Quincannon asked about other means of transportation to the island backwater. One was by stage, a slow and circuitous route that required a change of equipage in Walnut Grove. The other was by private carriage or horseback on the series of levee roads and ferries that connected the delta islands and sloughs. Bah! There was only one daily stage to Walnut Grove, the clerk told him, and it departed midafternoon. And with dusk already settling, it would be foolishly risky to attempt to traverse unfamiliar levee roads in the dark of night.
Despite all the irritants, Quincannon’s resolve to put an end to Pauline Dupree’s criminal career was stronger than ever. Yes, and he was hungry enough after the day’s privation to eat a chunk of whang leather. He entered the dining room and proceeded to gorge himself on a five-course meal. Afterward, puffing furiously on his briar, he took an elevator to the second floor and locked himself inside Room 272.
If by some miracle Dupree did return tonight, he would be there to welcome her. And if she didn’t, he would salvage what he could from this Stockton debacle by spending the night free of charge in the blasted woman’s room.
18
SABINA
What John would have called woman’s intuition, what he himself referred to as a hunch, and what Sabina considered a flash of insight sent her downtown on Saturday morning.
Cleghorne’s Floral Delights was open, naturally, and doing a healthy business. Ross Cleghorne, outfitted in one of his impeccably tailored if questionably hued suits (this one was the color of plum pudding), noticed her immediately and favored her with one of his charismatic smiles, but it was some minutes before he finished consummating a sale to an elderly matron and made his way to Sabina’s side.
“A pleasure to see you again so soon, dear Mrs. Carpenter. A pleasure indeed. And what may I do for you this fine morning?”
It wasn’t a fine morning, as a matter of fact. Thick, wind-swirled fog once more laid a damp gray pall over the city. More rain was in the offing, too; Sabina sensed it and had brought her umbrella with her. But she remained hopeful that the storm would hold off until after this evening’s benefit in Union Square.
She said in a lowered tone, “Prudence Egan.”
“Ah.” He took Sabina’s arm and ushered her behind a display of one of his larger and fancier floral creations, an arrangement of red and yellow roses enhanced by seashells and small pieces of driftwood tinted different pastel colors. The scent of the roses, combined with that of dozens of other flower arrangements on exhibit, was cloyingly sweet.
“The location of the lady’s pied-à-terre, I surmise?” he said then.
The question and his usual sly look reassured her he had not yet learned that Mrs. Egan had gone missing. “Yes. Were you able to find out?”
“I was indeed. Not an easy task, mind you. Not an easy task at all considering the, ah, sensitive nature of the information. You’ll tell no one where you obtained it, of course?”
“Of course. And you’ll tell no one who asked you for it.”
“Of course. As always, we understand each other perfectly.” Mr. Cleghorne beamed at her. After which he said, not at all irrelevantly, “I have designed a splendid new spring confection that I’m sure you will find appealing. Yes, absolutely sure of it.”
“How much, may I ask?”
“For you, dear lady, half of what I would charge a less favored customer. A paltry sum, really. You won’t be disappointed.”
Not in the floral confection, perhaps, but it remained to be seen if the usefulness of the information justified the cost. She said, “Very well. The location, Mr. Cleghorne?”
“Ah, of the pied-à-terre. Larkin Street. Not the best neighborhood, but then hardly a shabby one.”
“Where on Larkin Street?”
“Number twenty-four forty-two. A small apartment discreetly tucked away behind an establishment called the Lady Bountiful Salon at twenty-four forty.”
“You’re certain of this?”
He pretended to be mildly offended. “My dear lady, have I ever led you astray on any subject?”
“No,” she admitted, “you haven’t.”
“Nor will I, ever.” He smiled his unctuous smile and rubbed his hands together. “I shall prepare the masterful spring confection for you at once, shall I?”
“You still haven’t told me the price.”
“For you, dear lady, half of what I would charge anyone else. A mere twelve dollars.”
Another of Mr. Cleghorne’s literal steals. Sabina managed not to wince, nodding instead.
“Excellent! Shall I have it delivered?”
