“Mrs. Tatum?” Sabina asked.
“Who’re you?”
“A friend of Clara Wilds.”
“Clara don’t have friends look like you, missy. What you want with me?”
“She mentioned your name to me once. I thought you might know where I can find her.”
“If you’re her friend, how come you don’t know?”
“We’ve fallen out of touch.”
“What you want with her?” the old woman asked suspiciously.
“A business matter. She did me a favor awhile ago and now I have a chance to return it.”
“What kind of favor?”
“The money-making kind.”
“Hah. What’s your game, missy?”
“The same one you used to be in. The one you taught her.” Sabina punctuated those statements by reaching up to finger her Charles Horner hatpin. “Only my territory is the Uptown Tenderloin.”
There were several seconds of silence. Then Dippin’ Sal nodded once, satisfied, and her crabbed fingers opened the door all the way. Past her Sabina had glimpses of a small front parlor with striped wallpaper and old, worn furniture decorated with antimacassars.
“I can’t tell you where Clara’s livin’ now. She used to come around regular, now she don’t. Can’t be bothered anymore with an old woman taught her most every trick she knows.”
“Including the hatpin diversion?”
“No, she thought that one up herself. Pretty smart. You’re using it, too, eh?”
Sabina nodded. “Do you know anyone who can tell me where to find her?”
“Talk to my son. Likely he knows.”
“Fencing for her, is he?”
“And laying her, too, likely, not that he’d ever admit it to me. My Victor’s the same as his father was. Same as most men, come to that.”
“Is Clara still keeping company with Dodger Brown?”
“The Dodger? Maybe she is, maybe she isn’t. How would I know?” Dippin’ Sal raised and dropped her crippled hands. She smacked her lips as if there was a bitter taste in her mouth. “I’m just an old woman nobody cares about no more. But I was good in my day-the best there was workin’ the Comstock, smooth as silk. You better believe that, missy. The damn best there was, and I didn’t need no hatpin, either.”
Pope’s Hardware Store stood on the corner of Twenty-third Street and Guerrero. Its wood floors were buckled with age, so that one had a sensation of walking on the deck of a ship at sea, and it smelled not unpleasantly of creosote and sawdust. A heavyset man with thick, black hair who was selling paintbrushes to a customer in work clothes concluded the transaction and rang up the sale on an ornate gold-filigree cash register. Sabina waited until the customer had left and there was no one else in sight before she approached the heavyset man.
“Are you Victor Pope?” she asked.
“At your service.”
“I understand you know Clara Wilds.”
The name made him wary. “Who told you that?”
“Your mother.”
“Why would she-? Say, who are you?”
“Call me Lil. I need to get in touch with Clara. Dippin’ Sal said you’d have her address.”
“Old woman can’t keep her mouth shut-” Pope blinked. “What name was that?”
“You heard me right. I’m in the same profession your mother used to be and Clara is now.”
Pope glanced furtively toward the door, as if he were afraid someone might have crept in while he wasn’t looking. He passed a hand over his coarse features. “How come you’re looking for Clara?”
“I have a business proposition for her. One that’ll fatten both our purses. And yours as well, if you’re fencing for her.”
“Doing what for her?”
“Pardon the pun, Mr. Pope, but let’s not fence. We both know you’ve been disposing of the swag from Clara’s robberies.”
Pope decided there was no point in further denial. “My mother tell you that, too?”
“She didn’t have to.”
“But she did, didn’t she? Old woman hates me. I took her in when she got all crippled up, and still she hates me. I don’t know why.”
He might not, but Sabina had a good idea of the reason.
“What else did the old lady say? That I’ve been seeing Clara on the sly? Well, it’s a lie. A damn lie.”
No, it wasn’t. The lie was Pope’s, not Dippin’ Sal’s. It was in his close-set brown eyes as well as on his lips.
“Has Clara brought you anything within the past few days?” Sabina asked.
“No. I haven’t seen her in more than a week.” Pope licked his lips, all but drooling his avarice when he asked, “What kind of business proposition?”
“For Clara’s ears only. All you need to know is that there’s plenty of money for you in the game. Where can I get in touch with her?”
Pope hesitated, but as usual with his type of petty crook, greed trumped caution. “She rooms in North Beach now. Brown-shingled lodging house on the corner of Union and Grant, north side. Ground floor rear.”
“Does she live there alone?”
“Far as I know.”
“But she is still seeing Dodger Brown?”
“If she is, she hasn’t said anything to me about it. I haven’t seen him in months. He don’t bring any … goods to me to sell.”
“Do you know who his fenceman is?”
“No. You and Clara won’t use anybody but me?”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Pope. You’ll get what’s coming to you.”
The area known as North Beach was a misnomer. Though there had once been a beach there, Sabina had been told, the name derived from a nearby bayside resort called the North Beach. But in recent years the city had begun filling in the land to allow the building of fishing wharves, warehouses, and docks, and both beach and resort no longer existed. The heart of North Beach, Washington Square, was also a misnomer: it was not a square at all because Columbus Avenue sliced through one edge in a long diagonal. Just as ironic was the fact that the statue it was reportedly named for was not of George Washington, but Benjamin Franklin.
