Night fell. Quincannon alternately paced the cell, lay on the cot, and brooded. Where the devil was O’Hearn? He must have heard the news about McClellan by now; he should have come of his own volition. Well, it was still early. Mayhap he would.
But he didn’t.
And so Quincannon spent his first and what he hoped would be his last night in durance vile.
14
SABINA
The Morning Call, the most reliable and least guilty of yellow journalism of the city’s several newspapers, had its offices on Commercial Street. Sabina stopped in there on Saturday morning to see Ephraim Ballard, the elderly gentleman with more than forty years’ journalistic experience who presided over the sheet’s morgue. Sabina had met him through her acquaintance with Millie Munson, the paper’s society editor, and found him always to be affably willing to demonstrate his remarkably accurate memory.
Unfortunately, he had not even a scrap of useful information to give her. The Morning Call had printed no news stories about the unscrupulous activities of a Downieville assayer named Bart or Bartholomew Morgan, nor was the name Jedediah Yost familiar; Ephraim double-checked the files to make sure. Whatever Morgan had been up to the past several years, he had avoided brushes with the law that were newsworthy enough to have been reported here in San Francisco.
Vernon Purifoy’s name was likewise unfamiliar to Mr. Ballard. Not that that meant Purifoy was a model citizen, but merely that he had done nothing overt enough to place him in the public eye. The only thing Sabina learned from Ephraim was that Purifoy’s employer, the Hollowell Manufacturing Company, was a large and profitable fabricator of chair and buggy cushion springs located on Stevenson Street, had been in business for fifteen years, and was owned by Lucas J. Hollowell and Norman A. Hollowell, father and son, president and vice president.
Waiting along with the morning mail when she arrived at the agency was a pro forma telegram from Henry Flannery, stating that he was available to oblige her request regarding Bart or Bartholomew Morgan and that he would give the matter his immediate attention. The mail contained one small and one medium-sized check, the latter in payment of a past-due invoice for services rendered, and nothing else of interest.
Just before noon Callie French paid an unexpected visit. “I thought I might find you here, Sabina. Have you had word from John?”
“No, none yet.”
“Oh, dear. You must be very worried.”
“Not really,” Sabina said. She explained about the lack of Western Union facilities in Patch Creek.
“They must have postal service. He could have written you a letter.”
“Only if he had something to report. Obviously he hasn’t yet.”
“Well … if you’re not concerned, then I won’t be either.”
“Did you come all the way here just to ask me about John?”
“No. I’m on my way to do some shopping.”
“Not for another new hat, I trust.”
“Don’t you like the one I’m wearing?”
Sabina didn’t, particularly; it was more than a trifle ostentatious for a daytime outing, a virtual garden of violets and other flowers topped with an aigrette of lace and grosgrain ribbons. But she said tactfully, “It’s very becoming.”
“I may stop at a hatter’s,” Callie said, “but mainly I’m after a proper dress for the wedding. Have you picked out your gown yet?”
“No.”
“Then it’s high time you did. You don’t seem busy. Close up and come along with me, and we’ll see what we can find.”
“I’m not in the mood for shopping.”
“It’s a sorry day when a woman about to be married is not in the mood for shopping.” Callie studied her with a critical eye. “You know, Sabina, you really should get out more, partake of life’s pleasures—you spend too much time alone. Do you have plans for tomorrow?”
“No. Why?”
“I have two tickets to an afternoon performance of Verdi’s Il Trovatore at the Grand Opera House. Hugh refuses to go with me and I would rather not go by myself. We could have supper at Tadich Grill afterward.”
Sabina was not a great admirer of opera, but she did like Il Trovatore; and the fare at Tadich Grill was quite good. It would be a better way to spend Sunday than bicycling in the park—the weather had turned cold and foggy—or sitting with Adam and Eve in her flat. She accepted the invitation.
Callie was right—she did spend too much time alone. Now especially, while John was away and incommunicado on a potentially dangerous assignment. Despite her denial, she was a little worried about him.