“Yes. To my home address, please.”
“You may expect it before the end of the day. And for you, dear Mrs. Carpenter, the delivery charge will be only one dollar.”
* * *
The Lady Bountiful Salon, one of several small businesses along that section of Larkin Street, appeared to cater to women of modest income and social standing—a perfect cover for a wealthy Pacific Heights wife’s trysting place. The salon was not crowded on this late Saturday morning, nor were its neighboring establishments, the weather being as uncertain as it was. Along one side of the building, an unpaved carriageway debouched into an untenanted cul-de-sac at the rear. Only two structures stood in these confines, an open and empty carriage shed and, behind and detached from the salon, a small cottage-like building with an unprepossessing façade. Obviously this was 2442, though neither door nor front wall bore the number.
Three steps led up to the door. Sabina climbed them, her body bent against the damp wind that swirled through the cul-de-sac, and rapped on the panel with her gloved hand. There was no answer. Three more raps produced the same lack of response. On impulse she tested the latch, expecting to find it locked.
It wasn’t. There was an audible click and the door moved inward slightly under her hand.
She hesitated, glancing behind her. The cul-de-sac remained deserted. Quickly she pushed the door open, stepped through.
The odor that assailed her was strong enough to make her catch her breath.
Only once before during her professional life had she smelled anything like it, but that was more than enough to ensure that it could never be forgotten. Her stomach recoiled; she closed her throat against the rise of her gorge. From inside her bag she pinched out a lace handkerchief and held it over her nose and mouth as she moved farther inside.
Gloom coated the interior, the only windows tightly curtained. After a few seconds while her eyes adjusted, Sabina made out a table with a lamp atop it. She went there, found matches, and lit the wick—steeling herself for what the light would reveal.
The remains of Prudence Egan lay twisted on her back before a brocade-covered settee, one of only a few pieces of commonplace furniture. Blood stained the breast of what looked to be the same blue tailor-made suit the woman had worn on Tuesday afternoon. At the end of one outflung arm lay a small-caliber pistol, the tip of her index finger bent inside the trigger guard. Sabina ventured close enough to determine that Mrs. Egan had been stabbed, not shot—a single slash that must have penetrated her heart. The bloody tear in the shirtwaist below the wound indicated an underhand, upward thrust. An overturned chair and items that had been dislodged from a table next to the settee testified to a struggle before the fatal blow was struck.
Dead for several days, likely since sometime Tuesday.
Sabina fought down the urge to flee from the noxious odor of decomposition, hurried through an open doorway into what appeared to be the pied-à-terre’s only other room, a bedroom. The bed was neatly made, the counterpane smooth and unwrinkled. A wardrobe contained a small amount of clothing—dresses, skirts, shirtwaists, undergarments, and in one drawer a man’s black sweater and cap. There was nothing else except for a nightstand and a catchall table, each bearing a small lamp with a fringed shade.
Sabina hesitated in the doorway, surveying the main room. Nothing caught her eye except for the dead woman and the pistol. As much as she wanted to leav
e, to breathe the cold, moist air outside, she went instead to where the pistol lay. She knelt, drew a deep breath, picked up the weapon. In doing so, she noticed a long, evidently recent gouge along the sides of both gate and barrel. She held the muzzle to her nose long enough to determine that it had not been fired, then replaced the pistol in the exact position in which it had been before, with Prudence Egan’s finger touching the trigger guard.
Sabina was about to rise when something nearby that glinted in the lamplight caught her eye. A small, sharp-pointed piece of metal perhaps three-quarters of an inch long—the tip of a knife or dagger blade, she judged, an old one from the look of the metal. Very old. It was age stained, but it bore no trace of blood. She wrapped it in her handkerchief, taking and holding a deep breath as she did so, then quickly stood, switched off the lamp she’d lit, and made her exit.
The cul-de-sac was as deserted as before. Sabina stood breathing in great gulps of cold air until her head cleared and her stomach stopped doing nip-ups. Then she carefully folded the handkerchief to protect the broken knife tip and returned it to her bag.
