All eyes were on Quincannon now, Crabb glaring with feigned indignation, Dooley and Meeker showing their surprise. Quincannon favored them with the smile he reserved for moments such as these. It was time for him to take center stage, to reveal the deductive prowess that made him, in his estimation, the finest detective west of the Mississippi-a rôle he relished above all others.
Meeker said: “What are you saying, Mister Quincannon? That Crabb murdered my son?”
“With malice aforethought.”
“That’s a damn’ lie!” Crabb snapped. “Spook stuff scares the bejesus out of me. Ask Meeker, ask that old coot in the coffee saloon…they’ll tell you.”
“Spook stuff that you fear might be authentic, yes. But by the time you crouched in wait last night, you knew the truth about the Carville ghost.”
“What truth?” Dooley demanded.
“That it was all a sham designed to separate Mister Crabb from his cache of loot.”
“Loot? What loot?”
“The twenty-five thousand dollars he and his accomplice stole from Wells Fargo Express two weeks ago.”
Dooley gawped at him. Crabb shouted: “You’re crazy! You can’t pin that on me. You can’t prove anything against me.”
“I can prove that you murdered Jared Meeker,” Quincannon said, “by your own testimony. When I told you this morning that he’d been killed, you said…‘How can a damned ghost shoot a man?’ But I didn’t say how he’d been killed. How did you know he’d been shot unless you pulled the trigger yourself?”
“I just…ah…assumed it…”
“Bosh. You had no reason to assume such a fact.” Quincannon turned his attention to Dooley. “Jared Meeker was shot with a large-bore handgun, one with a considerable range…the very type Crabb carries. A search of his premises should provide additional evidence. Though not the loot from the robbery, or else Jared would have found it. It’s hidden elsewhere, likely buried under or near one of those abandoned cars…”
“Hold on, Quincannon,” Dooley said. “You telling us Jared Meeker knew Crabb was one of the bandits?”
“He did…because he was the other one, Crabb’s accomplice.”
Meeker emitted a wounded sound, puffed up, and stabbed the sand with his blackthorn stick. “That can’t be true!”
“But I’m afraid it is,” Quincannon said. “You told me yourself just now that the only job Jared held in his young life was that of a clerk in a shoe emporium on Kearney Street downtown…the same street and the very same block on which the Wells Fargo Express office is located, and a perfect position to observe the days and times large sums of cash were delivered. He fell in somehow with Crabb and together they planned and executed the robbery. Afterward they separated, Crabb evidently keeping the loot with him. The plan then called for Crabb to take up residence here in Carville, a place known to have been used before as a temporary hideout by criminals, until the hunt for the stolen money grew cold.
“My guess is that Jared grew impatient for his share of the spoils and Crabb refused to give it to him or to reveal where he’d hidden it. His first action would have been to search Crabb’s car when Crabb was away on one of his infrequent outings. When he didn’t find the loot, he embarked on a more devious, and foolish, course.”
Dooley asked: “Why didn’t he just throw down on Crabb and demand his share?”
“The lad wasn’t made that way. He was a sly schemer and likely something of a coward, afraid of a direct confrontation with his partner in crime. I’m sorry, Mister Meeker, but the evidence supports this conclusion.”
Meeker said nothing. He appeared to be slowly deflating.
Quincannon went on: “At some point during their relationship, Crabb revealed to Jared his fear of the supernatural. This was the core of the lad’s too-clever plan. He would frighten Crabb enough to force him to leave Carville after first digging up and dividing the loot. But he was careless enough to say or do something to alert Crabb to the game he was playing. That, and the probable fact that Crabb wanted the entire booty for himself, cost Jared his life.”
“So he was responsible for the spook business,” Dooley said.
“More than just responsible. He was the Carville ghost.”
“And just how did he manage that?”
“A remark Missus Meeker made yesterday alerted me to the method. She said that he was ‘a kiting youngster.’ At the time I took that to mean flighty, the runabout sort, but she meant it literally. His passion as a boy, as Mister Meeker confirmed to me a few minutes ago, was flying kites.”
“What does that have to do with…?”
