The Stolen Gold Affair

11 Sabina

It was nearly four o’clock when Sabina exited a Market Street trolley car at the corner of New Montgomery. On weekdays, Fridays especially, this was the time when many prominent businessmen young and old left their offices early to embark on the Cocktail Route — a daily round of upper-class watering holes such as the Reception Saloon, Hacquette’s Palace of Art, and the Palace Hotel Bar that for some lasted well into the night. Business deals were made, political alliances formed, schemes hatched over drinks and lavish free lunches. And for more than a few of the silk-hatted gentry, married as well as single, the evening’s bacchanal ended in one of the fancy Uptown Tenderloin parlor houses run by such as Lettie Carew and Miss Bessie Hall, the notorious “Queen of O’Farrell Street.”

Carson Montgomery had not been a Cocktail Route habitué when Sabina was keeping company with him, but for all she knew he had succumbed to its temptations since she’d last seen him in the Palace Hotel’s Grand Court a year and a half ago. Recently his name had been linked with a socially prominent Crocker family debutante, a liaison reported in more than one newspaper’s society column, but that did not necessarily mean he was ready to give up his bachelor’s lifestyle. She really didn’t know him all that well.

Her second venture to his Montgomery Block suite proved, unlike her first, to be successful. The same officious clerk she had spoken to previously admitted that Carson was present but attempted to deny her an audience with him by once again stating that an appointment was required. She was not having any of his annoying attitude this time. She handed him one of her business cards and, in the same imperious tone she had used on Elmer Goodlove, demanded that he deliver it to his employer immediately. Her profession, if not her name, raised an eyebrow and ended any further argument. He went away with the card, returned in less than a minute, stated much more politely that Mr. Montgomery would see her, and pointed the way to Carson’s private office.

Sabina hadn’t been sure how she would feel when she saw Carson again, and was mildly relieved to feel nothing at all. Not even a twinge of regret. On their first meeting at Callie’s dinner party, she had found him strikingly handsome — eyes as blue, kind, and gentle as Stephen’s, long sideburns, curly brown hair, warm smile — and when she’d looked into those bright blue eyes she had been instantly smitten. Now, it was as if she were in the company of a man who had never been anything more to her than a casual acquaintance.

If he still had feelings for her, any pangs of regret, they were not apparent. His smile was tentative and puzzled as he came forward to briefly take her hand in his. He said a trifle awkwardly, “It’s good to see you again, Sabina. You’re looking well.”

“As are you, Carson.”

He cleared his throat. “I understand you and your partner are soon to be married. My sincere congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“Surely you haven’t come to invite me to the wedding.”

She chose to let the remark pass without comment. She said, “A business matter you may or may not be able to help me with. Frankly I’m not at all comfortable talking to you about this, but I’ve run out of other possible sources of information.”

“What makes you uncomfortable? Our former relationship and how it ended? That’s all in the past now, Sabina.”

“Yes, but the questions I have involve the past — yours, not ours.”

“My past?” His smile faded into a puckered frown. “You’re not referring to the Gold King conspiracy?”

“I don’t believe so. Indirectly, if at all.”

“Regarding a matter your firm is investigating?”

“That John is investigating, yes. An organized high-grading operation at a gold mine in the northern Mother Lode.”

“Oh, Lord. You can’t possibly think I might be involved?”

“No. Of course not. My questions have to do with a man who may be one of the gang, a shadowy figure posing as a miners’ union representative under the name Jedediah Yost. I am trying to find out just who he is.”

“While your partner investigates at the mine.”

“Yes.”

“And you believe I might know this man Yost, is that it?”

“Might have encountered him or heard of him during your travels in the gold country.”

“That was ten years ago, Sabina.”

“It’s a slim possibility, I know,” she said. “But I’m at the grasping-at-straws stage.”

Carson’s frown smoothed away. “I’ll help if I can. I don’t have to tell you of my animus for thieves.”

No, he didn’t. His near-disastrous youthful peccadillo had taught him a hard lesson. He was an intrinsically honest man, a good man. Sabina had doubted that during her investigation of the extortion attempt, but only briefly.

