Satisfied, Sabina proceeded to her next stop—Goodlove Real Estate, 1006 Guerrero Street.
As expected, this turned out to be a narrow storefront—what Elizabeth had referred to as a hole-in-the-wall. Goodlove had spent a minimal amount on rental space, but the sign above the door was artfully painted in a design similar to that on the Bromberg-printed business cards. Another sign on the door, equally artful, proclaimed: Peerless Homes and Lots for Sale. A good confidence man of Goodlove’s ilk knew when and how to put up a proper front while still minimizing his overhead.
A bell over the door tinkled musically when Sabina entered. The interior was one long room with a handful of functional furnishings—two desks, four chairs, a filing cabinet. One wall was adorned with photographs of dwellings in far better condition than Vernon Purifoy’s cottage and attractive vacant lots, under which another sign boldly lied: Purchases by Our Satisfied Clients.
The office’s only occupant had bounced up from one of the desks and hurried to greet Sabina. Elmer J. Goodlove in the flesh—short, roly-poly, with a fringe of white hair, shiny blue eyes, and skin as smooth and pink as a baby’s. “A hearty good morning to you, my good woman,” he said jovially, beaming. The shrewd blue eyes took immediate note of the fact that she was well dressed. “Welcome to Goodlove Real Estate. Elmer J. Goodlove, at your service. And you are?”
“Mrs. Jonathan Fredericks.”
“A pleasure, Mrs. Fredericks. What can I do for you?”
“I am interested in purchasing a home not far from here.”
“Indeed.” The fat smile grew even fatter. “I have some excellent properties of all types, sizes, price ranges—”
Sabina said imperiously, “My interest is in a specific property, if it should happen to be for sale. There is no sign to that effect and no one answered my ring at the door. I have come to you as the nearest agent in the hope that you might know if the property is for sale.”
“Splendid. Where is it located?”
“On Eighteenth Street. Number 2675, to be exact. A four-room Pelton cottage.”
Goodlove, like most confidence men, was an expert at concealing surprise. “Ah,” he said.
“Does that mean you are familiar with the property?”
“No, I’m afraid not. Other Pelton cottages, but not that one.”
“So you cannot say if it is for sale.”
“No. But I have a listing for another Pelton, as well as other, more attractive, well-constructed homes—”
“I am not interested in other Peltons or other homes of any sort. Only in that particular cottage.”
“May I ask why?”
“My brother saw it on a recent visit and expressed a liking for it, despite the fact that it is in poor repair, and for the neighborhood. He is a carpenter by trade, experienced in home repair, and I am encouraging him and his wife to move to San Francisco from Santa Rosa. He hasn’t much money, and I happen to be in more fortunate circumstances, so I would like to surprise him with a gift of the cottage he desires.”
“A generous gesture, most generous indeed,” Goodlove said. “But if I may say so, there are much more advantageous real estate investments than a Pelton—”
Sabina essayed an impatient gesture with her folded parasol. “Are you or are you not prepared to accommodate my wishes, sir?”
“Of course, most assuredly,” Goodlove said hastily, “if in fact the owner is willing to sell.”
“If he isn’t, I expect he can be talked into it for the right price. Money, Mr. Goodlove, is no object.”
“Indeed? Ah, may I ask how much you are willing to pay?”
“Whatever amount is necessary, within reason.”
“As much as one thousand dollars?”
“As much as three thousand dollars,” Sabina said.
Again nothing changed in Goodlove’s expression, but he could not prevent a flicker of avarice from showing in the bright blue eyes. Peltons were known as “cheap dwellings” for good reason, as Sabina had discovered in her research. In the early ’eighties a three-room cottage stripped of such frills as an indoor water closet could be bought for as little as $500, while a fully equipped four-room cottage was priced at $850. Their value had appreciated somewhat in the past two decades, but considering the run-down condition of Vernon Purifoy’s property, its real estate market value was hardly more than $1,000.
