The Bags of Tricks Affair

by Bill Pronzini

  Anger swelled in Quincannon again. He gave vent to a blistering nine-jointed oath of such inventive ferocity not even the likes of a shanghai crimp could have matched it. The outburst caused Nickerson to cringe in terror. He took another unsteady step backward, up against the wall beside the draftsman’s cabinet.

  In a near-whisper he said, stammering again, “W-what are you g-going to do now?”

  “What do you think I’m going to do? Get inside that damned building if I have to batter down the walls to do it.”

  “You won’t find G-Gaunt there. He—”

  “I don’t expect to find him there. You’re sure you have no idea where he went after he left you on Saturday?”

  “None. No, none.” Nickerson’s Adam’s apple went a-bobbing again. “What … what about me?”

  “What about you?”

  “You don’t intend to … to…”

  “Shoot you? Not if you’ve been truthful, told me everything you know.”

  “I have, I s-swear I have.”

  “Then I’ll leave you to stew in your own juices.” Quincannon added, glowering malignantly, “But if I find out you lied to me, or if you tell anyone I was here, I’ll come back and give you the beating of your life. Yes, and shoot off one of your ears for good measure. Understood?”

  “Uh … uh … uh … understood.”

  Quincannon left the land agent cowering against the wall, hurried out of the building and upstreet to where the rented buggy was parked. It was after three o’clock now. Low-hanging clouds and streamers of fog darkened the afternoon, and a sharp wind off the bay had lowered the temperature by several degrees. Out on the marshes it would be colder still—a frigid night ahead in such an unprotected area.

  He climbed up onto the seat, took up the reins and whip-flicked the roan into as fast a trot as traffic would permit.

  * * *

  The drive to South Basin took nearly an hour and seemed twice as long. He couldn’t maintain the headlong pace he’d have preferred for fear of exhausting the horse. Stopping en route to acquire such tools as a pry bar and sledgehammer would have wasted even more time; he would have to make do with whatever he found on the abandoned property to gain access to the shop. Sabina must not spend another night in that place.

  He refused to think of what her condition might be after three days’ incarceration. When he thought at all, it was with a burning hate for Jeffrey Gaunt. Nickerson had been right: the man was insane. Only a maniac would devise and carry out such an evil trick, the torturous destruction of one woman in order to save another.

  The land agent’s directions were true: Quincannon had no difficulty locating what was left of the old wagon road that led across the marshes to the point. The ruts, potholed in places, choked with weeds and grass, forced him to an even slower pace to avoid breaking an axle. As it was, the buggy jolted and rattled and he had to use the whip, something he disliked doing in normal circumstances, to keep the tired roan from balking. Low-hanging swirls of fog lowered visibility to no more than a hundred yards. Wind gusts carrying faint odors from the tannery chilled his face, twice threatened to tear the buggy’s hood loose from its fastenings.

  He hunched forward as the remains of the boat-repair business finally appeared ahead, ghost shapes rising out of the mist. Sight of them increased his urgency twofold. God Almighty, what a miserable place! He flicked the whip again to quicken the horse across the remaining distance, drew rein a dozen rods from the entrance to the main building. He set the brake, jumped down, ran to the rust-flecked corrugated iron doors.

  The padlock was stout and secure; one hard yank told him that. He beat on one of the door halves with his gloved fist, shouted Sabina’s name half a dozen times at the top of his voice. The noise he made shattered the cottony stillness, roused a fluttering group of shorebirds nearby, sent echoes chasing one another across the wasteland. He paused to listen, then pounded on the doors and yelled her name again. And again. And again.

  There was no response from within.

  Frantic now, Quincannon turned away and ran past the buggy and the blowing roan to the tumbledown shed. There was nothing inside it he could use to break the padlock, nothing at all except planks and fragments of tarpaper from its half-collapsed walls and roof. Outside again, he headed toward where the skeletal remains of hoist and dry-dock facilities jutted up out of nests of tall grass and weeds.

  That was when he heard the cry in the mist.