The neighborhood around the nonsquare was a lively one, originally settled by Italian fishermen because of its proximity to the waterfront where many plied their trade. Its relatively cheap rents, and nostalgia among the Italians because the newly made section of shoreline was said to resemble the Bay of Naples, added to the attraction. When Sabina emerged from the hack on the southeast corner of Union and Grant, the air was redolent with the mingled aromas of Italian cooking dispensed by vendors in pushcarts-garlic, basil, oregano, tomatoes. Why, she wondered, was her primary perception of places so often their food smells? Her overly healthy appetite was at work again, despite the grilled bratwurst she had treated herself to at the California Market.
She made her way uphill on Union and soon located the brown-shingled house. A small sign on the front gate identified it as PARSONS’ ROOMING HOUSE. A narrow lane and a weed-choked vacant lot bordered its far side, and as she approached she could see that entrances to the lodging house opened off the lane. Ground floor rear, Victor Pope had said.
The immediate area was deserted. Sabina turned into the lane, walked along one of the ruts to the steps that led up to the rear side entrance. The door, she saw when she neared the top of the steps, was slightly ajar. This gave her pause. She stood for a moment to listen. No sounds came from within.
A sharp rap on the door produced no response. Neither did calling out Clara Wilds’s name. After a few moments she pushed on the door until it creaked open all the way.
What she saw when she entered made her gasp and recoil. A female form clad in pale green linen lay sprawled on a rag rug before a small gas hearth. The woman’s face was turned aside and partially covered by strands of long brown hair, but there was no mistaking her identity. Nor the fact that she was the victim of foul play.
The weapon that protruded from her throat, surrounded by a welter of bright crimson, was the
same one she’d used in the commission of her crimes-the familiar Charles Horner hatpin.
Sabina had seen violent death before-the vision of Stephen’s bullet-riddled body still haunted her dreams-but she had never become inured to it. Indeed, she questioned the veracity of those who claimed to be. Her legs were unsteady, her breath coming short, as she crossed the untidy parlor to kneel beside the dead woman.
The hatpin had been thrust deeply into the flesh just below the Adam’s apple, and the blood that had spilled from the wound was dark and coagulating. Dead not much more than an hour.
As Sabina started to rise, one of the outflung hands caught her attention-a dark gleam of red on two of the fingertips. A closer look revealed it to be blood mixed with particles of skin and a few short hairs under the nails. Clara Wilds had clawed and marked her attacker.
Sabina peered at the hairs without touching them. Brunette and silky, perhaps a man’s though she couldn’t be sure. According to the dossier on Dodger Brown, his hair was the color of his surname, but whether or not it was fine and slightly curly hadn’t been mentioned. John would know. But the Dodger was only one possible suspect; an extortionist and pickpocket made any number of enemies over the course of a long criminal career. If he was guilty, the telltale scratches and gouges from Wilds’s nails would be evidence of it once John tracked him down.
Sabina rose, stepped back to lean against the wall while she steadied herself. The police must be notified, of course, but she shared John’s distrust of the local constabulary, and did not want under any circumstances to be taken in and questioned by them. Better an anonymous call from the nearest telephone. But first …
She scanned the parlor. Her initial impression of untidiness had been false, she realized then. The room had been searched-not ransacked but gone through in a systematic way. An old horsehair sofa drawn out of position, a floor lamp tilted against it, drawers partially open in tables and sideboards. And in the bedroom, visible through an open doorway, the mattress pulled half off the bed. Someone looking for the loot from her pocket-picking exploits at the Chutes and elsewhere? And if so, had it been found?
Averting her eyes from the body, Sabina began a hurried search of her own. There was nothing for her to find in the parlor. In the bedroom she looked in the small nightstand next to the bed, then in a heavy armoire thick with a violet scent that emanated from a satin sachet bag on a hanger. The armoire was filled with clothing and an array of different styles of hats, some with veils-the costumes Wilds had worn on dipping excursions. These, too, had been searched by the murderer; there was nothing left to find.
Sabina spied a large trunk under the room’s one window. Its top was hinged open, the tray askew on the floor, the contents of both piled nearby. A worn quilt; a child’s rag doll, one eye missing; a dictionary whose main use apparently had been to press and dry flowers; an empty cut-glass perfume bottle; an old, cracked leather man’s purse; a handbag beaded with what looked to be real pearls but probably weren’t.
Sabina examined the purse, found it empty. The late Henry Holbrooke’s billfold, judging from his widow’s description. If so, the cash he’d carried had been removed and either spent or stashed elsewhere.
She set it aside and examined the beaded bag. Regular handbags were not fashionable these days, but small, decorative ones with a dainty strap that hung from the wrist were sometimes used in the evenings. This one was old and worn, but of good quality-a Corticelli manufactured in Florence, Italy, a type Sabina had long admired but could not justify the expense of purchasing. She flipped the little mother-of-pearl clasp and felt inside. Also empty.
When she turned from the bench, a thin sprinkling of dirt particles on the bottom window ledge caught her eye. The particles appeared to be moist, freshly strewn there. And were, she found when she picked one up between her thumb and forefinger. Likely it had come from a box of geraniums hanging on a hook outside.