“Would you wish to pay the purchase price in installments?” Goodlove asked through his fat smile.
“Certainly not. My offer is an outright cash sale.”
The flicker of avarice had become a steady gleam. “Well, in that case the owner should be sorely tempted.”
“He would have to be a fool not to be,” Sabina said. “Of course, I do have one stipulation before I commit to purchase.”
“And that is?”
“That I be allowed an examination of the cottage’s interior.”
“For, ah, what reason?”
“To determine if any structural or other changes have been made that my brother might find objectionable.”
It was a somewhat thin explanation, but Goodlove seemed not to notice. “I could ask the owner—”
“Who might not give you an honest answer. No, that won’t do.”
“Well … would it be necessary for you to be present in person? I have considerable experience in such matters, and I could examine the rooms for you and make a list of any alterations—”
“Absolutely not. I have no doubt you are qualified, but I will need to visit the premises myself. I trust you understand.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
“Then you agree to act as my agent in this matter?”
“I do. With pleasure, Mrs. Fredericks. I will attempt to meet with the owner of the property at … what was the address again?”
“2675 Eighteenth Street.”
“Yes. To meet with the owner as soon as possible and do my very best to persuade him, or her, to sell on your terms.”
“I would appreciate an answer as soon as possible,” Sabina said. “Tomorrow, preferably.”
He balked at that, as she had known he would. He couldn’t be sure Vernon Purifoy would be away from home tomorrow. “That, ah, is very short notice. Too short, I fear. Property owners approached for an immediate sale often require time to think over an offer…”
“By Monday, then. That should be enough time.”
“Monday. Yes. I will do everything in my power to, ah, accommodate you by then. Assuming a sale can be arranged, how soon will your brother wish to take possession? Sixty days? Ninety?”
“Thirty. The sooner he is able to move into his new home, the happier we both will be.”
“Mmm, yes, I see. Very well. Step over to my desk, if you will be so good, and I shall draw up a preliminary agreement.”
The agreement was of a standard, bare-bones sort, more or less legally binding if Goodlove had been a legitimate real estate agent. Sabina signed it “Mrs. Jonathan Fredericks” in a disguised hand.
He said then, “I appreciate your faith in me, Mrs. Fredericks, indeed I do. May our association be mutually beneficial.” Sabina endured the moist clasp of his hand in hers. “I will try my very best to have a decision for you by Monday. Shall we meet here again at one o’clock?”
“The time is satisfactory, but I suggest we meet at the cottage. I expect the decision to be favorable, in which case I will be able to examine the interior without delay.”
Goodlove hesitated for three or four heartbeats before saying, “As you wish. One p.m. Monday at the Eighteenth Street address.”
Was he well enough hooked and hoodwinked by the prospect of a large amount of cash to run the risk of invading Vernon Purifoy’s cottage a second time? Sabina thought he was. Purifoy lived alone and would be away at his accountant’s job on Monday, so the risk was minimal and the reward considerable. The maximum figure she had named was surely too powerful a lure to resist, for he stood to collect the entire amount by simply claiming the owne
r refused to settle for less. Three thousand dollars was a considerable score for a small-time confidence man, even if it should mean abandoning his current setup sooner than expected.
11
SABINA
It was nearly four o’clock when Sabina exited a Market Street trolley car at the corner of New Montgomery. On weekdays, Fridays especially, this was the time when many prominent businessmen young and old left their offices early to embark on the Cocktail Route—a daily round of upper-class watering holes such as the Reception Saloon, Hacquette’s Palace of Art, and the Palace Hotel Bar that for some lasted well into the night. Business deals were made, political alliances formed, schemes hatched over drinks and lavish free lunches. And for more than a few of the silk-hatted gentry, married as well as single, the evening’s bacchanal ended in one of the fancy Uptown Tenderloin parlor houses run by such as Lettie Carew and Miss Bessie Hall, the notorious “Queen of O’Farrell Street.”
