5
SABINA
“I hope coming here is the right thing to do,” Miss Kantor said nervously from her forward-leaning perch on one of the client chairs. “But what happened was so odd, and Vernon was in such a dither about it, I … well, the incident really should be investigated.”
“Vernon?”
“Vernon Purifoy.” Then, proudly if irrelevantly, “He’s very handsome. And he has an important job—chief accountant for the Hollowell Manufacturing Company.”
“May I ask your relationship with Mr. Purifoy?”
The young woman colored slightly. “We have been keeping company the past three months.”
And would go on doing so, if she had her way. There was a stardust gleam in Gretchen Kantor’s eye, a determined set to her wide mouth and slender jaw. Timidity somewhat overcome by a strong attraction to Mr. Purifoy. She was in her late twenties, Sabina judged, moderately attractive in an angular way. Hazel eyes and long chestnut tresses were her best features. Her gray bombazine dress and lacy white shirtwaist were fairly new but not expensively tailored, likely a product of the Maiden Lane dressmaking shop where she was employed as a sales clerk.
Sabina asked, “Were you present when this incident took place?”
“Yes. Vernon had just returned from a short business trip to Sacramento, and he…” Miss Kantor colored again, a near-scarlet blush this time. “He invited me to his house … well, actually it’s a charming little cottage … for a homecoming celebration, you see.”
“Homecoming celebration.” A euphemism if Sabina had ever heard one, not that Miss Kantor’s love life was any concern of hers. She asked, “What happened exactly?”
“A man was just leaving the cottage, a fat little bald-headed man Vernon had never seen before. Through the front door, bold as you please.”
“A thief?”
“No, and that is what’s so odd about it. Vernon was so angry I thought he was going to strike the man. He literally dragged him inside his study to see if his desk had been broken into, but it hadn’t. Vernon searched him anyway. The man hadn’t stolen a single thing.”
“What was his explanation for having illegally entered the house?”
“He claimed he hadn’t entered it, that it only looked from the street as if he were coming out. He swore he was a salesman, and I must say he was very convincing.”
“Was the door to the house locked?”
“It was. But he had a ring of keys and Vernon found one that unlocked his door. The man claimed that that was just a fluke, that the key wasn’t a … what did he call it…”
“Skeleton key?”
“Yes. It wasn’t a skeleton key, he said. Vernon didn’t believe him, and he certainly could have been inside, but for what reason?”
Sabina could think of at least two, but she didn’t voice them just yet. “What did he claim to be selling?”
Miss Kantor opened her beaded handbag and produced a business card, which she handed to Sabina. It was a rather ornate card made of heavy white vellum, with curlicue borders and embossed lettering.
OSCAR FOLLENSBEE
OFFICIAL AGENT
EXCELSIOR HOME IMPROVEMENT COMPANY
“Vernon has never heard of the Excelsior Home Improvement Company,” Miss Kantor said, “and neither have I. There is no listing for it in the City Directory.”
Sabina said, “It’s unfamiliar to me, too. What sort of business did Oscar Follensbee claim it to be?”
“A newly formed one that refurbishes older homes for nominal fees. Vernon’s cottage was built in the 1870s, you see. He inherited it from his parents.”
“Is it in need of refurbishing?”
“Well … to some extent, I suppose.” The young woman added defensively, “Vernon is very frugal, you see. He doesn’t believe in spending money on what he calls nonessentials.”
Sabina asked, “When did this incident happen?”
“Sunday afternoon.”
“What did Mr. Purifoy do after he determined nothing had been stolen?”
“He let the man go. What else could he have done?”
“Held him and sent for the police.”
“Vernon said there was no point in it since nothing was missing, that they would just view it as a misunderstanding.”
“Not necessarily,” Sabina said. “Not if Oscar Follensbee has a police record for burglary or illegal trespass.”
Miss Kantor nibbled at her lower lip. “But if he is a criminal, why hadn’t he stolen anything?”
