The Stolen Gold Affair

23 Quincannon

The Ace High Card Club occupied the second floor of a South Street firetrap, above a tonsorial parlor and a washhouse. You might have missed it if you weren’t on the lookout, for the only sign was wired to a support post at the foot of an outside staircase. The sign was some two feet square with faded lettering and a painted arrow pointing upward; a reversible card in a metal holder stated that the club was open.

Quincannon climbed the stairs alone, there being no need for Flannery’s presence here. The door at the top opened into a long, wide room bisected lengthwise by a waist-high partition, the room’s plain furnishings and lack of adornments indicating that its clientele was primarily farmhands, fishermen, and other members of the working class. One side was taken up with half a dozen round poker tables covered with green baize, all of which were deserted. On the other side were several smaller tables for those who preferred different card games; two elderly men, the only customers at this early hour, sat at one playing a desultory game of pinochle. At the rear was a short buffet, above which was tacked a placard that read: Beer 10c. No Hard Liquor.

Just inside the entrance stood a kind of three-sided cage presided over by a heavy-set man wearing a green eyeshade and thick galluses over a green and white striped shirt. Strangers in the Ace High were evidently a rarity; he looked Quincannon up and down, taking his measure.

“If poker’s your game, friend,” he said, “you’ve come too early, as you can see. Likely won’t be a game of stud or draw until this afternoon.”

Quincannon showed him an amiable smile. “It’s a man I’m looking for, not a poker game.”

“What man would that be?”

“The assayer, Bart Morgan. I was told he is a regular here when he’s in town.”

“Told by who?”

“Floyd Tucker, his assistant.”

“If you saw Tucker, then he must’ve also told you his boss hasn’t been around for two weeks or more.”

“He did, but it’s important that I talk to Mr. Morgan as soon as possible. Would you be Luke Jaeger?”

“I would.”

“Well, Tucker said you might be able to tell me where Morgan resides.”

“What makes him think I’d know?”

“Just that you and Morgan might be friends, seeing as how you both fancy five-card stud.”

Jaeger tugged at one of his galluses. “What’s so important that you need to talk to him? Assay business?”

“Mining business, yes.”

“You don’t look like a prospector.”

“I’m not. Engineer.” The two pinochle players had their ears cocked, listening to the conversation; Quincannon lowered his voice. “I made a discovery Morgan is sure to be interested in, once he verifies its potential.”

“Rich discovery? Why go to him with it?”

“I have my reasons. Do you know where he lives?”

“Suppose I do,” Jaeger said. “Why should I help feather his nest?”

“And why not, if you’re a friend of his?”

“I wouldn’t call him a friend. He took close to a hundred dollars off me the last stud game at his house.”

“So you’ve been to his house. Located where?”

“What’s in it for me if I tell you?”

“Morgan’s undying gratitude. And mine.”

“Hah. Man can’t eat or drink gratitude.”

Quincannon put a hitch on his impatience, another on his distaste for parting with hard-earned money even in a good cause. He said, “A man can do both with a five-dollar gold piece.”

“Let’s see the color of it.”

Quincannon pinched out one of two Liberty coins in his purse, held it up, then drew it quickly back when Jaeger reached for it. “An honest answer first, Mr. Jaeger.”

“I always give honest answers when I’m paid for them. All right. Bart’s place is over in Sacramento, on F Street.”

“Where on F Street?”

“I don’t recall the number. Off Fourteenth, not far from Washington Park. Red brick house with a crabapple tree in front.”

“He lives there alone, does he?”

“With his wife. I’d watch out for her if I were you.”

“Why is that?”

“Likes brandy, Mrs. Morgan does. Got a mean tongue when she likes too much of it, which is most of the time.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“No charge for the advice,” Jaeger said, and stretched out his hand, palm up. Quincannon dropped the coin into it, not without reluctance.

Morgan’s home was in midtown Sacramento, in a residential neighborhood Flannery identified as Boulevard Park. There was a certain irony in the fact that only a few dozen blocks separated it from the Golden Eagle Hotel. If only some knowledge of its whereabouts had been available yesterday! But Flannery swore that he’d checked the residential listings and property ownership records and there had been none for B. or Bartholomew Morgan. Shrewd cuss that Morgan was, he must have seen to it that the house was put in his wife’s name, married or maiden, or another of his aliases.

On F Street near 14^th, red brick, crabapple tree in front... It was easy enough to find. Quincannon gave it a quick study as Flannery drove past on the cobblestone street. Fairly large and well landscaped, testimony to the profits Morgan had obtained through his various criminal ventures. The front windows were draped and there was no activity outside. A driveway led along one side to a carriage barn at the rear.

Near the end of the block Quincannon said to Flannery, “Drive around the corner. Let’s see if there is a carriageway behind Morgan’s house.”

There was, a narrow lane that bisected the block straight through to the next street. “Stop here and let me out,” he said then. “I’ll walk back. You drive on in and keep watch at the rear.”

Sabina said as Flannery braked at the entrance to the carriageway, “You can’t just walk up bold as you please and knock on the door, John. Suppose Morgan sees and recognizes you before you can get the drop on him.”

“I had no direct dealings with him in Patch Creek,” Quincannon said. “He may have noticed me among the miners, but he wouldn’t recognize me in these clothes.”

