Stephen had been a wonderful lover: gentle, considerate, always seeking to pleasure her as well as himself. So was John. Not that she would ever compare them, but she couldn’t help thinking that John was … well, more experienced in the art of lovemaking. From years of long practice with numerous conquests, no doubt, not that his profligate past bothered or concerned her. The thought of their most recent coupling brought warmth out of the high collar of her lace-trimmed shirtwaist. Shameless woman. No. Just a woman in love for the second and final time.
She hadn’t told or even hinted to her closest confidantes, Amity Wellman and Callie French, about the premarital consummations, though if she had she suspected that they would not have been disapproving. Callie, in fact, would probably have congratulated her for finally shedding her inhibitions. Her middle-aged cousin’s plump, matronly demeanor concealed a permissive attitude and an occasionally ribald sense of humor (she had once intimated that she’d been something of a bawd in her youth). She was also an inveterate matchmaker; she’d actually cheered when Sabina told her of John’s proposal and her acceptance.
Predictably, Callie had insisted on hosting the wedding at the Frenches’ Van Ness Avenue mansion. Sabina, after consulting with John, had agreed on the firm condition that invitations were to be issued to just a select few of their friends and business acquaintances. If she’d given Callie carte blanche, the occasion would have evolved into an extravaganza, complete with an orchestra to play the Wedding March and a guest list that included members of the socially elite she barely knew. Even what Callie referred to as “small, intimate dinner parties” invariably turned into showcase affairs. It had been at one of those, Sabina had reminded her, that she’d met handsome Carson Montgomery of the rich and powerful Montgomery clan. Their brief mutual infatuation had not ended well, in large part because of the rattling skeleton in Carson’s closet.
Three weeks from Saturday—that was the day she would become Mrs. John Frederick Quincannon. Now that the date had been set, invitations were ready to be sent out and other arrangements attended to—all except her selection of a wedding gown, and a decision John kept waffling on as to whom he wanted to be his best man. As for their honeymoon, a reservation had already been made at a secluded inn in the Valley of the Moon …
Enough daydreaming. There was business to attend to—a report on her investigation of a series of shopliftings that had plagued the White House and City of Paris dry goods emporiums. It had taken her just three days to spot the pair of young women, working in tandem, who were responsible for the thefts, track them to a Folsom Street apartment, and there recover most of the stolen items.
She consigned the scrap of notepaper and altered business card to the wastebasket, put a Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services letterhead on her blotter, and reached again for her pen.
Outside, a Market Street trolley car came rumbling up from the Ferry Building, followed by a much louder noise, stutteringly explosive, that drowned out the trolley’s clanging bell and clattering passage. Sabina didn’t have to look out the window to tell that the din had been created by a horseless carriage. You saw more and more of the rackety things on the city’s streets these days, tearing along at speeds up to twenty miles per hour, frightening pedestrians and animals with their tailpipe eruptions. It wouldn’t be long after the new century arrived in two years, she predicted, before motorcars replaced horse-drawn conveyances as the primary method of transportation. John, who disliked change, chafed at the idea, but it didn’t disturb her. Progress was inevitable; it was pointless to not accept its benefits and disregard its drawbacks.
She dipped her pen into the ink jar and wrote the report in duplicate, one copy for each of the gentlemen at the White House and the City of Paris who had joined together to seek her services. She had just finished enveloping the reports when John returned. The Seth Thomas wall clock gave the time as a few minutes before three.
She said, smiling, “Rather a long luncheon, my dear,” as he shed his derby and Chesterfield.
“Yes, but we didn’t dine until one o’clock. I stopped at the bank on the way back.”
“How was the fare at the Olympic Club?”
“I can’t say. Mr. Hoxley ordered for the table—barley soup and vegetable salad. His idea of a healthy meal, not mine or the other gent’s—James O’Hearn, superintendent of the Monarch Mine.”
“A productive meeting, was it?”
John rubbed at the scar tissue on his left ear. “Very productive.”
