The Bags of Tricks Affair

by Bill Pronzini

  She wondered, not for the first time, how he would have felt about John. Would he have approved of John’s sometimes unorthodox and idiosyncratic methods, his sly sense of humor, his lofty opinion of his detective abilities? Would they have gotten along had they ever met? She sensed that they would have. They were cut from the same cloth, both courageous, strong-willed, dedicated, compassionate, caring. Stephen would have admired John, and John him, she decided. The thought was somehow comforting.

  In the small kitchen and dining room, Sabina gave the cats another portion of the raw fish they liked and then prepared a light supper for herself. Finished eating, she sat in the parlor with a copy of The Old Curiosity Shop. Dickens was one of her favorites; she found his work both stimulating and relaxing, the kind of fiction in which she could lose herself for hours at a time. She read until after ten o’clock, and when she went to bed Adam and Eve followed her and curled up at her side.

  She dreamed of Stephen, a dream the details of which she couldn’t remember in the morning. But John was in it, too, lurking … no, that was the wrong word … hovering somewhere in the background.…

  * * *

  The first responses to her partner’s various inquiries were delivered shortly after she opened the office for business on Thursday morning. One was a wire from the Pinkerton office in Kansas City, stating that they had no information on the self-styled “cloud cracker” who called himself Leonide Daks. The second came by telephone from police lieutenant William Price, shortly after John arrived; he took the call. From his end of the conversation, and his frustrated expression when he ended it, Sabina knew what to expect even before he spoke to her.

  “Not a blasted thing on Jeffrey Gaunt,” he said. “No known criminal record in California, Arizona, or Nevada.”

  “Lady One-Eye? Her late husband?”

  “The same. You spotted her card manipulation trick, but no one else seems to have since her arrival in this part of the country.” He added darkly, “Or to have survived long enough to press charges if they did.”

  “She is, or was, a very good mechanic,” Sabina said. “And very careful to use her trick only when it gave her a definite advantage. No one else she played was privy to my knowledge or experience, evidently.”

  “At least not in three states. But Price agreed to check with others. And mayhap the Pinkerton office in New Orleans will have news when they respond to my wire.”

  In the next hour two more collect wires were delivered in tandem by a Western Union messenger. One was from the Pinkerton office in Denver, signed by a resident operative Sabina knew from her Pink Rose days, Jeremy Link; the other was from the detective agency in Cincinnati. Neither had a dossier on a bogus rainmaker answering to the descriptions and methodology of Leonide Daks and his cohorts.

  The lack of progress put John into one of his restless funks. He left shortly afterward on an unspecified errand, saying he would return in the early afternoon.

  Not long after his departure, a second call came through the Telephone Exchange. This one was for Sabina, from her cousin, Callie French.

  Callie was not only her closest living relative, but her best friend in the city. Like Sabina, Callie had been born in Chicago, but her family had moved to California five years later, lived in Oakland for a time, then settled in San Francisco when her father was promoted to the regional headquarters of the Miner’s Bank. Shortly after her debut as a debutante, she had married Hugh French, a protégé of her father’s, in a lavish wedding that reputedly (though incorrectly, as Callie later confided) cost fifty thousand dollars. When Sabina had come here from Denver to join John in establishing Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, Callie had been her entrée into the lives and intrigues of the city’s social elite.

  As kind and supportive as she was, she had two less than endearing traits. One was that of inveterate matchmaker, having been the catalyst for Sabina’s brief and abortive romance with Carson Montgomery the previous year, and since then a staunch promoter of her budding personal relationship with John. The other was constant fretting over the dangers of Sabina’s profession. It was the latter that had prompted her call.

  “Oh, I’m so glad you’re back safe and sound,” her voice said in relieved tones. “You know how I worry when I don’t hear from you. Did everything go well in … where was it you and John went? Nevada County?”

  “Yes. Our investigation had a satisfactory resolution.”

  “I would love to hear the details, if you’re able to confide them.”