“Perhaps he didn’t have time. He may have just entered and seen you and Mr. Purifoy arriving. Or he could have been doing what is known in underworld parlance as ‘casing the premises’ to determine if there was anything of value worth taking at a later time.”
“Yes, I see what you mean. If the man is a criminal, he may still be a danger.”
“Does Mr. Purifoy keep money or other valuables in his desk?”
“I don’t know. If he does, it must be just a little money. He lives very, um, frugally.”
“That being the case, Miss Kantor, why did he change his mind?”
“Change his mind? I don’t understand.”
“You said he let Oscar Follensbee go without summoning the police because nothing had been stolen. Why does he now want the matter investigated?”
“Oh, he doesn’t. I mean, he doesn’t know. Coming here was my idea, you see.”
And it had taken her two days to work up the courage to do so. Sabina chastised herself for not suspecting this sooner. She’d been too eager at the prospect of a new case, not that that was a valid excuse. She suppressed a sigh. “I wish you had told me that when you first arrived, Miss Kantor. I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“But … but why not? Surely you can find out who this man Follensbee is—”
“Possibly. But that isn’t the reason I can’t help you.”
Miss Kantor looked as though she might burst into tears. One hand fumbled in her bag, came out with a thin sheaf of greenbacks. “This is all the money I have saved, fifty dollars, I thought it would be enough—”
Sabina said gently, “It isn’t a matter of finance, but one of legal and professional ethics. We are unable to conduct investigations for private individuals other than the person directly involved or one acting as that person’s representative.”
“But I am acting on Vernon’s behalf—”
“Yes, but without his knowledge or consent.”
“You … you mean he has to be the one to hire you?”
“Yes. In person or by signed letter.”
Two large tears squeezed out of the misty hazel eyes. “He won’t agree to that, I know he won’t. He j-just wants to let the matter drop.”
Sabina let a sigh come out this time. “I’m sorry, Miss Kantor. Without Mr. Purifoy’s authorization, there is nothing I can do.”
It was not until Gretchen Kantor had made a dejected exit that Sabina, feeling somewhat dejected herself, noticed that Oscar Follensbee’s business card was still on her desk blotter. She looked at it again, then picked it up. There was something vaguely familiar about it—not the wording; possibly the design. But she couldn’t quite place what it was.
Well, no matter. She slid the card into her desk drawer, on the unlikely chance that Miss Kantor could convince the frugal Mr. Purifoy to change his mind, and promptly forgot about it.
* * *
She would soon have forgotten the entire matter if it hadn’t been jarred back into the forefront of her mind on Wednesday morning. It was Mr. Vernon Purifoy himself who did the jarring.
He strutted into the agency not long after her arrival, stood for a moment looking around, then fixed her with an unfriendly eye and announced himself. Gretchen Kantor may have considered him handsome, but Sabina silently begged to differ. He was some four inches shy of six feet, slender in an underfed way—his dapper black broadcloth suit made him look hipless—and the owner of a mustache that spanned his upper lip in a thin, curv
ing line and quivered now with indignation. A large but ordinary signet ring adorned the third finger of his right hand. The polished hickory walking stick he carried was an affectation, she judged, not a necessity.
“You are Mrs. Carpenter, I presume,” he said. His voice was surprisingly deep for a man of his stature.
“You presume correctly.”
“I have come to verify that you have no intention of investigating the incident at my home on Sunday.”
“Not without your contractual permission, no.”
“Which I emphatically do not give. It was a minor misunderstanding best left forgotten, as I thought I had made clear to Miss Kantor. The silly woman had no right to discuss it with you or anyone else.”
“Silly woman.” Evidently Purifoy did not share the young woman’s romantic infatuation. He struck Sabina as a martinet, the sort of vain man whose devotion was reserved strictly for himself.
She said coolly, “That may well be true, but she did so out of concern for you and your welfare.”