15
QUINCANNON
It was a few minutes shy of Sunday noon when O’Hearn finally showed up at the jail.
A key scraped in the cellblock door again and he came stomping in, Sheriff Calder trailing along behind. The mine superintendent stood glowering through the cell bars; Quincannon matched the glower with a fierce one of his own. He was in no mood for censure or harangue. He had slept poorly, his head wound still pained him, and overnight his mutilated ear had developed an annoying phantom ache.
He said before O’Hearn could speak, “I didn’t kill Frank McClellan.”
“He kept sayin’ that when they brung him in,” Calder said. “That, and demanding to see you.”
“All right, Micah. You can leave us alone now.”
“You sure you don’t want me to stay? He’s a mean one, murderin’ poor Mr. McClellan the way he done—”
“I did not murder McClellan!” Quincannon shouted.
O’Hearn turned his glower on the sheriff and gestured impatiently. Calder said, “Yes, sir, Mr. O’Hearn. But you need me, you just holler.”
When the cellblock door closed behind Calder, Quincannon said in a tolerable imitation of O’Hearn’s grizzly growl, “Why in blazes didn’t you come yesterday?”
“I was down in Marysville, that’s why. Just got back and heard what happened in the mine.”
So that was it. A tolerable enough excuse, though it didn’t put a balm on Quincannon’s temper. “You want me to proclaim my innocence again, or will you take me at my word?”
“Calder told me four witnesses swear you’re the only man who could’ve done it.”
“Bah. Four ear witnesses, mayhap. If they can be credited.”
“If?”
“Assuming the lot of them aren’t in cahoots.”
“All four? A shift boss and three timbermen? That’s preposterous. I’ve known Walrus Ben and Pat Barnes for years, and as for the others—”
“I’m not saying I believe it,” Quincannon said. “What do you believe, Mr. O’Hearn?”
“I don’t know what to believe yet. If you didn’t shoot McClellan, who did?”
“Who else but one of the other high-graders.”
“He was part of the gang? You’re sure of that?”
“Sure enough. He knew I was on to him, and the man who shot him knew it too. Likely he was killed for fear he would turn on his partners. He was on the verge of cracking. A sharp prod or two and he would have.”
“Do you have any idea who his partners are?”
“An idea, yes.”
“An idea? You told me the next time I saw you you’d have proof.”
“I will have, once I learn how the crime was committed.”
“Dammit, Quincannon, you were hired because you have a reputation as a competent detective. How could you allow McClellan to be killed?”
“It wasn’t my fault. I was taken by surprise.”
“Not your fault? He was shot with your pistol. Why the hell did you bring a derringer into the mine?”
“For self-protection, of course.”
“Hah. Didn’t do you any good, did it.”
Quincannon made no further effort to defend himself. The truth was, he hadn’t been as careful as he should have been yesterday morning, not that he would ever admit to it. Even the keenest detective slipped up now and then, though the lapse rankled nonetheless.
“What put you on to McClellan?” O’Hearn demanded.
There was nothing to be gained now, and much to lose, by continuing to play his cards close to the vest. Without hesitation, he explained about the ties among McClellan, Simcox, and Jedediah Yost, what his search of McClellan’s shack had revealed, and his discovery of the tube mill in the abandoned crosscut.
O’Hearn digested the information, and it somewhat mollified him. “So it’s dust they’re taking out and tube mills they’re using to grind the ore.”
“Just so. But a search for the tube mills would be futile. You can bet the one I found and all the rest have been dumped into the ore chutes and destroyed by now.”
“I was thinking the same thing.” Then, after a pause, “Yost. I knew that bugger had to be mixed up in the high-grading.”
“He may well be the ringleader,” Quincannon said, “though I’ve found nothing yet to prove it. McClellan’s murder might have sent him packing. My hope is that it didn’t, that he’s still in Patch Creek.”
“And if he isn’t?”
“I’ll proceed with my investigation here and track him through his cohorts. Assuming you believe me about McClellan and can get me out of this blasted cell.”