  “Well, some, perhaps.”

  “And I have some juicy bits of gossip to share with you in return,” Callie said. “Are you free for luncheon today, dear?”

  Sabina hesitated, but only for a moment. She had to eat, after all; and there was little enough for her to do here at the moment. Callie was always pleasant company and her tidbits of gossip worth listening to, and she wouldn’t be put off a get-together for long. Today was as good a time as any.

  They arranged to meet at noon at the Sun Dial, one of Callie’s favorite restaurants. As usual, her cousin was already at table when Sabina arrived, her plump and tightly corseted body encased in a stylish Charvet dress and chemisette, her blond hair braided and coiled in the current fashion. Past her fiftieth year now, she was still a handsome woman, though her fondness for sweets had added some twenty pounds to her once svelte figure.

  Callie was full of questions as they dined, she on a veal chop, Sabina on crab cakes. She chuckled at Sabina’s account of her make-believe performance as the Saint Louis Rose, exclaimed over the turn of events that had led to the fatal shooting of Jack O’Diamonds, expressed astonishment at the method with which Lady One-Eye had disposed of her philandering husband.

  The one thing Sabina made no mention of was Jeffrey Gaunt’s threat; it would have thrown Callie into a tizzy of concern greater than John’s, led her once again to fuss over the dangers, real and imagined, of Sabina’s profession.

  Her “juicy bits of gossip” in return were of the mildly scandalous variety. One of her very best friends—she had the grace not to name the woman—was indulging in a clandestine affair with a tradesman well below her station. And a business acquaintance of Hugh’s, whom Callie did name, had made a series of bad investments and was in serious financial straits as a result. Prattle, for the most part, to which Sabina listened politely. Transgression among the upper echelons of society held little interest for her unless they had relevance within her own sphere—as had been the case earlier in the year when the life of her suffragist friend Amity Wellman had been endangered as the result of a foolish affaire de coeur.

  Over dessert, Callie probed, as she was wont to do, into Sabina’s personal life. Had John shown any inclination that he was thinking of asking for her hand in marriage? No? Oh, but he would, surely. And the answer would be yes when he did, wouldn’t it? Callie’s eyes gleamed eagerly; there was nothing she’d have liked better than to arrange and host a lavish wedding celebration along the lines of her own. Sabina would have liked nothing less. Pomp and circumstance of any kind held no appeal for her. If John ever did propose and she accepted, their union would be a small, quiet, and dignified event, no matter how much Callie protested.

  It was one-forty when they parted company, and nearly two when Sabina returned to the agency. As she was about to enter the building, a voice called her name. She turned to see the familiar Western Union messenger, a lad named Silas, hurrying toward her with an envelope in hand.

  “Another collect wire, Mrs. Carpenter,” he said. “You folks sure must be busy these days. This is the fifth I’ve delivered today and the second in the past hour.”

  “Yes, very busy. How much is it?”

  “Twelve seventy-five. Another long one. Even longer than the previous one—that was eleven-twenty. For a change Mr. Quincannon didn’t bat an eye when he paid me.” A reference to John’s usual grumbling manner whenever he was required to pay cash for something that could not be added to
a client’s expense account.

  “I don’t have that much in my bag,” Sabina said. “Come upstairs and I’ll pay you in the office.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Gladly.”

  The agency door was locked; John had gone again after receiving the other long wire. Inside, she took thirteen dollars from petty cash and paid Silas, telling him to keep the quarter change for himself. It would make up for the lack of any largesse from John on the previous delivery. Naturally he didn’t believe in tipping for services rendered.

  His desktop was empty, as was hers; he must have taken the other wire with him. Something to do with the Delford matter, then. If it contained information regarding Jeffrey Gaunt, he would have remained here to show it to her or left it for her to peruse.

  The newly delivered wire had been sent by the agent in charge of the Pinkerton’s New Orleans office. And it did contain information on Blanche Gaunt Diamond and her brother.