“Perhaps, but that is of no consequence,” Purifoy said. “She is merely an acquaintance who should have known better. I do not care to have my private life invaded.”
“Invaded?”
“By the police and certainly not by a female private detective. I place a high value on my privacy.”
“Indeed you must.”
“Then you will honor your refusal to Miss Kantor and not meddle in my affairs?”
“I have already said so, Mr. Purifoy. Would you like me to put it in writing?”
The sarcasm was lost on him. He said, “That won’t be necessary. I shall take you at your word.” He tapped the ferrule of his stick on the floor as if for emphasis, turned on his heel, and removed himself from her sight.
Sabina sat simmering. Everything about Vernon Purifoy rankled, not the least of which was his cheeky, hidebound reference to her being a female private detective. A martinet, a prig, a denigrator of women … and perhaps something even more unpleasant, too? His sudden arrival in person and his insistence that no investigation be undertaken seemed out of proportion to what he himself had termed “a minor misunderstanding.” In her experience that sort of heavy-handed protest meant the individual had something to hide.
* * *
Sabina seldom acted on a whim. Almost never, in fact. She was much too practical a businesswoman to allow personal feelings to overrule her judgment. But she surprised herself by giving in to impulse not once but several times over the next few days.
The first time was not long after Vernon Purifoy’s visit. The day being warm, she walked up Market to Geary during the noon hour and ate her lunch at a bakery shop that served the best muffins in the city. The choice was not quite random, for the bakery was near Maiden Lane, and when she emerged she found herself detouring in that direction. She had no good reason to stop in at the Clark Dressmaking Shop, other than the fact that she felt sorry for Gretchen Kantor. There was nothing she could say to the young woman of her dislike of Vernon Purifoy, and it would be cruel to reveal the man’s coldly insulting remarks about her, but there was no harm in reassuring her that she had done nothing wrong in attempting to act as his benefactor.
A whim, pure and simple.
But it became more than that when she entered the shop. It was small and somewhat cramped with display racks of inexpensive women’s apparel and accessories of the sort that clerks, secretaries, and sales girls such as Miss Kantor herself could afford. There were no customers at present, and it took a few moments before a curtain parted at the rear and Miss Kantor emerged wearing a tentative smile.
That was not all she exhibited, however. A bandage three inches long stretched across her left cheekbone. The skin along its edges was discolored beneath an application of powder, the rest of her face pale.
She came to an abrupt standstill when she recognized Sabina. Something like fright showed in the hazel eyes. “Oh,” she said, “Mrs. Carpenter. I … I didn’t expect to see you again…”
“What happened to your face, Miss Kantor?”
One hand lifted to the bandage, lowered again without touching it. “It … it’s nothing, really, just a small cut. I tripped and fell in my room last night, struck the edge of a table.”
She was lying, covering up. It was in her voice, the quick side-shift of her gaze, the slight tremor of her hand.
Sabina kept silent. If she gave voice to what she was thinking, it would accomplish nothing. The girl would only deny that it had been the signet ring Vernon Purifoy wore, not a table edge, that had opened the wound in her cheek.
Miss Kantor said, “You haven’t changed your mind, have you? That’s not why you’re here?”
“No, it’s not.”
“Then…? I mean, this isn’t your sort of dress shop, surely…”
“I just wanted to reassure you that you did nothing wrong in confiding in me yesterday.”
“Oh, but I did. It was foolish of me to go against Vernon’s wishes. I had no right to do that.”
Virtually the same words Purifoy had spoken to Sabina, which she had no intention of mentioning. “I take it you told him of our conversation,” she said, “and he has no desire for an investigation.”
“None whatsoever. No.”
“Why is he so adamant against it?”
“He … he doesn’t want anyone meddling in his affairs. He values his privacy.”
More parroting, Sabina guessed. Part of an angry lecture delivered by Purifoy and punctuated and bolstered by violence.