  At first he thought it was a gull or some other bird, but when it came again he jerked to a stop. Not a bird, a voice shouting his name. Then he saw the figure materialize like an apparition on the wagon ruts thirty yards away, come stumbling toward him.

  Sabina!

  Emotion overwhelmed him as he ran to meet her. She was both a wonderful and a ghastly sight. Her face scratched and mud flecked, her hair hanging in wet, tangled strands like black seaweed, her hands and arms raw with cuts and blisters, her slender body draped in a filthy, sodden evening cape. And she was in the grip of exhaustion; he reached her just in time to keep her from falling, held her by the arms for a moment, then embraced her as gently as the intensity of his feelings would allow. She clung to him, shivering.

  “I heard you shouting,” she said in a ragged half whisper. “I was hiding when you went by in the buggy, I couldn’t see you under the hood and I thought you were Gaunt. How did you know to come here…?”

  This was not the time for explanations, either his, or hers of how she’d escaped the padlocked repair shop. “Not now. You need to get out of those wet clothes, then away from here and into a doctor’s care.”

  “I’m … not badly hurt.”

  “The risk of pneumonia, my dear.”

  Quincannon lifted her into his arms, carried her to the buggy, placed her on the seat. She protested mildly when he took off the cape, the reason being that she wore nothing else except a wet, torn, muddy undergarment, but this was not the time for modesty, either. Swiftly he shed his greatcoat and slipped it around her. “Button yourself in after you’ve removed the undergarment,” he said. “I’ll wait with my back turned until you’re ready.”

  It didn’t take her long. When she called him back, he climbed up beside her and removed his hat, placed it on her head; as large as it was, it came down to eye level, covering most of her wet hair and serving as further protection from the cold. He would have given her his gloves, too, but she already had her injured hands thrust deep into the coat pockets.

  He took hold of the reins. Before he started the horse moving, he slipped his other arm around her shoulders and drew her against him. “To help keep you warm,” he said.

  “Yes, my dear, I know.”

  Despite the dire circumstances, her words deepened the tenderness he felt for her. He had addressed her as “my dear” on countless occasions, casually and not so casually; this was the first time she had ever used that term of endearment in return.

  24

  QUINCANNON

  The nearest physician he knew of was one he’d had dealings with before—Dr. Emil Jorgensen, whose home and practice were on Third Street. The doctor provided regular treatments for the chronic gout suffered by Mr. Boggs, head of the San Francisco branch of the Secret Service and Quincannon’s former boss, and Quincannon had once had occasion to call on him for treatment of a minor gunshot wound. Jorgensen was competent, trustworthy, and discreet.

  On the interminable buggy ride, there was little conversation until after they had crossed out of the marshland. Sabina pressed close, her hands thrust into the pockets of the greatcoat; its woolen warmth and Quincannon’s body heat ended her shivering except for a few random tremors. He was chilled himself, dressed as he was now in only his suit, vest, and gloves, but his own discomfort was of no consequence to him. His concern was entirely for Sabina’s welfare. He urged her to close her eyes and try to sleep, but the lurching and rattling of the carriage rendered that impossible.

  Once they were back on city streets, she roused somew
hat and asked him again how he’d known where she was. He told her. Then he asked the question that was uppermost in his mind.

  “Did Gaunt harm you in any way?”

  “No. Not in the sense you mean. An arm around my neck and a cloth soaked in ether over my nose and mouth. He was gone when I woke up in that … place.”

  “And he didn’t come back at any time?”

  “No. Simply left me there without food or water.”

  To die of starvation or, far worse, the merciless assault of hungry rats. Damn Gaunt’s black soul to hell!

  “How did you manage to escape?”

  “By luck and force of will.” She briefly summarized the method she’d used; it was plain that she had no desire to relive the experience in detail. “If I had had an inkling that you’d be able to find me, I wouldn’t have been quite so desperate to get out.”

  “But you didn’t. You couldn’t have. You did what you had to do to save yourself.”