Now she faced a quandary. On the one hand, if she reported Prudence Egan’s death to the police she would not only face a lengthy and likely unpleasant interrogation, but the details of Amity’s affair and the attempt on her life would come to light also. Homer Keeps and his unscrupulous brethren would have a field day. Such publicity would do serious damage not only to Amity, her marriage, and her fight for woman suffrage, but to Sabina’s professional reputation as well; Keeps would see to that. It might not be possible to keep a scandal under wraps in any case, but it was worth the effort to try.
But on the other hand, she couldn’t simply do nothing. The longer the dead woman remained undiscovered, the worse the situation inside would become. Allowing that to happen would be callous, irresponsible, downright heartless, and she was none of those things.
She hit upon a solution on her way back downtown. It was not a completely satisfactory compromise but appropriate enough under the difficult circumstances and a tolerable salve to her conscience. At the agency she found a sheet of notepaper and an envelope that did not bear the Carpenter and Quincannon name. On the paper she wrote in a sloping backhand that was nothing like her normal handwriting:
Your missus has herself a secret hideaway behind beauty salon at 2440 Larkin Street.
A friend
She penned Fenton Egan’s name and the words Very Important on the envelope in the same disguised hand, sealed the note inside, and put it into her bag. At Slewfoot’s newsstand on the corner of Market and Third, she paid the vendor ten dollars to have one of his trusted couriers deliver the envelope to the Egan residence in Pacific Heights. Even if the importer was not at home, the message would soon enough reach and be read by him. Sabina had no doubt that he would take immediate action to verify its authenticity.
* * *
The Voting Rights for Women benefit was reasonably successful. Attendance wasn’t quite as large as had been hoped for—though the rain held off, the churning fog was as wet as drizzle—but those who braved the weather were enthusiastic and generous. Most were women, naturally, running the gamut from shabbily dressed clerks and laundresses and scullery maids to fur-clad matrons from the upper-class neighborhoods, but there were more than a few male supporters as well. Amity’s impassioned speech brought cheers and resounding applause. Donations to the cause, from nickels and dimes to more than one five-dollar gold piece, amounted to upward of one hundred dollars.
Nathaniel Dobbs and his sign-carrying Antis were also there, of course, but their number was surprisingly few. And every time Dobbs attempted to interrupt the proceedings with one of his opposition rants he was shouted down and roundly booed.
Sabina’s decision to say nothing yet to Amity or Elizabeth about the violent death of Prudence Egan had been the right one.
19
QUINCANNON
It was midafternoon on Sunday when the Southern Pacific steamboat Delta Queen whistled for her arrival at Kennett’s Crossing. Quincannon, standing at the deckhouse rail with his valise in hand, had a clear view of the sorry little backwater as the packet drew up to the landing.
The hamlet’s buildings were all on the southwest side of a wide body of brownish water colorfully and no doubt accurately named Dead Man’s Slough. On both sides of the slough, a few hundred yards from where it merged with the broad expanse of the San Joaquin River, a raised levee road ended at a cable-operated ferry landing; the barge was presently anchored on this bank, next to a ramshackle ferryman’s shack built close to the edge of a thin rind of mud and cattails. A pair of large bells on wooden standards, one at each landing, were what travelers used to summon the tender when the ferry barge was on the opposite bank.
On this side the inn, a long, weathered structure built partly on solid ground and partly on thick pilings, stood next to the levee road. The rest of Kennett’s Crossing ran upward in a ragged line to where the slough narrowed and vanished among tangles of swamp growth and stunted oaks choked with wild grapevine. Its sum was approximately a dozen buildings and several shantyboats and houseboats tied to the bank alongside a single sagging wharf.
Quincannon was the only passenger to disembark. As soon as he stepped off, deckhands raised the gangplank and the Delta Queen’s whistle sounded again and her stern buckets immediately began to churn the river water to a froth. There was no sign of anyone abroad as he strode up the road to the inn. Scuds of dark-bellied clouds gave the place an even bleaker aspect, like a bad landscape painting done in chiaroscuro. The smell of ozone was sharp in the air. There would be rain by nightfall.