“Please honor his wishes, Mrs. Carpenter. And please don’t come to see me anymore. I … we just want to be left alone.”
Sabina took her leave, and anger rode with her on her return to Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services. She despised men who mistreated women; verbal abuse was bad enough, physical abuse intolerable. And poor Gretchen Kantor was a prime example of a bully’s victim. Her infatuation with Vernon Purifoy was so great that she forgave being struck in a fit of rage, her fear not of more abuse but of being cast out of his life.
Sabina understood both types all too well, but what she didn’t understand was Purifoy’s motives in this particular instance. He was a martinet and a bully, yes, but she was even more convinced now that there had to be more to his intensely negative reaction to the thought of an investigation than a desire for privacy. The apparent breaching of his home by a stranger was one part of it—or was Oscar Follensbee, if that was his real name, not a stranger at all? Another might be fear that something he kept in his desk had been stolen. Money? More than one man who lived frugally and mistrusted banks had been known to hoard greenbacks or specie.
She might not have dwelt on the conundrum if there had been agency business to attend to. But there was still none—no calls, no visitors, no mail—and the combination of boredom and curiosity was proving compelling. Of course there was nothing she could do about it legally. And yet, if one wanted to stretch a point, there was a certain moral responsibility involved. Did she want to stretch the point? Perhaps, if there was a way to do it that did not openly violate professional ethics.
Well, there was nothing wrong with conducting a private investigation, was there? Just for her own satisfaction, if nothing else?
She talked herself into it. Her second whim, this one not so pure and not so simple.
6
SABINA
On Thursday morning, shortly after she arrived at the agency, a Western Union messenger brought her a belated reply from the Far West Mine Workers Union office in Sacramento. The wire stated that the FWMWU had no record of an employee by the name of Jedediah Yost, past or present. Nor had the organization sanctioned visits to Patch Creek by any of their representatives.
Just who was Jedediah Yost, then? It might be possible to find out from the description of the man James O’Hearn had given to John, though there was little enough to distinguish him. Yost was in his late forties, of average height, slender and wiry; other than a small tria
ngular birthmark on his left cheek and a bootlace mustache, he evidently possessed the sort of bland countenance that would render him unnoticed in a crowd of more noteworthy men. His only known habits were the smoking of short-six cigars in an amber holder and a fondness for and skill in stud poker. Sabina sifted through the agency’s file of dossiers on known criminals. None matched the description or had a record of involvement in any kind of gold theft or swindle.
She hurried out to the telegraph office, where she intended to send a coded wire to J. F. Quinn, John’s alias in Patch Creek, informing him that Yost was posing as a union man. The intention was thwarted, however, when she was told that Patch Creek did not have a Western Union office; the nearest was in Marysville. Telegrams could be delivered from there to the gold camp, but not without the recipient’s address or a prior arrangement as to where it could be picked up. If John had known beforehand where he would be quartered, he hadn’t confided the fact to her.
Drat! She should have considered that Patch Creek would be too small to have a Western Union office. So should John have, for that matter. Both had promised to exchange brief wires, she with background data on Jedediah Yost, he to inform her of his progress and reassure her regarding his welfare. Now neither was possible.
What was she to do? John would surely want the information on Yost, but how could she get it to him? And was it vital? Perhaps not. Yost was already under suspicion in the high-grading scheme; John surely would be keeping an eye on him.
Still, there might well be something in the impostor’s true identity that had a bearing on John’s investigation. It behooved her to do all she could to find out who and what the man was.
She paid a visit to the San Francisco branch of the Pinkerton Detective Agency, where she provided the agent in charge with Yost’s description and possible criminal enterprise. The Pinkertons, as she well knew from her time as a Denver “Pink Rose,” had a far more extensive file of known felons than any other small agency such as theirs. But the branch’s files contained no leads to Yost’s identity.
The Stolen Gold Affair Page 4