Dooley stopped speaking abruptly. For just then Quincannon had removed from beneath his coat the wreckage he’d found earlier on the beach
“This is the Carville ghost, or what’s left of it,” he said. “A simple kite made of heavy canvas tacked onto a wooden frame, roughly fashioned in the shape of a man and coated with an oil-based paint mixed with phosphorous…all the tools for the making of which you’ll find in Jared’s steamer trunk. His game went like this. First he told Crabb that he’d seen spook lights among the abandoned cars and to watch for them himself. Then, past midnight, he slipped out, went to one of the cars, flashed the kite about to create the illusion of an otherworldly glow, used a tool made of a piece of wood and several nails…which you’ll also find in his trunk…to make clawlike scratches on the walls and floors, and then fled with the kite before Crabb or anyone else could catch him.”
Meeker asked dully: “How could he run across the tops of the dunes without leaving tracks?”
“He didn’t run across the tops, he ran along below and behind the dunes with the string played out just far enough to lift the kite above the crests. To hold it at that height, he used these”-Quincannon held out one of the lead sinkers he’d found-“to weight it down so he could control it in the wind. On dark, foggy nights, seen from a distance and manipulated by an expert kite flier, the kite gave every appearance of a ghostly figure bounding across the sandhills. And when he wanted it to disappear, he merely yanked it down out of sight, drew it in, and hid it under his coat. That was what he was about to do when Crabb shot him. When the bullet struck him, the string loosed from his hand and the kite was carried off by the wind. I saw flashes of phosphorescence, higher up, before it disappeared altogether. This morning I found the remains on the beach.”
Dooley said grudgingly: “By Godfrey, it all makes sense. You, Crabb, what do you have to say for yourself now?”
“Just this.” And before anyone could move, Crabb’s hand snaked under his coat and came out holding the large-bore Bisley Colt. “I didn’t let that feather-brain kid get his hands on this money and I ain’t about to let you do it, either. The lot of you, move on over to that car of mine.”
Nobody moved except Crabb. He backed up a step. “I mean it,” he said. “Be locked up until I’m clear or take a bullet where you stand. One killing or several, it don’t make any difference to me.”
He backed up another step. Unfortunately for him, the direction he took brought him just close enough for Quincannon to swat him with the wrecked kite. The blow pitched him off balance; before he could bring his weapon to bear again, Quincannon thumped him once on the temple and once on the point of the jaw. Crabb obligingly dropped the revolver and lay down quietly in the sand.
Quincannon massaged his bruised knuckles. “And what do you think of fly cops now, laddybuck?” he asked Dooley. “Do you mark John Quincannon higher in that book of yours than before?”
Dooley, bending down to Crabb with a pair of handcuffs, muttered something that Quincannon-perhaps fortunately-failed to catch.
Artemus Crabb, with a certain amount of persuasion from Dooley and the bluecoat, confessed to the robbery and the murder of Jared Meeker-the details of both being for the most part as Quincannon had surmised. The Wells Fargo money turned out to be buried beneath one of the abandoned cars; the full amount was there, not a penny having been spent.
; Crabb and the loot were carted away in the police hack, and young Jared’s remains in the morgue wagon. The Meekers followed the coroner in their buggy. Neither had anything to say to Quincannon, although Mrs. Meeker fixed him with a baleful glare as they pulled out. He supposed that the $1,000 Barnaby Meeker had promised him would not be paid, but even if it was offered, he would be hard pressed to accept it under the circumstances. He felt sympathy for the Meekers. The loss of a wastrel son was no less painful than the loss of a saintly one.
Besides, he thought as he clattered the rented buggy after the others, he would be well recompensed for his twenty-four hours in Carville-by-the-Sea and his usual brilliant detective work. The reward offered by Wells Fargo for the return of the stolen funds was ten percent of the total-the not inconsiderable sum of $2,500 to fatten the coffers of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Ser vices.
