The Stolen Gold Affair

19 Sabina

The Hall of Justice, to which she went directly after leaving Potrero Hill, stood opposite Portsmouth Square on Kearney between Washington and Merchant streets — a gloomy pile that was scheduled for an overdue reconstruction. The last time she had come here was several months ago, on a rather brazen mission to the city morgue in the company of Charles Percival Fairchild the Third, the canny crackbrain who fancied himself to be the famous British detective Sherlock Holmes. That had been her last encounter with Charles the Third, who at the time had been unjustly accused of the murder of his Chicago cousin, and who had left the city for parts unknown shortly after she played a significant role in exonerating him. As annoying and intrusive as he’d been on several occasions, she retained a soft spot for him — it was he who had gifted her with her cat Eve, among other courtesies — and wished him well wherever he’d gone and whatever he was up to.

Women other than police matrons and Barbary Coast streetwalkers being taken to the basement city prison were a rarity at the Hall of Justice, especially young, attractive, stylishly dressed women. Sabina was the recipient of several admiring glances and a smattering of leers from uniformed officers and other men when she entered, while she was requesting an audience with Lieutenant Asa Brinkman of the Fraud Division, and as she was being escorted to his office on the second floor. All of which unwanted flattery she ignored.

Brinkman, despite his fifty-some years and position of command, was not averse to giving her a similarly appreciative once-over. His smile turned upside down, however, when she identified herself.

“The notorious lady detective,” he said.

“Notorious?”

“You and your partner both. Numerous instances of interference in police matters — the homicide at the Baldwin Hotel and that Chinatown body-snatching sensation, among others.”

“Cases we were drawn into unwillingly. And which, I might point out, we had a strong hand in resolving.”

“By devious means, according to some reports.”

Meaning newspaper reports, Sabina thought, specifically Homer Keeps’s columns in the muckraking Evening Bulletin. That nasty little troll took perverse delight in denigrating the good works done by Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services. His innuendos as to their honesty and integrity always stopped just short of libel; otherwise he would have faced a defamation suit. Thus far Keeps’s scurrilous attacks were viewed by most for what they were — pure claptrap — and had done no harm to their business.

“Untrue, I assure you,” she said. “Ours is a reputable agency, always ready and willing to cooperate with the police. Which is why I’ve come to see you today.”

Brinkman remained skeptical. He was gray-haired and blue-jowled, his nose and cheeks spider-webbed with broken capillaries that attested to a chronic overindulgence in alcoholic beverages. A fondness for rich food was evidently another of his vices; his broad torso and thick neck strained the buttons on his uniform tunic.

“I have information I think you’ll find pleasing, Lieutenant. It concerns a real estate swindler who operated in the city eight years ago, under the name Harold Newcastle.”

“Newcastle?” The results of a brief memory search altered Brinkman’s expression. “How did you come across that piece of ancient history?”

“It’s no longer ancient history,” Sabina said. “He has come back and is running the same game as before.”

“The devil he has! He wouldn’t dare! You must be mistaken.”

“A tubby little man with white hair and a cheerful smile. Is that the description you had of Harold Newcastle?”

“Yes, but I still can’t believe—”

“Some confidence men are fearless risk-takers, as you well know. Especially when they have succeeded in flaunting the law over a long span of time.”

“True enough,” Brinkman admitted. “He’s running the same swindle here in the city, you’re sure of that?”

“Exactly the same. Selling vacant lots and homes he doesn’t own for whatever down payments his victims are willing to part with.”

“By Christ, it does sound like the same man. He isn’t still calling himself Harold Newcastle?”

“No. Elmer J. Goodlove. Goodlove Real Estate, 1006 Guerrero Street. Surely all the proof necessary for his arrest and eventual conviction is to be found there.”

Brinkman repeated the name and address, then went to his desk and wrote them down. When he came back to face Sabina, he said, “I still want to know how you came by this information.”

Time for another white lie. “It was revealed during the course of an investigation that has nothing to do with Goodlove,” she said. “Or with real estate, except indirectly. An ancillary discovery, as it were.”

“What does your investigation have to do with?”

“I am not at liberty to divulge that. Suffice it to say that it is extensive and completely legal, for a client who shuns publicity and demands discretion.” She paused for effect. “Nabbing an elusive swindler is the important thing, isn’t it, Lieutenant?”

“As long as what you’ve told me is the truth.”

“It is. And I ask no credit for it.”

“No? I suppose you brought this to my attention out of civic duty.”

“Exactly. As I said before, my partner and I believe in cooperating with the police.” Sabina favored him with a conspiratorial smile. “You could say in your report that you received an anonymous tip.”