Carson Montgomery had not been a Cocktail Route habitué when Sabina was keeping company with him, but for all she knew he had succumbed to its temptations since she’d last seen him in the Palace Hotel’s Grand Court a year and a half ago. Recently his name had been linked with a socially prominent Crocker family debutante, a liaison reported in more than one newspaper’s society column, but that did not necessarily mean he was ready to give up his bachelor’s lifestyle. She really didn’t know him all that well.
Her second venture to his Montgomery Block suite proved, unlike her first, to be successful. The same officious clerk she had spoken to previously admitted that Carson was present but attempted to deny her an audience with him by once again stating that an appointment was required. She was not having any of his annoying attitude this time. She handed him one of her business cards and, in the same imperious tone she had used on Elmer Goodlove, demanded that he deliver it to his employer immediately. Her profession, if not her name, raised an eyebrow and ended any further argument. He went away with the card, returned in less than a minute, stated much more politely that Mr. Montgomery would see her, and pointed the way to Carson’s private office.
Sabina hadn’t been sure how she would feel when she saw Carson again, and was mildly relieved to feel nothing at all. Not even a twinge of regret. On their first meeting at Callie’s dinner party, she had found him strikingly handsome—eyes as blue, kind, and gentle as Stephen’s, long sideburns, curly brown hair, warm smile—and when she’d looked into those bright blue eyes she had been instantly smitten. Now, it was as if she were in the company of a man who had never been anything more to her than a casual acquaintance.
If he still had feelings for her, any pangs of regret, they were not apparent. His smile was tentative and puzzled as he came forward to briefly take her hand in his. He said a trifle awkwardly, “It’s good to see you again, Sabina. You’re looking well.”
“As are you, Carson.”
He cleared his throat. “I understand you and your partner are soon to be married. My sincere congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
“Surely you haven’t come to invite me to the wedding.”
She chose to let the remark pass without comment. She said, “A business matter you may or may not be able to help me with. Frankly I’m not at all comfortable talking to you about this, but I’ve run out of other possible sources of information.”
“What makes you uncomfortable? Our former relationship and how it ended? That’s all in the past now, Sabina.”
“Yes, but the questions I have involve the past—yours, not ours.”
“My past?” His smile faded into a puckered frown. “You’re not referring to the Gold King conspiracy?”
“I don’t believe so. Indirectly, if at all.”
“Regarding a matter your firm is investigating?”
“That John is investigating, yes. An organized high-grading operation at a gold mine in the northern Mother Lode.”
“Oh, Lord. You can’t possibly think I might be involved?”
“No. Of course not. My questions have to do with a man who may be one of the gang, a shadowy figure posing as a miners’ union representative under the name Jedediah Yost. I am trying to find out just who he is.”
“While your partner investigates at the mine.”
“Yes.”
“And you believe I might know this man Yost, is that it?”
“Might have encountered him or heard of him during your travels in the gold country.”
“That was ten years ago, Sabina.”
“It’s a slim possibility, I know,” she said. “But I’m at the grasping-at-straws stage.”
Carson’s frown smoothed away. “I’ll help if I can. I don’t have to tell you of my animus for thieves.”
No, he didn’t. His near-disastrous youthful peccadillo had taught him a hard lesson. He was an intrinsically honest man, a good man. Sabina had doubted that during her investigation of the extortion attempt, but only briefly.
He invited her to sit, waited until she was seated and had removed her hat, then sat himself facing her across his desk. The desk was large, of polished mahogany—the only expensive furnishing in what was otherwise a strictly functional office. Neither Carson’s wealthy family background nor his success as a mining engineer had altered his proletarian nature.
“What can you tell me about this man Yost?” he asked.
“Very little, other than a description provided by our client and the fact that he has enough knowledge of gold mining and miners to successfully pose as a union man.”
“Describe him.”
She did so. Carson sat quietly, his hands steepled together under his chin, while he cudgeled his memory. At some length he said, “The triangular birthmark. On his left cheek?”
