was the second silver dollar. His thrifty Scot’s nature rebelled at yet another overly generous outlay, but he pressed the coin into Molly’s moist palm anyway; a prostitute was as deserving of his largesse as the crone at 209 Spear, if not more so. Her eyes widened and she favored him with a crooked-toothed smile and an effusive, “Oh, what a gent you are, sir!” After which she aimed a pudgy arm at a man seated alone at a table next to a glowing potbellied stove. “That’s him, Bob Cantwell,” she said, and hurried off to the bar.

Bob Cantwell was a scrawny individual in his early twenties, the owner of sparse sandy hair and a skimpy mustache to match. He sat slump-shouldered inside a heavy corduroy coat, staring morosely into a tankard of grog — the look and posture of a man drowning his sorrows. The empty chair opposite the real estate salesman scraped as Quincannon pulled it out far enough to accommodate his bulk.

Cantwell cast a startled look at him across the table. “Here, what’s the idea? I don’t want company—”

“Bob Cantwell?”

“What if I am? Who’re you?”

“My name is of no consequence to you. My business is.”

“What kind of business?” Cantwell asked warily.

“Not the police kind. You’ve no worries there, Bob.”

“Well, then? What do you want?”

Quincannon said, “Charles Riley tells me you have information regarding the Wells, Fargo Express matter.”

The sudden change in Cantwell’s demeanor was little short of miraculous. The undernourished frame jerked upright, the sandy mustache bristled, the pale blue eyes glittered with sudden avarice. One hand reached across the table as if to pluck at Quincannon’s coat sleeve, stopping just short of its mark.

“And if I do?” he said in a lowered voice. “It doesn’t come free.”

“Little does in this world. What is it you know?”

“Plenty. Plenty. How much will you pay?”

“That depends on the information. How much do you think it’s worth?”

Cantwell leaned forward, the pale eyes taking in the expensive cut of Quincannon’s greatcoat and custom-made derby. While he was scrutinizing, his other hand plucked items from his pocket that made audible clicking sounds. There was no hint of moroseness left in him now; he fairly quivered with greed. It had been financial sorrows he’d been drowning in his grog: a lack of sufficient funds to indulge his gambling vice, no doubt. The clicking of the pair of dice in his hand had what might be described as an eager sound.

“Two hundred dollars,” he said. “Cash on the barrelhead.”

Quincannon shoved back his chair, got to his feet, and started to turn away.

“Wait! Wait! What I know is worth that much. Every cent of it.”

“Yes? What do you know?”

“The name of the holdup man.”

“That’s not worth two hundred.”

“And where you can find him and the money. That is.”

Quincannon sat down again. “I’ll pay half your asking price.”

“No. Two hundred or nothing—”

“Nothing, then.” He stood back up.

Cantwell said quickly, “You’re not the only one interested. Somebody else will pay two hundred.”

“Charles Riley wouldn’t pay it. No one else will, either, or you and I wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

The dice clicks grew agitated. Anxiety visibly leavened the lad’s greed; he could see his much-coveted cash windfall slipping away. “All right, sir,” he said. “All right. I’ll settle for one hundred.”

Quincannon reoccupied the chair, hitching it around toward Cantwell — to get closer to the warmth from the stove, but the youngster thought otherwise. He scooted his chair away the same distance, as if he were afraid of an attack. Cantwell was a coward, among his other shortcomings. Quincannon grinned at him, a fierce grin that was half wolf, half dragon. He took his time loading and lighting his stubby briar, then removed a greenback from his billfold and flattened his palm over it on the table, leaving a portion free so that Cantwell could make out the denomination.

“Say! That’s only twenty dollars.”

“The rest when you’ve told me what you know.”

“How do I know you’ll pay me?”

“You’ll get nothing if you don’t talk. Except maybe a cuffed ear.”

Cantwell swallowed, took a quick drink of grog, and swallowed that. “You won’t tell anyone the word came from me?”

“Not if what you tell me is the truth.”

“It will be. I swear it.” After a furtive glance around, even though no one in the smoky room was within listening distance, Cantwell leaned forward and again spoke in an undertone. “Jack Travers.”

The name was unfamiliar to Quincannon. “Local?”

“No. From Los Angeles.”

“How do you know him? As a confederate?”

“No! I’m not a crook, I’m a respectable citizen.”

Claptrap, Quincannon thought. “Then how do you know him?”

Cantwell hesitated. Then, “Jack Travers is my cousin.”

“And how do you know he’s the Express bandit?”

“He … bragged to me about it. A holdup that would put him in clover for the rest of his life.”

“But not specifically the Wells, Fargo job, eh?”

“No. But it couldn’t be anything else. Jack was too excited, and there has been no other large robbery recently. Besides … he’s been in trouble with the law before. He spent a few years in prison for armed robbery.”

“When did he do his bragging? Before or after the deed?”

“Before,” Cantwell said. “A week before. He came to my lodgings one night. I hadn’t seen him in years, since I moved to San Francisco, but he knew that I work for a real estate firm. He demanded I fix him up with a place where he could … hole up for a while.”

“And you did his bidding for a price.”

“No, sir. He threatened me into it.” Cantwell’s mouth quirked bitterly. “Jack’s half again my size and a damned bully. He … well, he used to beat on me when we were kids.”

That explained why Cantwell was willing to sell out his cousin. Money the primary reason, revenge the secondary. The little poltroon was too cowardly and too afraid of Jack Travers to try cutting himself in for a percentage of the stolen loot, yet too hungry for cash to feed his gambling habit to have turned Travers in to the coppers. A contemptible Judas whose price had been halved to one hundred pieces of silver.

“Where’s the hideout, Bob?”

“Why do you want to know? If you’re not a policeman, what are you? A Wells, Fargo detective?”

“My business is none of yours.”

“But you are planning to arrest him?”

“Likewise none of your concern. Answer the question.”

Cantwell gave his lips a nervous licking. “You won’t tell him I told you? You won’t say anything about talking to me?”

“Nary a word. Now where can I find him?”

“A cottage on Telegraph Hill. Drifter’s Alley, off Filbert below Pioneer Park. The alley’s a cul-de-sac, with just two cottages and a vacant lot between. He’s in the second.”

Quincannon knew the approximate location. He nodded, and then asked, “Have you been to see your cousin since the robbery?”

“Why would I? I want nothing more to do with him. He can rot in jail or in hell for all I care.”

“Then how do you know he’s still in the cottage?”

“He must be. Jack said he’d need the place for some time, to let things cool down, as he put it. And he hasn’t returned the key.”

Quincannon considered. Hearsay and speculation — a thin brew for one hundred dollars. On the other hand, he had no better lead and there was enough tantalizing circumstantial evidence in Bob Cantwell’s story to make it worth following up.

He took his hand off the twenty-dollar greenback. Cantwell snatched it up instantly and made it disappear. The dice in his other hand rattled greedily as Quincannon removed four more twenties from his billfold, folded the notes, passed them over. How long Cantwell remained in possession of his newfound wealth depended on the whims of Lady Luck: he would be in a dice game within minutes of their parting. Which was immediate, Quincannon having nothing more to say to the little weasel. For the nonce, anyway.

He was now out a considerable amount of cash — one hundred and two dollars, to be exact — and his night’s work had only just begun. If it developed that Jack Travers was not the Wells, Fargo Express bandit, the money he had just handed over would eventually be recovered even if he had to take it out of Bob Cantwell’s hide a dollar at a time.