“You were offered an assignment?”
“Yes. A lucrative one.”
“To do what?”
He touched his ear again, then fluffed his beard. Something was weighing on his mind; she could tell by the indulgence in his habitual gestures, his slightly distracted mien. “Undercover work,” he said.
“What sort of undercover work? Something to do with the Monarch Mine?”
“Yes. It’s one of Hoxley and Associates’ largest and most profitable holdings.”
“Located where?”
He crossed to his desk before answering, taking out his briar pipe and tobacco pouch on the way. Definitely something on his mind. Sabina had a sudden feeling it was something she would not be pleased to learn.
“Near a settlement called Patch Creek, northeast of Marysville,” he said when he was seated.
“What sort of trouble are they having?”
He packed and fired his pipe. “A gang of high-graders has been systematically looting the mine,” he said between puffs. “Neither Hoxley nor O’Hearn has any idea of how it’s being done or exactly who the thieves are, but O’Hearn has a notion that an outsider named Yost may be involved.”
“What makes him think so?”
“No specific reason, other than Yost has shown up in Patch Creek three times in the past month, claiming to be a representative of a newly formed organization called the Far West Mine Workers Union but not doing much in the way of recruiting. Mostly he plays stud poker and drinks with the miners, the rest of the time keeping to himself. His most recent arrival was two days ago—not on union business this time, so he claims, but with an alleged interest in buying land in the area.”
“That seems a rather flimsy cause for suspicion.”
“Perhaps. Mine bosses are always leery of union men and their motives.”
“So Mr. Hoxley wants you to travel to the gold camp and investigate the high-grading.”
“In the guise of a hardrock miner, yes.”
“John…”
“Yes, I know,” he said, “not an easy imposture to carry off. But it can be managed.”
“When would you have to leave?”
“As soon as possible. Tonight or tomorrow morning.”
Sabina’s own suspicions were fully aroused now. She said coolly, “It sounds as though it will be a lengthy undertaking.”
“Not necessarily.”
“But likely, given the circumstances.”
“The financial reward is considerable—a guaranteed per diem fee, plus all expenses and a substantial bonus upon successful completion.”
“Guaranteed fee for how long?”
“Ah, one month.”
“And we’re to be married in three weeks. Or have you forgotten?”
“Of course I haven’t forgotten—”
“But you accepted the assignment nonetheless.”
“I did, but—”
“Without consulting with me first.”
“I wanted to, and I would have if Hoxley hadn’t demanded an immediate answer. I had to make a swift decision—”
“And of course you opted for the considerable financial reward.”
“It was not an easy choice, believe me. I agonized over it.”
“Bosh. Will you ever get over your lust for Mammon?”
“You wound me deeply, my dear. A fair wage for services rendered can hardly be called a lust for Mammon.”
Sabina bit back more harsh words; it would have
been like flinging them at a stone wall. She released a sighing breath. “Have it your way, John.”
“Was I wrong in thinking you wouldn’t be upset at the possibility of a brief postponement?”
Now there was a disingenuous statement if ever she’d heard one. “Well, I’m certainly not pleased at the prospect. Neither will Callie be.”
“But invitations haven’t yet been sent out, have they? Or catering arrangements made that can’t be changed? It isn’t as if the wedding is to be one of your cousin’s elaborate affairs…”
Sabina said nothing.
“Evidently I was wrong and you are upset. I apologize, truly. If you object to a potential delay, I will notify Mr. Hoxley that I’ve changed my mind and we’ll proceed with the wedding as planned.”
Oh, drat the man! He sounded contrite and appeared a trifle hangdog … shamming? No. John had his faults, heaven knew, but devious deception was not one of them, at least not in his relations with her. If she insisted, he would do as he’d said and cancel his acceptance, but it was plain that he wanted the job, and that he was loath to disappoint a man of Everett Hoxley’s stature and influence. His agreement to the undercover assignment cast no reflection on his love for her or his desire for the marriage; it was entirely a matter of professional ego and a need if not a lust for the almighty dollar. So she wouldn’t insist. She had to admit she was more miffed at not having been consulted than at the likelihood of a brief delay in their nuptials.