  It must have been after six o’clock when they finally reached Dr. Jorgensen’s. Fortunately he kept late office hours and there were no patients present when Quincannon helped Sabina inside. The doctor’s wife also served as his nurse; she took immediate charge of Sabina, ushering her into the surgery to cleanse her and provide hot liquids and garments to cover her nakedness, while Quincannon tersely explained to Jorgensen what had happened, making no mention of Jeffrey Gaunt’s name or the circumstances that had led to Sabina’s weakened and wounded condition. No questions were forthcoming; the doctor’s only interest, as always, was in fulfilling his Hippocratic oath and otherwise minding his own business. When Sabina was ready to be examined and her injuries treated, he hurried out without a word.

  Quincannon waited, pacing and fidgeting in the anteroom. Every time his thoughts touched on Jeffrey Gaunt, a wild fury took hold of him. But it was an impotent fury, here and now, and served no purpose except to raise his blood pressure to the danger level. The time for retribution would come. Not soon enough to suit him, but not far off, either.

  Mrs. Jorgensen appeared with a steaming mug of coffee for him. She wouldn’t say anything about Sabina’s condition; that was the doctor’s purview when he finished his ministrations.

  Half an hour crawled away. And another fifteen minutes before Jorgensen appeared. His thin, ascetic face was as expressionless as always, but there was reassurance in his voice when he spoke. “Mrs. Carpenter is as well as can be expected under the circumstances. Hypothermia, three days without water or nourishment, numerous lacerations and abrasions … most women would be prostrated by such an ordeal.”

  “She will be all right?”

  “Barring the onset of pneumonia, yes, and I could detect no pulmonary edema—fluid in the lungs. Complete bed rest is indicated. I recommend she remain here for two or three days, where my wife and I can keep a close eye on her. We have the facilities, as you know.”

  “Whatever you say, Doctor. I’d like to see her before I leave.”

  “I’ve given her a sleeping draught. But yes, briefly, if she is still awake.”

  Sabina was in the Jorgensens’ two-bed ward at the rear of the house. Both her hands had been bandaged, iodoform dabbed on a facial cut, and her hair rubbed dry and covered with a woolen cap. She appeared small and pale and very young—an image that brought a lump to Quincannon’s throat.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “I know I look a fright, but I’m not at death’s door yet.”

  He managed a small smile. “Of course you’re not. You’ll be fine after a few days’ rest.”

  “John … what are you going to do about Gaunt?”

  “Find him, as fast I can.”

  “He’s not in the city. He had no reason to stay. I think he went back to Grass Valley to be near Lady One-Eye.”

  “Yes. So do I.”

  “So you intend to go up there after him. And then what?”

  Quincannon said carefully, “That depends on him.”

  “You mustn’t shoot him down in cold blood. I don’t want that kind of vengeance.” Her eyelids fluttered, closed, as the sleeping draught took effect. “Promise me, John.”

  He didn’t have to promise her, for in the next few seconds, consciousness left her. Just as well, because the promise would have been one he was not at all sure he’d be able to keep.

  * * *

  Before leaving, Quincannon told Dr. Jorgensen that a pressing business matter would prevent him from returning for at least two days. There was no need to impart this information to Sabina when she awakened, he said; she would know where he’d gone and why. Payment for the physician’s services was not mentioned. Jorgensen’s fees were reasonable, and he knew that Quincannon, like Mr. Boggs, was scrupulous in honoring his debts.

  He drove to the United Carriage Company’s stables on Eighth Street, where he relinquished the rented horse and buggy. Without objection, he paid an extra fee for what the dour hostler referred to, after a brief examination, as “undue wear and tear” on both animal and equipage. Then he hired a cab to take him to his flat.

  Although he had no appetite, he hadn’t eaten a bite in twenty-four hours—a sandwich quickly consumed during his Sunday-night rounds. And Sabina’s weakened condition was a sharp reminder of the need for sustenance. He kept little enough in the way of provisions at the flat, taking most of his meals in restaurants and Hoolihan’s Saloon, but he found a wedge of cheese and half a loaf of stale bread and forced down another sandwich.

  Rest was another necessary commodity, the more so for what lay ahead of him on the morrow. He packed a few things into his traveling valise, among them extra cartridges for his Navy Colt, then crawled into bed. As weary as he was, sleep came easily enough—but not before he set his reliable internal clock for five A.M.