A smile creased his whiskers. A reward of that magnitude might well induce Sabina to change her mind about having dinner with him at Marchand’s French Restaurant. It might even induce her to change her mind about another type of celebratory entertainment. Women were mutable creatures, after all, and John Quincannon was nothing if not per sistent. One of these evenings he might yet be gifted with the only reward he coveted more than the purely financial…
Pickpocket A Sabina Carpenter Story
by Marcia Muller
Sabina Carpenter put on her straw picture hat and contemplated the hatpins in the velvet cushion on her bureau. After a moment she selected a Charles Horner design of silver and coral and skewered the hat to her upswept dark hair. The hatpin, a gift on her last birthday, was one of two she owned by the famed British designer. The other, a butterfly with an onyx body and diamond-chip wings was a gift from her late husband and much too ornate-to say nothing of valuable-to wear during the day.
Momentarily she recalled Stephen’s face: thin, with prominent cheekbones and chin. Brilliant blue eyes below dark brown hair. A face that could radiate tenderness-and danger. Like herself, a Pinkerton detective in Denver, he had been working on a land-fraud case when he was shot to death in a raid. It troubled Sabina that over the past few years his features had become less distinct in her memory, as had those of her deceased parents, but she assumed that was human nature. One’s memories blur; one goes on.
She scrutinized her reflection in the mirror and concluded that she looked more like a respectable young matron than a private detective setting out to trap a pickpocket. Satisfied, she left her second-story Russian Hill flat, passed through the iron picket fence, and entered a hansom cab that she had earlier engaged. It took her down Van Ness Avenue and south on Haight Street.
The journey was a lengthy one, passing through sparsely settled areas of the city, and it gave Sabina time to reflect upon the job ahead. Charles Ackerman, own er of the Haight Street Chutes amusement park and an attorney for the Southern Pacific and the Market Street and Sutter Street Railroads, had come to the offices of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, the previous morning. Sabina’s partner, John Quincannon, had been out of sorts because she had just refused his invitation to dinner at Marchand’s French restaurant. Sabina, a practical woman, refused many of John’s frequent invitations. Mixing business with pleasure was a dangerous proposition; it could imperil their partnership, an arrangement she was very happy with as it stood…
And yet, she did not find John unattractive. Quite the opposite…
Sternly Sabina turned her thoughts to the business at hand. Charles Ackerman had a problem at his newly opened amusement park on Haight Street near the southern edge of Golden Gate Park. Patrons had complained that a pickpocket was operating in the park, yet neither his employees nor the police had yet to observe any of the more notorious dips and cutpurses who worked the San Francisco streets. A clever woman, Ackerman said with a nod at Sabina, might be able to succeed where they had failed. John bristled at being excluded, then lapsed into a grumpy silence. Sabina and Ackerman concluded the conversation and agreed she would come to the park the next morning, after she had finished with another bit of pressing business.
The hack pulled to the curb between Cole and Clayton Streets. Sabina paid the driver and alighted, then turned toward the park. Its most prominent feature was a 300-foot long Shoot-the-Chutes, a double trestled track that rose seventy feet into the air. Passengers would ascend to a room at the top of the slides, where they would board boats for a swift descent to an artificial lake at the bottom. Sabina had heard that the ride was quite thrilling-or frightening, according to the person’s perspective. She herself would enjoy trying it.
In addition to the water slide, the park contained a scenic railway, a merry-go-round, various carnivallike establishments, and a refreshment stand. Ackerman had told Sabina she would find his manager, Lester Sweeney, in the office beyond the ticket booth. She crossed the street, holding up her slim flowered skirt so the hem wouldn’t get dusty, and asked at the booth for Mr. Sweeney. The man collecting admissions motioned her inside and through a door behind him.
Sweeney was at a desk that seemed too large for the cramped space, adding a column of figures. He was a big man, possibly in his late forties, with thinning red hair and a complexion that spoke of a fondness for strong drink. When he looked up at Sabina, his eyes, reddened and surrounded by pouched flesh, gleamed in appreciation. Quickly she presented her card, and the gleam faded.
“Please sit down, Missus Carpenter,” he said. “Mister Ackerman told me you’d be coming this morning.”
“Thank you.” Sabina sat on the single wooden chair sandwiched between the desk and the wall. “What can you tell me about these pickpocketing incidents?”