She said, “I won’t object, on one condition. Your solemn promise that if you haven’t brought the matter to a close at the end of one month, you won’t try to wheedle more time on Mr. Hoxley’s payroll.”
“If I can’t put an end to the gold stealing in a month, I’ll eat my hat and yours too on our wedding day. My reputation as a blue-chip detective demands swift and complete success.”
“Then I have your promise?”
“You do. And I would rather die than willingly break it.”
A feeling of tenderness banished the last of her pique. She had no doubt that he meant what he’d just said—more proof, as if she needed any, of his devotion to her.
3
QUINCANNON
The settlement of Patch Creek, in the northeastern Mother Lode, was not an easy place to get to. It took nearly twelve hours—passage by ferry to Oakland, one train to Sacramento and another to Marysville, then an hour-and-a-half stage ride into the foothills in an old coach with squeaky axles and butt-sprung seat cushions. It was seven o’clock when Quincannon finally reached Patch Creek, stiff and sore and in no mood to be trifled with. The fact that he was wearing rough miner’s clothing, one of three such outfits purchased yesterday in San Francisco (for the cost of which Everett Hoxley would reimburse him), added to his discomfort and his crusty disposition.
He had spent considerable time in various mining settlements over the years, including recent visits to Grass Valley, Nevada City, Jamestown, and Tuttletown. If Patch Creek were the last to draw him for a long while he would count himself fortunate. There was little difference among them other than location and size. All were rowdy, noisy, often violent places, peopled by rough-and-tumble hardrock miners and those individuals who made legal and illegal livings off of them and their needs and vices.
At first sight by starlight and lantern glow, Patch Creek was no exception. Relatively small, about the size of Tuttletown in the southern Mother Lode where he’d recovered a large sum of gold bullion stolen from an allegedly burglarproof safe belonging to the Sierra Railway. The settlement had been built on the upper flank of a canyon, in two sections connected by a bridge spanning the wide stream that gave it its name. Shacks and lodging houses were scattered along the hill on the near side, most of them the high, narrow type common to mining camps—weather-beaten, constructed in close packs, lamplight glowing palely in many of the windows. The business district stretched at a short upward angle on the far side.
The Monarch Mine and its outbuildings stood farther uphill to the south; a sky-stain of lights, both electric and lantern, marked their location. So did the steady throb and pound of the stamp mill where the gold-bearing ore was crushed and separated, the faintly luminous mounds of white tailings, the whistle of a hoisting engine. The Monarch, like most large and profitable mines, operated around the clock.
The stage rattled across the railed bridge and onto the crowded business street—Canyon Street, according to a somewhat lopsided signpost nailed to one of the bridge supports. It took up four blocks of Canyon and most of the streets immediately parallel to it on either side, a jumble of stores, eating places, and the usual assortment of saloons, eateries, Chinese laundries, and parlor houses. More noise hammered at Quincannon as the stage climbed uphill—the tinny beat of music from the garishly lighted saloons, the rumble of wagons, the cries of animals, and the raucous shouts of men. Horses, ore and dray wagons, and private rigs rattled along the street; the boardwalks were crowded with off-shift miners and other pedestrians.
The driver finally brought the rattletrap conveyance to a halt in the creekside yard of a stage and freighting depot. Quincannon alighted with the other two passengers, both mining men and fortunately uncommunicative on the long ride. He stretched the kinks out of cramped muscles, then claimed his war bag.
The stage driver directed him to Miners Lodging House #4. It was on the far side of the bridge, naturally, but only a short distance uphill—a fairly new structure that contained a dozen or more sparsely furnished rooms, each not much larger than a cell. O’Hearn had arranged one for him; he claimed it, but only long enough to stow his war bag under the bunk bed. He was as hungry as he was tired, and he felt the need to get the lay of the town at close quarters.