  The semi-coded message translated to this: Although neither Jeffrey Gaunt nor his sister had a criminal record in Louisiana or Texas, they had been suspected of criminal acts in both states. Lady One-Eye of cheating at cards, Gaunt of being mixed up in a shady land-speculation deal with a man named D. S. Nickerson—and both of involvement in not one but two homicides.

  The first of the homicides had taken place in New Orleans five years ago, shortly after the land-speculation swindle was uncovered. A small-time gambler named Purdy had publicly accused Lady One-Eye of fleecing him at poker; she had denied the charge and her brother had threatened Purdy in front of witnesses. Three days later the gambler had been shot to death in a crowded French Quarter club—Lady One-Eye perhaps having been responsible, by means of the same hidden-revolver trick she’d used to dispatch her philandering husband. She and Gaunt were questioned by police and released for lack of evidence, but both were ordered to leave New Orleans and never return. Jack O’Diamonds was not involved, having been away on one of the Mississippi River packets at the time.

  The victim in the second homicide, three years ago in San Antonio, had been a wealthy landowner, Herman Jackson, who’d taken a shine to Lady One-Eye and made bold advances to her. No public threats were made against him by either her or her brother, but not long afterward he had been found dead in a horse stall in his stable, his head bashed in. Again Gaunt and Lady One-Eye had been questioned but not charged. For lack of evidence to the contrary, a coroner’s jury had concluded that the landowner had been kicked to death by one of his prize thoroughbreds.

  As provocative as this material was, it provided no proof that Jeffrey Gaunt had gone to lethal lengths to protect and avenge his sister. He may have killed the Texas landowner, and been complicit in the murder of the New Orleans gambler, but it was also possible that neither of them had had a hand in the first death and that the second had in fact been accidental.

  John would surely take the grim view, that of Gaunt as a cold-blooded murderer, and insist upon acting as her bodyguard until after Lady One-Eye’s trial, to the neglect of the Delford matter and his other investigative work. It might even incite him to rush back to Grass Valley and confront Gaunt—a foolish act with potentially deadly consequences.

  She couldn’t let either of those things happen. And since he might not listen to the voice of reason, there was only one way to prevent it.

  Don’t let him see the wire.

  Sabina refolded it, returned it to the envelope, and tucked the envelope into the bottom drawer of her desk. Withholding pertinent information from her partner was something she seldom did, but in this case it seemed justified. She was not afraid of Jeffrey Gaunt, whether he was murderously inclined or not, and she refused to be intimidated or coddled.

  Let him attempt to carry out his threat; he would regret it if he did. She was as adept with pistol or derringer as any man alive.

  11

  QUINCANNON

  The daily train to Stockton and the San Joaquin Valley departed from Third and Townsend at 9:45 A.M. Aram Kasabian had already boarded and was waiting in the private Pullman compartment he’d booked when Quincannon arrived. The banker was still plainly nervous, his hands opening and closing restlessly as if he were attempting to pluck dust mites from the pale shaft of sunlight filtering in through the window.

  Quincannon stowed his valise on the overhead rack. It was still cool in the city, but he wore a lightweight linen suit and blue silk vest in anticipation of the San Joaquin Valley heat. Kasabian, on the other hand, was once again draped in his banker’s duds, the starched collar included.

  “I hope there won’t be any delays today,” he said as Quincannon took the seat across from him. “The sooner we arrive in Delford, the better for my nerves.”

  “Fretting won’t get us there any more quickly.”

  “I know. But I can’t help worrying that Daks—”

  “Saxe,” Quincannon corrected. “Leopold Saxe.”

  “Yes, that Saxe and his accomplices have already absconded with the coalition’s payment.”

  “They have no cause to believe that we’re onto them, or that they’re about to be arrested.”

  “They still might have decided to leave early.”

  “If they did, our wire yesterday to your town marshal will have prevented it. You said Tom Boxhardt is a competent lawman.”

  “Yes, but with no experience in this sort of business. His peacekeeping duties are mostly limited to the arrest of drunks and rowdies on Saturday night. He also has but one deputy.”

