“Who, then? Simcox? McClellan?”
“Hah. Neither of them had the brains or the guts to come up with the plan, much less set it all up.”
Quincannon said, “Yost. He’s the ringleader.”
Walrus Ben didn’t deny it. He blew out a heavy, coughing breath, as if expelling the last of his defiance. You could see in his eyes what took its place: the fatalism that sooner or later befell most criminals facing long prison terms or the hangman’s noose. Questions would produce answers more readily now. “That’s right,” he said in flattened tones, “Yost. Smart bastard, whip-smart. Not the first time he put together a deal like this.”
“How did you get mixed up with him?”
“Simcox. Joe knew him from one of those other deals.”
“Yost isn’t his right name. What is?”
“Only name I know him by.”
“He’s not a union representative. What does he do besides put together high-grading schemes?”
“He never said and I never asked.” Tremayne’s lips twisted in a humorless half grin. “Simcox probably knew, but he can’t tell you now.”
“Where did Yost go when he left here yesterday?”
Shrug.
“How much dust was he carrying with him?”
“Plenty. The biggest load so far. He had the rest of us working hard to mill as much as we could.”
O’Hearn said, “And then you picked up the stashed dust, smuggled it out, and turned it all over to him.”
“That was the arrangement.”
“You hold out on him, did you?”
“No. Nobody did.”
“You’re wrong about that,” Quincannon said. “McClellan managed to carry out some he kept for himself.”
“The hell he did.”
“At least two troy ounces, probably more.”
“How do you know that?”
“How I know is no concern of yours. What is Yost planning to do with the load he carried off yesterday?”
“Same as before. Sell it for cash and pay off the rest of us in easier-to-spend greenbacks.”
That confirmed Quincannon’s theory. It also explained why Yost had made two short visits and the recent long one to Patch Creek—to collect the loot from Walrus Ben and to make sure the operation was running smoothly. “But you don’t know where he does that kind of business?”
Headshake.
“Where did you first meet him? Not in Patch Creek?”
“No. Marysville.”
“Is Marysville his home base?”
“Didn’t seem so to me. Just a handy meeting place.”
“Handy for him, too?”
Shrug.
Home-based in Sacramento, mayhap, Quincannon speculated. Or somewhere near the capital that allowed for a short train ride to Marysville. “Where in Marysville did the meeting take place?” he asked.
“Some tavern by the Yuba River,” Tremayne said, “I don’t remember the name. Simcox arranged it. Me and the others rode the stage down there on a Sunday.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Four months. Early June. We started high-grading in July—took us a month to get everything set up.”
O’Hearn asked, “How many others besides you, McClellan, and Simcox?”
“Three—one on the night shift, two on the graveyard,” Walrus Ben said, and named them. None of the names was familiar to Quincannon.
O’Hearn had more questions: How many other ore-crushing hideouts were there and where were they located? How much had Walrus Ben and the others been paid so far? The answer to the first was three: one on eleven-hundred and two on twelve-hundred, all in abandoned crosscuts and stopes. The answer to the second increased the superintendent’s ire. Some two thousand dollars had lined the pockets of each of the six conspirators, with the promise of another fifteen hundred or so to come. Yost would have kept a hefty cut of the profits for himself, at least 25 percent of the total take and probably more. All of which put the estimated value of the stolen gold in the neighborhood of $40,000—a substantial loss to Hoxley and Associates if most of the amount was not recovered.
The interrogation ended with the arrival of Sheriff Micah Calder, summoned by a messenger sent by O’Hearn. Calder looked and acted even more befuddled than usual, as if he was having difficulty comprehending that the Monarch Mine had been victimized by a high-grading gang led by the bogus Jedediah Yost, that it was Walrus Ben Tremayne who had shot and killed Frank McClellan, and that Quincannon was not only innocent of any wrongdoing but a San Francisco detective hired by Everett Hoxley. He kept shaking his head and passing such doltish remarks as “If that don’t beat all” and “I be hornswoggled.” He departed finally with the shift boss in handcuffs and instructions from O’Hearn to locate and arrest the three miners Tremayne had named.
