The Stolen Gold Affair

14 Sabina

The Morning Call, the most reliable and least guilty of yellow journalism of the city’s several newspapers, had its offices on Commercial Street. Sabina stopped in there on Saturday morning to see Ephraim Ballard, the elderly gentleman with more than forty years’ journalistic experience who presided over the sheet’s morgue. Sabina had met him through her acquaintance with Millie Munson, the paper’s society editor, and found him always to be affably willing to demonstrate his remarkably accurate memory.

Unfortunately, he had not even a scrap of useful information to give her. The Morning Call had printed no news stories about the unscrupulous activities of a Downieville assayer named Bart or Bartholomew Morgan, nor was the name Jedediah Yost familiar; Ephraim double-checked the files to make sure. Whatever Morgan had been up to the past several years, he had avoided brushes with the law that were newsworthy enough to have been reported here in San Francisco.

Vernon Purifoy’s name was likewise unfamiliar to Mr. Ballard. Not that that meant Purifoy was a model citizen, but merely that he had done nothing overt enough to place him in the public eye. The only thing Sabina learned from Ephraim was that Purifoy’s employer, the Hollowell Manufacturing Company, was a large and profitable fabricator of chair and buggy cushion springs located on Stevenson Street, had been in business for fifteen years, and was owned by Lucas J. Hollowell and Norman A. Hollowell, father and son, president and vice president.

Waiting along with the morning mail when she arrived at the agency was a pro forma telegram from Henry Flannery, stating that he was available to oblige her request regarding Bart or Bartholomew Morgan and that he would give the matter his immediate attention. The mail contained one small and one medium-sized check, the latter in payment of a past-due invoice for services rendered, and nothing else of interest.

Just before noon Callie French paid an unexpected visit. “I thought I might find you here, Sabina. Have you had word from John?”

“No, none yet.”

“Oh, dear. You must be very worried.”

“Not really,” Sabina said. She explained about the lack of Western Union facilities in Patch Creek.

“They must have postal service. He could have written you a letter.”

“Only if he had something to report. Obviously he hasn’t yet.”

“Well... if you’re not concerned, then I won’t be either.”

“Did you come all the way here just to ask me about John?”

“No. I’m on my way to do some shopping.”

“Not for another new hat, I trust.”

“Don’t you like the one I’m wearing?”

Sabina didn’t, particularly; it was more than a trifle ostentatious for a daytime outing, a virtual garden of violets and other flowers topped with an aigrette of lace and grosgrain ribbons. But she said tactfully, “It’s very becoming.”

“I may stop at a hatter’s,” Callie said, “but mainly I’m after a proper dress for the wedding. Have you picked out your gown yet?”

“No.”

“Then it’s high time you did. You don’t seem busy. Close up and come along with me, and we’ll see what we can find.”

“I’m not in the mood for shopping.”

“It’s a sorry day when a woman about to be married is not in the mood for shopping.” Callie studied her with a critical eye. “You know, Sabina, you really should get out more, partake of life’s pleasures — you spend too much time alone. Do you have plans for tomorrow?”

“No. Why?”

“I have two tickets to an afternoon performance of Verdi’s Il Trovatore at the Grand Opera House. Hugh refuses to go with me and I would rather not go by myself. We could have supper at Tadich Grill afterward.”

Sabina was not a great admirer of opera, but she did like Il Trovatore; and the fare at Tadich Grill was quite good. It would be a better way to spend Sunday than bicycling in the park — the weather had turned cold and foggy — or sitting with Adam and Eve in her flat. She accepted the invitation.

Callie was right — she did spend too much time alone. Now especially, while John was away and incommunicado on a potentially dangerous assignment. Despite her denial, she was a little worried about him.