He was on his own here, with no one other than O’Hearn privy to his true identity and purpose. The mine superintendent had suggested apprising Patch Creek’s sheriff, Micah Calder, but Quincannon had refused. For one thing, experience had taught him that small-town lawmen were not always either as honest or as closemouthed as they appeared to be. For another, O’Hearn had admitted under questioning that Calder, while trustworthy, was only a step or two removed from being dimwitted. Undercover work of this sort was a tricky business; the fewer people who knew about it, the safer and more effective he would be.
He stopped at the nearest eating house, filled the hole in his stomach with overcooked eggs, biscuits, and lumpy gravy, and then found his way to the Golden Dollar Saloon. This, according to O’Hearn, was one of the Monarch Mine crew’s favorite watering holes and thus where the alleged union representative, Jedediah Yost, could most often be found.
It was a noisy, smoke-filled, lantern-lit place without frills of any kind. A thick layer of sawdust littered with cigarette and cigar butts coated the floor. The long bar consisted of heavy planks laid atop a row of beer kegs; the mirror behind it was cracked and pitted in several places. Faro, chuck-a-luck, and poker layouts stretched along one wall, all of them drawing heavy play.
Quincannon insinuated himself among the crowd of men lining the bar. Miners tended to be clannish, and a newcomer to their ranks not quickly accepted. They were also a hard-drinking lot when off-shift, and as such leery of one who would not wrap himself around so much as a single glass of beer. Quincannon had no intention of compromising his long-held sobriety, so in order to explain his abstemiousness he manufactured a gastric ulcer in a grumbling, profane complaint that he voiced to the Golden Dollar bartender and others within earshot. This, coupled with a friendly, easygoing manner and a recitation of one of his favorite bawdy stories, stood him in good stead with the group he infiltrated. One hardrock man, a grizzled Irishman with a powder-burned chin, even expressed sympathy.
“I had a bad stomach a while back myself,” he said in a mild brogue. “Couldn’t drink whiskey nor even beer for a year. Worst year of me life.”
“Worst three and a half of mine,” Quincannon said.
“Well, now. You’ve already been hired at the Monarch, have ye?”
“Like as not ye won’t. Who put the word in for ye, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Quincannon and O’Hearn had prepared a plausible explanation at their Olympic Club meeting. “One of the bosses where I worked in Grass Valley who knows the superintendent here,” he said. “His brother’s a friend of mine and got him to do it as a favor.”
“Which outfit in Grass Valley?”
“The Empire.”
“A big operation, that. Why’d ye leave?”
“I was there two years and ready for a change. And my friend said the wages are better at the Monarch.”
“Aye, the wages are good if a man carries his weight.”
“I’ll carry mine well enough. Always have.”
“What was your job at the Empire?”
“Timberman.”
The Irishman’s seamed face split into a broad grin. “Well, hallelujah. So happens I’m head of a timber crew and we’re among the shorthanded. Barnes is my name, Pat Barnes.”
“J. F. Quinn,” Quincannon said. “I was told the Monarch works three rotating shifts. Which is yours?”
“Day shift, at present. Eight to four. That suit you?”
“It does.” The day shift was the one he’d requested of O’Hearn.
“Report to the paymaster’s office no later than seven-thirty on the morrow,” Barnes said, “and tell him I asked for ye on my crew. Meantime I’ll have a talk with Walrus Ben, get his approval.”
“Walrus Ben?”
“Ben Tremayne, the shift boss. You’ll see why the Walrus moniker when you meet him.”
“I’m grateful to you, Mr. Barnes.”
“Call me Pat. You go by J. F.?”
“John to my friends and fellows.”
“Give me a good day’s work, John, and I expect we’ll get along fine. Even if ye are a poor lad who can’t be taking a drop of the creature along with the rest of us.”
The Stolen Gold Affair Page 2