When they were gone, O’Hearn sank heavily into his desk chair and lighted a green-flecked cheroot. The fragrance of tobacco made Quincannon briefly long for his pipe and a bowl of Navy Cut.
“A damned sorry state of affairs, Quincannon. And still a long way from being finished. What do you intend to do about Yost and the gold dust he carted away yesterday?”
“Find him, and either the load of dust or its cash equivalent if he’s had time for a quick sale.”
“How? Ben wasn’t lying about not knowing Yost’s real name or where to find him.”
“No,” Quincannon agreed, “he wasn’t lying.”
“Well, then?”
“We’ll start with a search of Simcox’s belongings. Then Tremayne’s, to make sure he was telling the truth; McClellan’s again, if only to recover his stash of dust; and the trio of other conspirators. And we’ll question those three as soon as they’re in custody.”
“And if none of that gives us a lead?”
“Then I’ll commence a canvass of banks and private companies that buy large amounts of gold.”
O’Hearn puffed hard on his cheroot, said through a mist of smoke, “That’s assuming he’s selling it on the legitimate market, not to some crooked underground outfit.”
“He would do that only if he could get full dollar value for the gold, a highly unlikely prospect on the black market. My guess is that he has an arrangement with a quasi-legitimate firm that asks no questions about the source of the gold.”
“If that’s the case, he could be selling it to them as Yost, without giving his genuine address.”
“Possibly, although even a quasi-legitimate institution requires valid identification for its transaction records.”
“All right, but such a firm could be anywhere,” O’Hearn argued. “It’ll take weeks to canvass all the possible places.”
“Not nearly that long, with my agency’s resources.”
“Suppose the right one can’t be found. What then?”
Quincannon hedged by saying, “There are other methods of tracking down a fugitive.”
“Such as?”
“None that need be shared. A detective of my caliber has certain trade secrets he reveals to no one.”
The sound O’Hearn made was half growl, half snort. “Swatting yourself on the back again. Bah!”
“And with just cause. I exposed the high-graders and put an end to their game as promised, did I not? And in only ten days. So you needn’t worry, Mr. O’Hearn. Yost won’t get away with his ill-gotten gains.”
“I’ll stop worrying and admit you’re as slick as you think you are when he’s behind bars and restitution has been made. And it had better be soon.”
Quincannon said, “Oh, it will be,” with more conviction than he felt.
18
SABINA
Elmer J. Goodlove was waiting for her when she arrived at the Purifoy cottage on Monday afternoon. She was ten minutes early for their one o’clock appointment; Goodlove must have come quite a bit earlier than that, no doubt to make sure Vernon Purifoy was away at his job and the cottage empty, for he had already let himself inside. He popped out through the front door like a
cuckoo bird out of a clock as she started up the cinder path. He wore his fat smile and an air of smug satisfaction. Bold as brass, Elizabeth Petrie had said he was. Indeed. As brazen a confidence trickster as Sabina had ever encountered.
“A very good day to you, Mrs. Fredericks,” he said when she joined him at the top of the staircase. “I have excellent news. Excellent.”
“So I surmised from your sudden appearance.”
“I took the liberty of entering and having a brief look around. You don’t mind, I trust?” His voice was as bubbly as champagne. “The owner refused to sell at first, but I finally managed to convince him. Not an easy task, but Elmer Goodlove is never discouraged when acting on behalf of a determined client. No, never.”
“For what price did he settle?”
“Ah, that was the sticking point, the price. We haggled for quite some time, but he wouldn’t budge until I took it upon myself to make a final offer, one I felt he couldn’t possibly refuse. And I was right—he didn’t.”
“A final offer of how much?”
The fat smile did not waver in the slightest. “A bit more than your expressed maximum, I’m afraid. Just a bit. But if you should object—”
“How much, Mr. Goodlove?”
“Three thousand five hundred. I sincerely hope I did not overstep in offering that much, but he really gave me no alternative.”
Sabina was not in the least surprised. She said truthfully, “I detest a gouger. Who is he?”