“Yes.”
“Ordinary-looking otherwise, and small in stature.”
“Yes.”
“In his middle forties … The age is about right,” Carson said musingly. “The birthmark and the rest of the physical description, the amber cigar holder, the knowledge of gold mining, the liking for stud poker—too many similarities to be mere coincidence.”
Sabina sat forward in her chair. “You know him, then?”
“There was a man in Downieville while I was there, an assayer named Morgan. Crooked as a dog’s hind leg by reputation, though nothing was ever proven against him. He was also rumored to have been responsible for the death of a rival for his wife’s affections.”
“He sounds ruthless.”
“And was, evidently. Ruthless and mercenary.”
“Did you have any dealings with him?”
“Fortunately, no. Though he did make a veiled overture that I refused to listen to.”
“I wonder if he still resides in Downieville.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t,” Carson said. “Not long after I moved on, I heard that he and his wife were sent packing by the local authorities. Where they went I don’t know, but his wife was from Sacramento and vocal about her desire to move back there.”
“Can you recall his given name?”
“Bart.”
“Short for Barton or Bartholomew?”
“… Bartholomew, I think. Yes, Bartholomew.”
“And his wife’s name?”
Carson searched his memory again, shook his head. “I’m sorry, I can’t recall it.”
That was all he could tell her about either of the Morgans, but it was quite a bit more than she could have hoped for. They parted at the door with a friendly handshake. Neither of them expressed an interest in seeing the other in the future, however. This meeting had not been as awkward as Sabina had feared, but it hadn’t been a comfortable one either, for her or for Carson. She had her life, he had his, and it would be better for both if never the twain should meet again.
* * *
Just how important to John and his investigation was the information Carson had given her?
She debated the question as she made her way back to Market Street. Important, ce
rtainly, if Bartholomew Morgan alias Jedediah Yost was mixed up in the high-grading plot, as now seemed probable. But John was shrewd and highly inquisitive; after a week of undercover work, he would surely suspect by now, perhaps even know, that Morgan was posing as a union representative and possessed a tainted past. If only she knew whether or not the man was still in Patch Creek. And if he wasn’t, if John had any idea of where he could be found.
Had Morgan and his wife established themselves in Sacramento or its environs after their ejection from Downieville? Even assuming they had back in 1887, eleven years was a long span of time for a ruthless crook to remain in one place. They could have moved any number of times, together or Morgan alone if he had abandoned or divorced his wife. He might also have conducted legal and illegal business under the Yost alias or another name not his own.
The agency kept a file of city business and residential directories; she went there first and consulted the Sacramento Directory on the chance that Morgan had established an assay or metallurgy business in the capital under his own name or that of Jedediah Yost. No, he hadn’t. There were several listings under both “Assayers” and “Metallurgists,” but none of the names was even remotely familiar.
Well, there might be another way to find out.
At the Western Union office she composed a lengthy wire to Henry Flannery at the detective agency he operated in Sacramento. John considered Flannery reliable enough to have established a quid pro quo agreement with him some years back. She requested any available data on Bart or Bartholomew Morgan alias Jedediah Yost, formerly of Downieville, and included the detailed description and all the information Carson had supplied on Morgan’s background. She marked the wire “Urgent.” Assuming Flannery was not out of town on a case, she would have a preliminary response from him shortly, and another as soon as he had something to report.
12
QUINCANNON
When he dropped off the Monarch mine wagon on Saturday morning, Quincannon spied Frank McClellan among the gaggle of day-shift men waiting in the shade of the gallows frame. The slab-faced station tender, Joe Simcox, was at his side. McClellan was immediately aware of his presence as well; the assistant foreman said something to Simcox, and both men cast looks in his direction. Did the pair sense that they were under suspicion? Not a bad thing if so. It might render one or both nervous enough to make a mistake that would bring about their undoing.
The Stolen Gold Affair Page 7