  25

  QUINCANNON

  With Sabina for company, time had passed swiftly enough on his previous trips on the eastbound Southern Pacific train into the Sierras. This one dragged interminably. He couldn’t seem to sit still, got up from his seat every few minutes to pace through the cars.

  When they arrived at last at Colfax, his patience was further tested by a thirty-minute wait for the next Nevada County Narrow Gauge train. By the time that slow conveyance, with its numerous passenger stops, traversed the three miles from Nevada City to the Grass Valley station, it was after three o’clock and his patience was gone, his temper short, and his simmering anger near the boiling point.

  Waves of sticky heat assailed him as he made his way up East Main to the city jail. Back and forth the past week from sweatbox to summer chill to sweatbox—bah! Now all he needed was for Sheriff Hezekiah Thorpe to be away from his office.

  But he was spared that, at least. Thorpe was present, seated at his desk under a sluggish fan, sweat glistening on his seamed and side-whiskered face. He blinked his surprise at seeing Quincannon come marching in.

  “What in tucket brings you back here?”

  “Jeffrey Gaunt.”

  “Gaunt? Didn’t you get my wire?”

  “That he’d left Grass Valley for parts unknown, yes.”

  “Not that one,” Thorpe said, “the one I sent yesterday afternoon.”

  “No, I didn’t.” It must have come in after he’d left the agency offices to pay his call on D. S. Nickerson. “What did it say?”

  “That Gaunt’s back. Seems he went down to Sacramento to arrange with a lawyer to represent his sister at the trial.”

  The devil he did! “He tell you that himself?”

  “When he came in to visit her. I sent the wire right afterward.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  Thorpe, a shrewd old bird, sensed the tension and anger in Quincannon. “What do you want with him? You got some kind of bone to pick?”

  Quincannon was not about to confide his purpose, not yet. The sheriff would either try to talk him out of it, or demand to join forces with him, and Thorpe had no more legal standing than he did, Sabina’s abduction having taken place i
n San Francisco. No matter how it played out, this was between Quincannon and Gaunt and nobody else.

  He said shortly, “Personal business. Where is he lodged? The Holbrooke?”

  “No. Same place he’s been staying ever since Amos McFinn evicted him. Lily Dumont’s cottage.”

  “What? You mean with her?”

  “No. She packed up and made herself scarce right after you and Mrs. Carpenter left,” Thorpe said. “Afraid of what Glen Bonnifield might do to her, I reckon. He was keeping her, all right. And damn mad when he recovered. Went and talked to Gaunt, or vice versa—I never did get the straight of that—and they worked up an arrangement.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know if Gaunt is at the cottage now?”

  “Nope. He came in to see Lady One-Eye earlier, but where he went after that I couldn’t tell you.” The sheriff paused; his gaze held steely glints. “This personal business you have with Gaunt. Must be pretty important to bring you all the way up here now, with the trial only a few days off.”

  “It is. Very important.”

  “Won’t jeopardize the case against Lady One-Eye, will it?”

  “On the contrary,” Quincannon said. “One way or another, it’ll ensure that she’s convicted.”

  “One way or another? You want to elaborate on that?”

  “Not now, Sheriff. Later, after I have my talk with Gaunt.”

  “You listen here now, I don’t want any more trouble in my town—”

  But Quincannon wasn’t listening. He was already on his way out.

  * * *

  Gaunt was not at Lily Dumont’s cottage.

  Quincannon rattled his knuckles loudly on the door several times before subsiding. What now? It was too blasted hot to chase around hunting his quarry; Gaunt could be anywhere in Grass Valley, or in Nevada City at Bonnifield’s Ace High Saloon. On impulse Quincannon tried the door latch. Locked, naturally. He could pick the lock, or the one on the rear door as he’d done that night the previous week, and wait inside to catch Gaunt by surprise. But that was a mug’s game, the disadvantage outweighing the advantage. Illegal trespass would not mitigate in his favor with Sheriff Thorpe no matter how the confrontation with Gaunt played out.