“His name is, ah, Smith. Adam Smith. A bachelor of no consequence, a manufacturing company clerk, but stubborn and, yes, greedy.” A pot calling a nonexistent kettle black, Sabina thought sardonically. “Is the price satisfactory, Mrs. Fredericks?”
“I will give you my answer after I’ve seen the interior.”
“Of course. By all means. Shall we step inside?”
The front door opened into a narrow parlor. Goodlove shut the door quickly after they entered; Sabina sensed that he was relieved to be back inside, out of public view, even though there had been no one in the vicinity to observe their brief conversation.
You could tell quite a lot about a person by his home environment. Vernon Purifoy’s parlor verified her perception of him. The furnishings were few, old, and obviously inherited; no priggish martinet in his right mind would have picked out and bought the plum-colored velour sofa, for instance. The room was fussily neat, nothing at all out of place, but not so fussily clean. Speckles of dust marked the furniture, the fireplace mantel, the somewhat threadbare carpet. Gretchen Kantor’s statement that he lived frugally was accurate.
One extended look around the parlor was sufficient, but she took a slow turn through it on the pretense of examining walls, ceiling, the bricks in the tiny fireplace. “Satisfactory thus far,” she said to Goodlove. “Please wait here while I inspect the other rooms.”
“Wait here? But…”
“I do not wish to be watched over or hurried. You have no objection, I trust?”
The only one Goodlove was likely to have concerned the length of time they remained in the cottage, but she had counted on greed outweighing caution, and so it did. “No objection, no indeed,” he said. He took his fat body and fat smile to the velour sofa. “I’ll just wait right here.”
The remaining three rooms, not counting a closet-sized bathroom, were a small kitchen and two adjoining bedrooms. The first Sabina looked into contained a four-poster bed, a dresser, and a wardrobe, all of it as old and doubtless inherited as the parlor furniture. It was the second, converted into a spartan study, that contained the desk Miss Kantor had referred to—a well-used, factory-built Montgomery Ward rolltop.
Sabina shut the door quietly behind her, stood looking at the desk. None of the drawers on either side of the kneehole was locked; a glance through the contents of each revealed nothing of value or interest. The rolltop was locked down in place, but the lock appeared to be flimsy; an upward tug affirmed that the bolt was loose in its frame.
She hesitated, but only for a few moments. She had gone this far; she might as well go all the way.
John was an expert at picking locks; he often carried a set of burglar’s picks and had no qualms about using them for illegal entry when he deemed it necessary. Normally she viewed the practice with a jaundiced eye, and she had never indulged in it herself, but as the saying went, there was a first time for everything. He had demonstrated his prowess to her on more than one occasion, so she knew the rudiments. And she did not need a set of picks for this particular task. Her Charles Horner hatpin, with its thin, needle-sharp point, would no doubt suffice.
It did, and after only a few series of jiggles and wiggles. She replaced the hatpin and slid the rolltop up as noiselessly as she could. The interior was in apple-pie order. Cubbyholes containing plain envelopes and notepaper, receipts for various services, Bank of California checking account receipts for small deposits and withdrawals. One of two drawers was filled with pencils, pens, erasers, postage stamps, a jar of India ink. The second, a keyhole drawer, was locked.
Charles Horner made short work of opening it. Inside were two manila envelopes with looped-string clasps. And inside the first envelope was a sheaf of bank draft deposit receipts bound with a rubber band. Not from the Bank of California or any other local institution, but from the Citizens Bank of New Orleans. Sabina shuffled through them. All were made out to the Jackson Investment Company of San Francisco, S. Jackson, president, each for monthly deposits over the past two years in amounts ranging from $250 to $1,000—an aggregate, at a quick estimate, of nearly $20,000.
Where had Purifoy, with his frugal ways and doubtless modest accountant’s salary, come into possession of such a sum of money? And why was he putting it into a bank in far-off New Orleans under the name S. Jackson?