“So I could.” And so he would, if she was any judge of character. A resolute gleam shone in his eyes now. Plainly he was thinking that not having to share credit for closing an old and nettlesome case would be a large feather in his cap.

He said, “Very well, Mrs. Carpenter, I’ll take you at your word. Is there anything more you have to tell me before you depart?”

Sabina took a tighter grip on her well-stuffed handbag. “No,” she said. “Nothing more.”

At Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, she consulted the office set of various city business directories. As she’d suspected, Western Pacific Supply and Cosgrove Ironworks were nonexistent companies created by Vernon Purifoy. Their alleged respective owners, Aurelius D. Jones and George Cosgrove, were established aliases, their invoices for goods supplied to and paid for by the Hollowell Manufacturing Company bogus. It had been simple enough for Purifoy, masquerading as Jones and Cosgrove, to regularly withdraw funds from the two dummy accounts and to then arrange for the drafts to be sent to the New Orleans bank. A clever and profitable embezzlement scheme that had gone undetected because Purifoy, as chief accountant, authorized payments of all monthly invoices submitted by Hollowell suppliers and sub-contractors. Obviously he was considered a trusted employee and his books had never been audited.

She had already decided what she must do. The proper course of action was to personally deliver the two envelopes to the Hollowells, per et fils, but that was out of the question for the same reason she had not informed the police of Purifoy’s crime: it would mean admitting that she had come into possession of the evidence by means of illegal trespass and theft from a locked desk. Nor could she attempt to swear the Hollowells to secrecy; if they refused, she would be subject to an additional criminal complaint. Not only would her freedom be in jeopardy, but so would the agency’s good name and her future with John.

But neither, in all good conscience, could she allow Vernon Purifoy to continue misappropriating funds from his employers. The only way she could see to prevent that, and at the same time protect herself, meant once more compromising her professional ethics. So be it, then. As John was fond of saying, the end did sometimes justify the means.

From the office storeroom she fetched a small carton, a roll of wrapping paper, and a ball of stout twine. Then, on a sheet of plain paper, she wrote in a slanted backhand: Vernon Purifoy is an embezzler. Here is proof. She put the manila envelopes into the carton, wrapped it several times around, and secured it with the twine. In the same backhand she penned a gummed label to both Lucas J. and Norman A. Hollowell at the Stevenson Street address, and marked it PERSONAL AND PRIVATE in large letters.

It was past five o’clock by the time she finished, too late to have the package delivered to Hollowell Manufacturing today. She locked it in the office safe for protection overnight. First thing tomorrow she would arrange delivery by messenger, utilizing a trustworthy service that guaranteed the sender’s anonymity.

What was not guaranteed was that she would remain anonymous. It was possible that either Purifoy or Gretchen Kantor would connect her with his unmasking and so inform the authorities. It was also possible, if less likely, that Elmer Goodlove would make a similar connection to his sudden exposure and arrest and tell of their illegal trespass into Purifoy’s cottage. If either or both should happen, she would have to confess and explain that she had acted with the best of intentions. The only alternative, weaving another web of white lies in the hope they would be believed, was out of the question.

What a muddle these two intertwined cases had turned into. She had brought about the downfall of two felons in the span of two days, an accomplishment that under normal circumstances would have been a source of pride. Instead she faced the possibility that her rash actions would result in a downfall of her own.

And all because she had allowed herself to act on not just one but a series of whims.

The headline topped a page 1 news story in Tuesday’s edition of the Morning Call, a copy of which Sabina picked up at the newsstand operated by the “blind” vendor and underworld informant known as Slewfoot. She read the story avidly. Lieutenant Brinkman had wasted no time in making the pinch and obtaining a full confession, and if Harold Newcastle alias Elmer J. Goodlove had said anything about Mrs. Jonathan Fredericks, there was no mention of it. Nor were any of his actual victims mentioned by name. The story focused on the nature of his crimes and his audacity in operating a swindle identical to the one he had perpetrated in the city in 1889. It also applauded the swift action taken by the head of the Fraud Division after receipt of an anonymous tip.

Sabina was both satisfied and relieved, her conscience now clear on at least this case. The doing of her “civic duty” had been rewarded in more ways than one.

Not long after the private messenger service picked up the package on Tuesday morning, a Western Union messenger brought her another wire. Again it was from Henry Flannery, this one a report that pleased her as much as the arrest of Newcastle/Goodlove.

Bartholomew Morgan had in fact returned to the state capital after being forced out of Downieville in 1887, four years later if not immediately. B. Morgan had been the proprietor of Delta Metallurgical Works in West Sacramento since 1891. And there could be no doubt that he was also Jedediah Yost, for he fit exactly the supplied physical description.

Now she had another decision to make. And she made it immediately, without a second thought.