O’Hearn made up his mind. He gave his whiskers a finger raking and said, “It seems I’ve no choice but to give you the benefit of the doubt. But I warn you, Quincannon. Don’t make a fool out of me. And you damn well better make good on your boasts.”
“I intend to.” Then, as O’Hearn started away, “You won’t tell Calder my true identity?”
“Not unless I have to.”
He went to the cellblock door, banged on it until the sheriff let him out.
Quincannon paced the cell restlessly, rubbing at his ear in a futile effort to alleviate the phantom ache. His patience had grown wafer-thin by the time O’Hearn reappeared some twenty minutes later. Calder, at his side, didn’t look happy as they came down the corridor.
“I sure hope you’re doing the right thing, Mr. O’Hearn,” he said when they reached Quincannon’s cell. “It don’t seem safe, you taking responsibility for a suspected killer—”
“We’ve been all through that.” And evidently it had been settled solely on the strength of the mine superintendent’s position in the community, without any revelations having to be made. “Just get on with it.”
“Yes, sir.” Keys rattled and clanked as Calder unlocked the cell door. “All right, Quinn. You’re sprung in Mr. O’Hearn’s custody.”
“And not a moment too soon.”
Quincannon stepped out and the three of them trooped into the sheriff’s office. He said then, “My derringer. Do I get it back?”
“Not on your tintype,” Calder said. “It’s evidence, that gun. I got to keep it locked up for your trial.”
“There isn’t going to be a trial, not with me as the defendant.”
“Well, we’ll see about that. You still ain’t getting the murder weapon, whether you’re the one fired it or not.”
Quincannon started to argue, changed his mind when he saw the look on O’Hearn’s bearish countenance. Instead he asked Calder, “What has been done with the remains?”
“You said which?”
“You’re not hard of hearing, Sheriff. Frank McClellan’s corpse. It isn’t still at the Monarch, is it?”
“No, it ain’t. Mine wagon brought it in.”
“Where was it taken?”
“Why d’you want to know?”
“That’s my business.”
Calder emitted a noise like a sputtering donkey engine. “Now you look here, Quinn—”
“We’re wasting time,” O’Hearn snapped. “If he wants to see the body, then so do I. Where is it? Over at Hansen’s?”
“Yes, sir. I guess I’d better go along, too, you don’t mind.”
“All right. Let’s get it done.”
Hansen, whoever he was, was a local entrepreneur. Four businesses occupied an adjacent pair of frame buildings just off Canyon Street, all of which bore his name—undertaking parlor, carpentry shop, gunsmith, barbershop. The undertaking parlor was at the rear of the carpentry shop, presided over by a man in a black suit whose name was Finley, not Hansen. Like Calder, he deferred to O’Hearn and offered no protest at the request to view McClellan’s remains. The body was in the embalming room, already stripped of clothing. Quincannon gave it a narrow-eyed examination, but it told him nothing.
“What was done with his clothing?” he asked then.
Finley, a middle-aged beanpole with a cast eye, blinked several times as if the question confused him. “Clothing?”
“The corpse wasn’t brought in naked, was it?”
“Naked? Certainly not.”
“His clothing, his miner’s duds. Where are they?”
“All beyond saving,” Finley said. “Filthy, blood-soaked, scorched…”
Quincannon resisted an impulse to shake him as he would a stick.
O’Hearn’s patience was even more sorely tried; he growled, “Show us the clothing or it’s you who’ll be beyond saving.”
Finley wasted no more time. He led them into a storeroom of sorts and showed them the bundle, string-tied and stuffed into a trash bin, and then promptly fled. Quincannon untied the bundle, shook out the garments. The powder-marked bullet hole in the heavy-weave shirt told him that McClellan had been shot at point-blank range; the baggy trousers, undershirt, and union drawers held no clues.
He studied the high-laced boots. Along the edge and sole of the left one, and across a small section of the hooks and buckles, was an irregular, smudged black line. He rubbed a thumb over it, further smudging the black, then held the thumb to his nose and sniffed. A small satisfied smile put a crease in his freebooter’s beard.