He invited her to sit, waited until she was seated and had removed her hat, then sat himself facing her across his desk. The desk was large, of polished mahogany — the only expensive furnishing in what was otherwise a strictly functional office. Neither Carson’s wealthy family background nor his success as a mining engineer had altered his proletarian nature.

“What can you tell me about this man Yost?” he asked.

“Very little, other than a description provided by our client and the fact that he has enough knowledge of gold mining and miners to successfully pose as a union man.”

“Describe him.”

She did so. Carson sat quietly, his hands steepled together under his chin, while he cudgeled his memory. At some length he said, “The triangular birthmark. On his left cheek?”

“Yes.”

“Ordinary-looking otherwise, and small in stature.”

“Yes.”

“In his middle forties... The age is about right,” Carson said musingly. “The birthmark and the rest of the physical description, the amber cigar holder, the knowledge of gold mining, the liking for stud poker — too many similarities to be mere coincidence.”

Sabina sat forward in her chair. “You know him, then?”

“There was a man in Downieville while I was there, an assayer named Morgan. Crooked as a dog’s hind leg by reputation, though nothing was ever proven against him. He was also rumored to have been responsible for the death of a rival for his wife’s affections.”

“He sounds ruthless.”

“And was, evidently. Ruthless and mercenary.”

“Did you have any dealings with him?”

“Fortunately, no. Though he did make a veiled overture that I refused to listen to.”

“I wonder if he still resides in Downieville.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t,” Carson said. “Not long after I moved on, I heard that he and his wife were sent packing by the local authorities. Where they went I don’t know, but his wife was from Sacramento and vocal about her desire to move back there.”

“Can you recall his given name?”

“Bart.”

“Short for Barton or Bartholomew?”

“... Bartholomew, I think. Yes, Bartholomew.”

“And his wife’s name?”

Carson searched his memory again, shook his head. “I’m sorry, I can’t recall it.”

That was all he could tell her about either of the Morgans, but it was quite a bit more than she could have hoped for. They parted at the door with a friendly handshake. Neither of them expressed an interest in seeing the other in the future, however. This meeting had not been as awkward as Sabina had feared, but it hadn’t been a comfortable one either, for her or for Carson. She had her life, he had his, and it would be better for both if never the twain should meet again.

Just how important to John and his investigation was the information Carson had given her?

She debated the question as she made her way back to Market Street. Important, certainly, if Bartholomew Morgan alias Jedediah Yost was mixed up in the high-grading plot, as now seemed probable. But John was shrewd and highly inquisitive; after a week of undercover work, he would surely suspect by now, perhaps even know, that Morgan was posing as a union representative and possessed a tainted past. If only she knew whether or not the man was still in Patch Creek. And if he wasn’t, if John had any idea of where he could be found.

Had Morgan and his wife established themselves in Sacramento or its environs after their ejection from Downieville? Even assuming they had back in 1887, eleven years was a long span of time for a ruthless crook to remain in one place. They could have moved any number of times, together or Morgan alone if he had abandoned or divorced his wife. He might also have conducted legal and illegal business under the Yost alias or another name not his own.

The agency kept a file of city business and residential directories; she went there first and consulted the Sacramento Directory on the chance that Morgan had established an assay or metallurgy business in the capital under his own name or that of Jedediah Yost. No, he hadn’t. There were several listings under both “Assayers” and “Metallurgists,” but none of the names was even remotely familiar.

Well, there might be another way to find out.

At the Western Union office she composed a lengthy wire to Henry Flannery at the detective agency he operated in Sacramento. John considered Flannery reliable enough to have established a quid pro quo agreement with him some years back. She requested any available data on Bart or Bartholomew Morgan alias Jedediah Yost, formerly of Downieville, and included the detailed description and all the information Carson had supplied on Morgan’s background. She marked the wire “Urgent.” Assuming Flannery was not out of town on a case, she would have a preliminary response from him shortly, and another as soon as he had something to report.