She raised the sash and looked more closely at the box. One of the plants was tipped slightly against the other. She thrust her hand into the dirt between the two, felt roots and, toward the bottom, the object that Clara Wilds had hidden there-a small sack of dark blue velvet tied with a drawstring.
Sabina emptied the sack onto the bed. A diamond stickpin, two gold pocket watches, a large ivory watch fob, a hammered silver money clip with an intricate design, a handful of similarly valuable items, and a thick roll of greenbacks bound with a rubber band. Literally buried treasure. Clara Wilds’s murderer had fled the scene of his crime empty-handed.
Or had he? There was no way of telling.
Sabina flipped through the greenbacks, found the total to be in excess of two hundred dollars. Then she gathered up all the items, returned them to the blue velvet sack, and tucked the sack into her reticule. After a moment’s reflection, she added the cracked leather purse. There had been no question that she should confiscate everything herself; if she left the items for the police to find, they would never be returned to their rightful owners.
She had been here long enough. At the door she peered out to make sure the carriageway was still deserted, then stepped out and away.
13
QUINCANNON
Andrew Costain’s offices were in a brick building on Geary Street that housed a dozen attorneys and half as many other professional men. The anteroom held a secretary’s desk but no secretary; the bare desktop and dusty file cabinets behind it suggested that there hadn’t been one in some while. A pair of neatly lettered and somewhat contradictory signs were affixed to one of two closed doors in the inside wall. The upper one proclaimed PRIVATE, the lower invited KNOCK FOR ADMITTANCE.
Quincannon knocked. There were a few seconds of silence before Costain’s whiskey baritone called out, “Yes? Who is it?”
“John Quincannon.”
Another few seconds vanished, as if the lawyer were finishing up business at hand before moving on to the business that required the services of a private investigative agency. Then, “Come in, Mr. Quincannon. Come in.”
Costain was sitting behind a cluttered desk set before a wall covered with what appeared to be a full set of Blackstone, writing in a leather-bound notebook slightly larger than a billfold. More books and papers were scattered on dusty pieces of furniture. On another wall, next to a framed law degree, was a lithograph of John L. Sullivan in a typical fighting pose.
The lawyer motioned to Quincannon to wait while he finished whatever notations he was making. After a few moments he closed the notebook and consigned it to a desk drawer, then sat back with his fingers twiddling an elk’s tooth attached to a thin gold watch chain.
His person was somewhat more tidy than his office, though not as tidy as he’d been in evening dress at the Axminster home. The successful image, however, was belied by the rumpled condition of his expensive tweed suit and striped vest, the frayed edges of his shirt cuffs and collar, his rum-blossom nose and flushed features, and the perfume of forty-rod whiskey that could be detected at ten paces or more. If Quincannon had been a prospective client, instead of it being the other way around, he would have thought twice about entrusting legal matters to Mr. Andrew Costain.
“Thank you for coming,” Costain said. He seemed even more nervous today than he had last night; the fluttering tic on his cheek gave the false impression that he was winking and his hands continued to twitch over the elk’s tooth fob. “You didn’t stop by earlier, by any chance?”
“No, I had other business to attend to.”
“Good, good. I asked because I had to leave the office for a short time-an urgent summons from a client.”
More likely, Quincannon thought cynically, the “urgent summons” had involved a visit to whichever nearby saloon he frequented.
“Have a seat. Cigar? Drink?”
“Neither.”
“I believe I’ll have a small libation, if you don’t mind. It has been something of a trying day.”
“It’s your office, Mr. Costain.”
While Quin
cannon moved a heavy volume of Blackstone from the single client’s chair and replaced it with his backside, Costain produced a bottle of rye whiskey and a none-too-clean glass from his desk drawer. His idea of a “small one” was three fingers of rye, half of which he tossed off at a gulp. The rum blossom glowed and the flush deepened, but the lawyer’s hands continued their restless roaming.
“Your message mentioned a financial advantage. For what service?”
“That’s rather obvious, isn’t it, in light of recent events. Have you caught the burglar yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“Identified him?”
“To my satisfaction. A man named Dodger Brown.”
“I don’t recognize the name.”
“No reason you should as a civil attorney,” Quincannon said. “It’s only a matter of time until he’s locked away in the city jail.”
“How much time?”
“Within forty-eight hours, if all goes well.”
“How do you plan to catch him? While in the act?”
“If not before.”
“Don’t be ambiguous, man. I have a right to know what you’re up to.”
“Indeed? My client is the Great Western Insurance Company. I need answer only to them.”
Costain drained his glass, looked yearningly at the bottle, wet his lips, and then with a steadfast effort returned both bottle and glass to the desk drawer and pushed it shut. “My name is on that list of potential victims, you said so last night. Naturally I’m concerned. Suppose this man Brown wasn’t frightened off by his near capture at the Truesdales’? Suppose he’s bold enough to try burgling my home next, even this very night? My wife and I can ill afford to have our house ransacked and our valuables stolen. The damned insurance companies never pay off at full value.”
“A legitimate fear.”
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