He returned the clothing and unmarked boot to the trash bin. Dangling the left one by one of its buckles, he extended it to Calder. “Keep this under lock and key, Sheriff. And make sure you carry it by the buckle.”
“What for?”
“The same reason you’re keeping my derringer. Evidence.”
“Hell! A boot? What kind of evidence is that?”
“The kind that can hang the actual murderer.”
Calder made grumbling noises, but he took the boot. O’Hearn said to him, “After you lock that up, Micah, go over to the hotel and find out if the union man, Yost, is still registered.”
“Yost? What for?”
“Stop asking questions and do what I ask. We’ll wait here for you.”
“Yes, sir. Whatever you say.”
The sheriff went out, hurrying. Once the door was shut again, O’Hearn said, “Well, Quincannon? What’d you find on that boot?”
“Black from the black deed.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I’m on the right track. But more evidence is needed, and I know how to get it.”
“How?”
“By going back down into the mine tomorrow morning. On my regular shift on twelve-hundred.”
O’Hearn stared at him as if he’d taken leave of his senses. “The miners won’t stand for you returning to work as if nothing happened today. They’ll rip you to pieces.”
“Not if you vouch for my innocence. You’re in charge—they’ll listen to you and obey your orders.”
“No guarantee all of them will. They’ll suspect you’re a company spy, and the high-graders will know it for certain.”
“Detective, not spy. And it won’t matter if they know. No one outfoxes or disarms John Quincannon more than once.”
“You’re not thinking of taking a weapon into the hole again?”
“I am. A small-caliber pistol, fully loaded.”
“By Christ, you’ve got gall. You’re the one liable to get himself shot dead this time.”
“It’s a risk I’m willing to take to put an end to this business. One day, two at the most is all I’ll need.”
“If you live that long.”
“Yo
u’ll pass the word to Walrus Ben, then, and to Pat Barnes to let me back on his timber crew? And would you supply the pistol? I’d rather not chance buying one.”
O’Hearn let out an exasperated breath. “More damn gall. All right, I’ll oblige you again. But don’t ask for any more favors. You’re on your own starting tomorrow morning.”
“When and how do I get the pistol?”
“I’ll have it delivered to your room tonight after supper. Just make sure you’re there to—” He didn’t finish the rest of the sentence, because knuckles rattled on the door just then and the sheriff poked his dried-chili-pepper face inside.
“That fella Yost checked out of the hotel yesterday, Mr. O’Hearn. Left on the morning stage to Marysville.”
Quincannon said, “Hell, damn, and blast!”
Calder blinked at the explosive response. “Something wrong in Yost leaving?”
“Never mind, Micah,” O’Hearn said. “Shut the door and wait for me. I’ll be right out.”
“Just you? You ain’t gonna leave Quinn here by his lonesome, are you? Suppose he tries to run off?”
“He won’t.”
“Well, if you say so…”
“I say so. Just remember—if anybody asks why he’s not still a prisoner, you tell them to talk to me. And don’t say anything about this little side trip or McClellan’s boot.”
Calder said, “I’ll remember, yes, sir,” and shut the door.
O’Hearn stayed just long enough to growl, “One day, two at the most.”
It was not so much a reminder, Quincannon thought sourly, as a veiled threat.
16
QUINCANNON
On his own after leaving the undertaking parlor, Quincannon spent the rest of Sunday afternoon and evening in his room at Miners Lodging House #4, nursing his sore head, planning strategy for the morrow, and pining for Sabina. Now that the end of his investigation was in sight, he yearned to rejoin her in San Francisco, to be making renewed plans for their wedding and once again sharing a bed.
The pistol O’Hearn had procured for him, which arrived by messenger wrapped in heavy paper, was not one he would have chosen for himself. A nickel-plated Sears, Roebuck .22-caliber Defender, it could be bought for sixty-eight cents new. At least it was a seven-shot weapon and all the chambers were filled, though it would need to be fired at close quarters to do much in the way of defending.
The Stolen Gold Affair Page 9