“He might if he spied you coming alone. He’d be much less likely to pay attention to the approach of a man and a woman.”

He had to admit that she had a point. But he said, “No. Too dangerous.”

“Stop treating me as if I were fragile goods. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself and you know it.” She patted her reticule. “I’m armed, don’t forget.”

He wasn’t likely to. She seldom ventured out on serious business without her Remington derringer, a twin of his.

Before he could say anything more, she opened the door on her side and stepped down. He swung down beside her.

“Well, John?”

There was nothing to be gained in arguing with a headstrong woman; it would only waste time. Besides, she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. “All right. Just let me do the talking.”

She slipped her hand inside the crook of his left arm while he made sure his coat flap covered the holstered Peacemaker. Flannery prodded the blue dun into the carriageway behind them as they set off.

There were no pedestrians on F Street, nor any street traffic after a hansom cab clattered past. The sky had partially cleared and a pale sun laid streaks of light on the cobblestones. Except for the distant barking of a dog, the neighborhood was wrapped in a somnolent hush.

Sabina said something inconsequential, smiling as they turned onto the Morgan property — a casual pretense in the event they were being observed. Quincannon watched the windows; the curtains remained still. On the porch he paused to listen, heard nothing from within. Sabina released his arm, stood aside when he drew the Peacemaker. He slid the weapon quickly inside his coat, holding it close to his chest, then twisted the crank handle on the doorbell with his left hand.

The door stayed closed, the interior silent. After half a minute he twisted the bell handle again. Another fifteen seconds crept away. Nobody home? More vexation if that was the case—

Footsteps inside.

Quincannon tensed as the latch rattled. But when the door squeaked open, it was not Morgan he faced but a harridan incongruously draped in a purple sateen dress and a lemon-yellow feather boa. Middle-aged, stout, so tightly corseted her formidable bosom bulged the dress’s bodice to the ripping point. Blotchy red face, dyed black hair, squinty gray bloodshot eyes. And according to the brandy fumes emanating from her open mouth, well on her way to inebriation at a few minutes past noon.

The squinty eyes shifted from him to Sabina and back to him. In a surprisingly clear voice she said, “Who’re you? What do you want?”

“Are you Mrs. Morgan?”

“What if I am? Don’t tell me you’re missionaries looking to convert me. I’ll spit in your eye if you are.”

“We’re not missionaries. Is your husband here?”

“What d’you want with him?”

“An important business matter. Is he here?”

“No. Business, you say? What kind?”

“The kind he specializes in. And I don’t mean assaying.”

“He know you and this business of yours?”

“Yes.”

“Profitable?”

“Very. For all concerned.”

That put a smile on her blotchy face. “What’s your name?”

“... Frinke. Horatio Frinke.”

The squinty eyes shifted to Sabina again. “Who’s she?”

“My wife.”

“Pretty.” Then, with a kind of drunken wistfulness, “I was pretty myself once, long time ago.”

Quincannon didn’t believe it, but Sabina lied tactfully, “You’re still a handsome woman, Mrs. Morgan.”

“Hah. I like you, missus — you lie like a politician. You in on this deal with your man and mine?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Morgan never lets me in on his deals. But that’s all right, long as he brings home the bacon.”

“You expect him back soon?” Quincannon asked.

“Not today. Not for a few days.”

Hell and damn! “Where did he go?”

“San Francisco.”

“To see whom?”

“Tell you if I knew, but I don’t.”

“Does he travel there often?”

“When he has reason, good reason.”

“When did he leave?”

“Last night while I was asleep, like always.” She leaned against the doorjamb, her thick lips twisting into a grin like a rictus. “Went to say goodbye to his lady friend.”

“Lady friend?”

“Don’t know this one’s name. Don’t care, long as he don’t stop bringing home the bacon.”

“Did he go by train?”

“Not to see her, he didn’t.”

“To San Francisco. By train or by steamer?”

“Always takes the train. Four o’clock.”

“Four a.m., you mean?”

“Hah. Him get out of a chippy’s bed that early? No.”

“Four this afternoon, then.”

“I just said so, didn’t I. What time is it now?”

“Shortly past noon.”

“So you’re in luck. Plenty of time to catch him at the depot.”

Quincannon’s smile was wolfish. “We’ll try to do just that.”

“Tell him I said I’ll be waiting for the bacon.” And with that she pushed away from the jamb and banged the door shut.

On the sidewalk Sabina said with a raised eyebrow and a rib-nudge, “Horatio Frinke?”

“It was the only name I could think of on the spur.”

“I must say I’m glad it’s not your real name. I wouldn’t fancy being Mrs. Horatio Frinke.”

They hurried to the corner, around it into the carriageway. Sabina said then, “Delightful woman, Mrs. Morgan. Why do you suppose he’s stayed with her all these years? She must be a devil to live with.”

Quincannon grunted. His mind was on Morgan’s planned trip to San Francisco. Was that where he sold the stolen gold? Or did he have some other reason for going there?

Sabina was still pondering. “It can’t be because she permits him to have lady friends. Perhaps he still loves her.”

“More likely he’s afraid she’ll expose him for the crook he is,” Quincannon said as they reached the waiting brougham, “unless he keeps bringing home the bacon.”