  “And the authority, don’t forget, to deputize others if necessary.”

  Kasabian mopped his forehead dry with a large red handkerchief. “I would feel better if he had the authority to arrest the lot of them.”

  “But he doesn’t, not without a proper warrant. Technically the con artists have yet to do anything illegal in Delford.”

  “But they’re wanted in two states—”

  “Three.”

  “All the more reason for them to be held until County Sheriff Beadle arrives from Fresno with the warrant. I still don’t see why the wire you received wasn’t sufficient cause for Marshal Boxhardt to take them into custody.”

  Quincannon reined in a sharp retort. The wire, now safely tucked into the breast pocket of his coat, had come from an operative named Hooper in the Pinkerton Agency’s Chicago office. Hooper had provisionally identified “Leonide Daks” as an alias of Leopold Saxe, and his two cohorts as Mortimer Rollins and Cora Lee Johnson. Saxe and Rollins had operated confidence swindles dating back ten years, to their days as Chicago theatrical performers—low comedy and specialty acts in variety beer halls. More confidence men than one might suppose had such backgrounds. Since becoming professional con artists they had left a trail of victims in Illinois, Missouri, and Nebraska. Rainmaking was their most recent dodge, begun when Saxe had met and taken up with Cora Lee Johnson in Omaha two years ago; she was his mistress, not his wife. Before that the men had posed as mining-stock speculators, purveyors of a fountain-of-youth elixir, and inventors of an electric cancer cure.

  With more patience than he felt Quincannon once again pointed out to his client that the wire and the information it contained held no legal weight; that despite the similarity in names Leonide Daks had not yet been officially identified as Leopold Saxe, nor his accomplices under their real names.

  “But if their true identities haven’t been verified,” Kasabian said, “how could the arrest warrant have been issued?”

  Quincannon refrained from asking him how a seemingly intelligent banker could be so dull-witted on occasion. He and Hooper had notified the authorities in the three states where Saxe, Rollins, and Cora Lee Johnson were wanted, and of their suspicions that the threesome was presently operating in northern California; this had been enough for the Illinois attorney general to request that they be arrested and detained. Once their identities were confirmed, extradition would be arranged.

  He had just finished explaining this for the second time when the engineer sounded his whistl
e and the conductor’s shout of “All aboard!” went up. Kasabian heaved a long sigh as the cars jerked into motion. “About time,” he said.

  Quincannon produced, charged, and fired his pipe. The banker continued to fidget as the train rolled out of the yards, began to pick up speed. “I must say, Mr. Quincannon,” he said then, “I’m glad you consented to join me today. It’s not a trip I would have relished taking alone.”

  “I always see my investigations through to the finish.”

  “Commendable, sir. Commendable.”

  Such had been Quincannon’s code of ethics throughout his careers as Secret Service operative and private investigator, and he had never yet broken it. But he was reluctant nonetheless in this case. Neither his wires, Lieutenant Price’s inquiries, nor the efforts of Ezra Bluefield and Slewfoot had produced a single bit of information about Jeffrey Gaunt. Or, for that matter, Lady One-Eye. This should have eased his concern over Sabina’s safety, but it didn’t.

  She’d insisted that he make the trip. As she rightly pointed out, his usual stellar detective work was responsible for the apprehension of three wanted fugitives, and it was fitting and proper that he be present to receive the accolades of Delford’s citizens and the county law. Well and good, then. If all went according to plan, he would be back in San Francisco tomorrow afternoon. A day and a half was not such a long time to be away, after all—or so he kept telling himself.

  The ride to Delford seemed interminable, the more so because Kasabian in his nervousness indulged in nonstop chatter even when Quincannon pretended to be asleep. And once they entered the San Joaquin Valley, the intense summer heat turned the compartment into a sweatbox. Opening a window was not an option; it would only have let in flying cinders from the locomotive’s stacks as well as more dry heat.