Two men were in the inn’s common room, a giant with a black beard twice as bushy as Quincannon’s and an old man with a glass eye and fierce expression, who slouched with hands on hips before a minimally stocked liquor buffet. They appeared to have been engaged in an argument, which ended abruptly upon Quincannon’s entrance. His deduction that the giant was the innkeeper proved to be correct; the gent’s name was Adam Kennett.
“Is it food, lodging, or both you’ll be wanting, mister?”
“Neither at the moment. It’s information I’m after.”
“What information would that be?”
It was overly warm in the room; heat pulsed from a glowing potbellied stove. Quincannon opened his chesterfield and unwound his muffler before speaking. “Did a woman arrive on one of the night boats from Stockton last night?” he asked. “Young, handsome, blond haired.”
“Young? Handsome? Phooey!” This came grumblingly from the old man. “Ain’t nobody like that in this miserable excuse for a town. Never has been, never will be.”
“I’ll have no more of that, Mr. Dana,” Kennett said.
Dana glared at him with his good eye. “An outrage, that’s what I call it. A damned outrage.”
“Watch your language. I won’t tell you again.”
“I’m a veteran, by grab, I served with McClellan’s Army of the Potomac in the War Between the States. I’m entitled to a drink of whiskey when I have the money to pay for it.”
“The buffet is temporarily closed,” Kennett explained to Quincannon. “And for good reason.”
“Good reason my hind end. Not a drop of spirits sold on account of religion, and me with a parched throat. It ain’t right, I tell you. I ain’t Catholic. I ain’t even a believer.”
“Well, I am.”
Quincannon said, “If the woman I described did arrive by steamer last night, would you be aware of it, Mr. Kennett?”
“No. I don’t stand down at the landing in the middle of the night, or the middle of the day, neither. Folks come to me if they want food or lodging. I don’t go looking for them.”
“Do you know a local man given to wearing a long buffalo coat?”
“That’s like asking if I know a local man wears galluses. Buffalo coats ain’t what you’d call uncommon around here.”
“Short, squat, large head, hardly any neck. Thirty-fiv
e or so.”
“That sounds like Gus Burgade,” the old man said.
Kennett shrugged. “Could be.”
“Who is Gus Burgade?” Quincannon asked.
“Runs a store boat, the Island Star. Puts up here sometimes when he’s not out making his rounds.”
Store boats, small in number, prowled the fifteen hundred square miles of sloughs and islands between Sacramento and Stockton, peddling everything from candy to kerosene to shantyboaters, small farmers, field hands, and other delta denizens. More than one of their owners were reputed to be less than honest. “Was the Island Star here night before last?”
“Sure it was,” Dana said. “Gone yestiday morning, though.”
“Due back when, do you know?”
“Later today or tomorrow, likely,” Kennett said. “You got business with Burgade?”
“I may have. With Mr. Noah Rideout, too. I take it you’re acquainted with him.”
“The high-and-mighty farmer?” The innkeeper’s voice took on a truculent edge. “I know him to speak to, not that he’ll have much truck with the likes of me.”
“Goddamn teetotaler,” Dana said. “Phooey!”
“I told you before to watch your language, mister. And keep your voice down, too, or out you go.”
“Throw me out with foul weather comin’, would you? And without so much as one little drink of whiskey to warm my bones.”
“One little drink is never enough for you.”
“How much whiskey I swallow ain’t nobody’s business but mine.”
Kennett sighed. “Burgade’ll have a jug of forty-rod for sale, if you’re willing to pay his price.”
“I’ll pay it, right enough, if he comes today. But I suppose I can’t bring the jug back here to sip on where it’s warm?”
“No, you can’t. Kennett’s Inn is a temporary temperance house.”
“Temporary temperance house. Phooey.” Dana moved away from the buffet, then stopped abruptly to give Quincannon a closer one-eyed scrutiny. “You a Johnny Reb?”
The Dangerous Ladies Affair Page 14