The contents of the second envelope supplied the answers. More receipts, and a small ledger book neatly filled with names, dates, and dollar figures. The figures correlated exactly to those deposited to the Jackson Investment Company, the origins of which were monthly payments by the Hollowell Manufacturing Company to Western Pacific Supply and Cosgrove Ironworks. The receipts showed regular withdrawals of those monthly payments from the accounts of the two firms, each at a different bank, by their owners and proprietors, Aurelius D. Jones and George Cosgrove. All of which added up to one indisputable fact.
Vernon Purifoy was an embezzler.
And so meticulous in his accountant’s ways, so foolishly cocksure, that he had kept a complete written record of his thefts, as well as receipts that revealed his planned destination once he was ready to quit his job, sell or abandon this cottage, and head to New Orleans.
Well, Sabina? Now that you know Mr. Purifoy’s secret, what are you going to do about it?
Putting the envelopes back where she’d found them was out of the question. She and Charles Horner might not be able to relock both the drawer and the rolltop, and even if she tried she might not have enough time; Goodlove might grow tired of waiting and come looking for her. And once Purifoy found that the desk had been breached, it could spook him enough to destroy the evidence and immediately take himself on the lammas. The same was true if he found the envelopes missing, but the evidence would be intact and secure.
Her bag was just large enough to accommodate both envelopes. She tucked them inside, then slid the rolltop down and left the room.
Goodlove bounced to his feet when she entered the parlor. “All finished with your inspection, Mrs. Fredericks?” he said, baring his teeth again. “You found everything satisfactory?”
“Quite satisfactory, yes.”
“Excellent. Then you’re amenable to paying Mr. Smith’s asking price?”
“I am. Though I must say the amount does not please me.”
“Of course, of course. Shall we leave, then?”
He managed to steer her to the door without seeming to do so, then peered out before allowing her to precede him. A conveyance passed on the street as they stepped out and descended the
staircase, but none of the occupants paid any attention to them. Goodlove’s step grew jaunty once they exited the property, a measure of his relief that the illegal trespass had been accomplished without incident.
He said then, “I have taken the liberty of drawing up an agreement which Mr. Smith has already signed. Shall we proceed to my office and complete the transaction? I have a buggy parked just down the block—”
“Not today, no. I am not prepared to make payment just yet. Three thousand five hundred dollars is more than I have in my personal account at present.”
“A post-dated check would be acceptable.”
“I prefer that funds be in the account before writing a check. I will make the necessary arrangements with my husband and our bank.”
“Ah, if you are able to do that today, perhaps we could meet later—”
Sabina said, sharpening her autocratic tone, “You needn’t be so eager, Mr. Goodlove. One would think you lack trust in my wherewithal to consummate the transaction.”
“Oh, no, dear lady, nothing of the sort. I merely assumed you would wish to do so immediately. At your convenience, by all means.”
“Tomorrow, then. No, Wednesday would be better—my husband is quite busy and an extra day might be needed to secure the funds. One o’clock Wednesday at your office, shall we say?”
Goodlove knew better than to argue; he said one o’clock Wednesday would be perfectly acceptable. They had reached the buggy, an equipage as nondescript as the swindler and his office, and he offered her a ride to wherever she wished to go. She declined. She had spent as much time with him as she could stomach.
The last thing he said to her was, “Goodbye for now, Mrs. Fredericks. It has been a great pleasure doing business with you.”
No, you tubby toad, Sabina thought as the buggy rattled away, the pleasure is entirely mine.
19
SABINA
The Hall of Justice, to which she went directly after leaving Potrero Hill, stood opposite Portsmouth Square on Kearney between Washington and Merchant streets—a gloomy pile that was scheduled for an overdue reconstruction. The last time she had come here was several months ago, on a rather brazen mission to the city morgue in the company of Charles Percival Fairchild the Third, the canny crackbrain who fancied himself to be the famous British detective Sherlock Holmes. That had been her last encounter with Charles the Third, who at the time had been unjustly accused of the murder of his Chicago cousin, and who had left the city for parts unknown shortly after she played a significant role in exonerating him. As annoying and intrusive as he’d been on several occasions, she retained a soft spot for him—it was he who had gifted her with her cat Eve, among other courtesies—and wished him well wherever he’d gone and whatever he was up to.
The Stolen Gold Affair Page 11