“They have occurred over the past two weeks, at different times of day. Eight in all. Word is spreading, and we’re bound to lose customers.”
“You spoke with the victims?”
“Yes, and there may have been others who didn’t report the incidents.”
“Was there anything in common that was reported?”
Sweeney frowned, thinking. The frown had an alarming effect on his face, making it look like something that had softened and spread after being left out in the rain. In a moment he shook his head. “Nothing that I can recall.”
“Do you have the victims’ names and addresses?”
“Somewhere here.” He began to shuffle through the many papers on his desk.
Sabina held up a hand and stood. “I’ll return to collect the list later. In the meantime, I trust I may have full access to the park?”
“Certainly, Missus Carpenter.”
Several hours later Sabina, who was familiar with most of San Francisco’s dips and cutpurses, had ascertained that none of them was working the Chutes. Notably absent were Fanny Spigott, dubbed “Queen of the Pickpockets,” and her husband Joe, “King of the Pickpockets,” who recently had plotted-unsuccessfully-to steal the 2,000-pound statue of Venus de Milo from the Louvre Museum in Paris. Also among the absent were Lil Hamlin, “Fainting Lil,” whose ploy was to pass out in the arms of her victims; Jane O’Leary, “Weeping Jane,” who lured her marks in by enlisting them in the hunt for her missing six-year-old, then relieved them of their valuables while hugging them when the precocious and well-trained child was found; “Fingers” McCoy claimed to have the fastest reach in town, and “Lovely Lena,” true name unknown, a blonde so captivating that it was said she blinded her victims.
While searching for her pickpocket, Sabina had toured the park on the scenic railway, eaten an ice cream, ridden the merry-go-round, and taken a boatride down the Chutes-which was indeed thrilling. So thrilling that she rewarded her bravery with a German sausage on a sourdough roll. It was early afternoon and she was leaving Lester Sweeney’s office with the list of the pickpocket’s victims when she saw an unaccompanied woman intensely watching the crowd around the merry-go-round. The woman moved foward, next to a man in a straw bowler, but when he turned and nodded to her, she stepped a few paces away.
The woman had light brown hair, upswept under a wide-brimmed straw picture hat similar to Sabina’s. She was slender, outfitted in a white shirtwaist and cornflower blue skirt. The hat shaded her features, and the only distinctive thing about her attire was the pin that held the hat to her head. Sabina-a connoisseur of hatpins-recognized it as a Charles Horner of blue glass overlaid with a gold pattern.
The woman must have felt Sabina’s gaze. She looked around, and Sabina saw she had blue eyes and rather plain features, except for a small white scar on her chin. Her gaze slid over Sabina, focused on a man to her right, but moved away when he reached down to pick up a fretting child. After a moment the woman turned and walked slowly toward the exit.
A pickpocket, for certain; Sabina had seen how they operated many times. She followed, keeping her eyes on the distinctive hatpin.
Fortunately there was a row of hansom cabs waiting outside the gates of the park. The woman with the distinctive hatpin claimed the first of these, and Sabina took another, asking the driver to follow the other hack. He regarded her curiously, no doubt unused to gentlewomen making such requests, but the new century was rapidly approaching, and with it what the press had dubbed the New Woman. Very often these days the female sex did not think or act as it once had.
The brown-haired woman’s cab led them north on Haight and finally to Market Street, the city’s main artery. There she disembarked near the Palace Hotel-as did Sabina-and crossed Market to Montgomery. It was 5:00 p.m. and businessmen of all kinds were pouring out of their downtown offices to travel the Cocktail Route, as the Gay Nineties young blades termed it.
From the Reception Saloon on Sutter Street to Haquette’s Palace of Art on Post Street to the Palace Hotel Bar, the influential men of San Francisco trekked daily, partaking of fine liquor and lavish free banquet spreads. Women-at least respectable ones-were not admitted to these establishments, but Sabina had ample knowledge of them from John’s tales of the days when he was a drinking man. He had been an operative with the U.S. Secret Service, until the accidental death by his hand of a pregnant woman turned him into a drunkard; those were the days before he met Sabina and embarked on a new, sober life…
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