This Friday, tomorrow? Probably. Yet, it was unlikely that the trio would be planning to leave by train and in broad daylight. The more probable pattern would be to dismantle the mortar under cover of darkness, load it and the easily transportable items of rainmaking equipment into their wagon, and then vanish in the middle of the night.
Bainsville. Another small farm town some fifteen miles to the north. Ah, so that was their plan. They intended to pack up and escape Delford tonight, driving their wagon to Bainsville, where they would purchase passenger and baggage tickets for themselves if not their equipment. By the time the Delford residents realized what had happened and spread the word, the miscreants would have reached and then departed Stockton for parts unknown.
Quincannon relocked Saxe’s door, left the hotel. He hummed a temperance tune under his breath, cheerfully, as he walked to the jail to inform the marshal of his suspicions. He had high hopes that Saxe and his cohorts would in fact attempt to pull out tonight; it would allow him, along with Boxhardt and a deputy or two, to make the arrest. In which case he wouldn’t need to wait for the coming of Sheriff Beadle and his deputies, he could return to San Francisco on the morrow.
13
SABINA
The morning mail brought a note from Amity Wellman, reminding Sabina of a Voting Rights for Women supper on Friday evening and urging her to attend if at all possible. A trio of Southern California delegates to the State Woman Suffrage Convention in November had come to the city and would be guest speakers at the supper. It promised to be, Amity wrote, a spirited gathering in preparation for the campaign for a state constitutional amendment to make California the fourth state in the union to give the vote to women.
Sabina, herself an ardent suffragist, had met Amity at a rally the previous autumn. That and their mutual passion for bicycling had made them friends—a friendship that had been put to the test earlier this year when Amity began receiving threatening letters and an attempt was made on her life. Sabina’s investigation had unmasked the perpetrator, but in the process opened up a Pandora’s box that had had near-tragic results and put a strain on their relations. They had had little enough contact since. Amity’s note, warmly signed, indicated that she not only sought Sabina’s continued support for the cause, but wished to reestablish the personal bond between them.
Sabina penned a reply stating that she would indeed attend the meeting, looked forward to it and to seeing Amity again, and signed it “Affectionately, Sabina.” She addressed an envelope, folded her note inside, and was affixing a stamp when something else brightened her morning—the arrival of a prospective new client.
The card he handed her gave his name as Joshua Brandywine, his profession as “purveyor of fine apparel for the gentleman.” It was a name Sabina recognized, for it had appeared in the newspapers often enough, in both social and feature sections as well as in advertisements. Had John been present, he would have been gleefully eager to please Mr. Brandywine. For the man, who in addition to his professional stature was a prominent collector of rare old Chinese objets d’art, was one of San Francisco’s wealthiest citizens.
Well-dressed, middle-aged, and corpulent, Brandywine wore a bushy biblical beard but had no hair to speak of above his ears; an expensive cigar jutted from one corner of his wide mouth. He was in a dither, as evidenced by his too red face and a scowl as fierce as John’s. It was also evident that he was one of those men who found dealing with a woman on an equal professional basis to be discomfiting, if not downright suspect. He demanded to speak with “the head of the agency,” John Quincannon, and was visibly dismayed when she politely told him that Mr. Quincannon was out of town on another investigation, that the agency was in fact two-headed, she being a full partner, and that whatever had brought him here, she was quite capable of attending to it.
To his credit, Brandywine had the good sense not to further express his feelings of male superiority or to take his business elsewhere. He was too upset and too much in need of assistance, and clearly Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, had come highly recommended to him.
“Now, then,” Sabina said. “What is the nature of your problem, Mr. Brandywine?”
“Theft. Impossible theft, by God.”
“Impossible?”
“Just that. Just that.”
“What exactly has been stolen?”
“Chinese antiquities, ten of the most valued and valuable pieces from my collection.”
“Please have a seat and tell me what happened.”
Mr. Brandywine refused to have a seat. He stalked about the office as John sometimes did when he was flustered, his color darkening to the approximate hue of port wine. Except for the crazy-quilt patterns of smoke from the cigar clenched in his flailing hand, Sabina thought that it might have been possible to see steam rising from the top of his bald dome.
“I tell you, it’s impossible!” he cried, his voice rising to two decibels below a shout. “Couldn’t have been done. Yet it was, at least twice—there is no other explanation. Maddening! Infuriating!”
“Calm yourself, Mr. Brandywine. I understand how upset you must be, but there is nothing to be gained in raising your blood pressure.”
“I’ll thank you not to give me medical advice, young woman!”
Sabina’s tenure as a Pink Rose, and her years in partnership with John, had taught her patience and forbearance in dealing with doubting Thomases, outright misogynists, bigots, and fools. She continued to sit quietly with her hands folded on the desktop. Behind her, pale summer sunshine illuminated the window that bore the agency’s name in flowing script. The window, open a few inches, admitted various noises from Market Street below: the rumble of a passing cable car, the clatter of dray wagons, the calls of vendors hawking fresh seafood in Sullivan’s Fish Stand across the thoroughfare. It also permitted the smoke from Joshua Brandywine’s cigar to escape, though not as quickly as she would have liked.
“Very well, sir,” she said. “But I can’t be of assistance until I know all the facts of the matter.”
Mr. Brandywine stopped pacing, but continued the agitated waving of his cigar. “As I told you, I’ve been robbed. Robbed! Ten pieces taken, half of them irreplaceable, by a thief who seems to have appeared and disappeared in my locked antiquities room like a confounded ghost. No conceivable way to have gotten in through door or windows. None. Impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible, sir. The antiquities room is at your home, I assume.”
“Yes, yes, where else would it be?”
Sabina said patiently, “When a locked room has been breached, someone has found a way to breach it. It’s as simple as that.”
“Simple! It’s not simple, it’s maddening, it has me at my wit’s end—”
“Kindly take your seat and we’ll proceed.”
Brandywine sputtered a bit more, finally heaved a great tremulous sigh, and planted his substantial posterior in the largest of the client chairs. It creaked audibly under his weight.
Sabina asked, “Where exactly is the antiquities room located?”
“On the second floor. That is what makes the thefts all the more—”
“It contains your entire collection?”
“The finest collection of Sung, Zhou, Han, and Qing dynasty jade and porcelain pieces in the western states, perhaps in the entire nation.” A fierce pride replaced some of the man’s agitation; his color, Sabina was relieved to see, was less dangerously purplish now. “Nearly three hundred items, many of them exceedingly rare, gathered over the past thirty-five years in this country and on two trips to the Orient.”
“You said ten pieces have been stolen?”
“Ten, yes. All small enough to be easily carried off. I became aware of the first theft eight days ago, when I had an opportunity to buy a white Han bi in a better state of preservation than one I’ve owned for many years.”
“A bi? What is that?”
“A jade artifact, flat, circular, with a hole in the center.”
Brandywine puffed furiously on his cigar. “I don’t spend an inordinate mount of time mooning over individual pieces like some collectors; I derive satisfaction enough in viewing my collection as a whole, with an occasional reexamination of this or that object. I hadn’t looked at my bi in some time before I discovered it was missing. I couldn’t believe it, I thought I must have misplaced it somehow.”
“And this led you to make a complete inventory?”
“Naturally. Five other pieces were gone—a Sung rhyton cup, a Han phoenix plaque, a Qianlong famille-rose snuff bottle—”
This was all gibberish to Sabina, though she nodded attentively as if she understood. She asked, “What is the total value of the missing items?”
“Value? Thousands of dollars, but their value to me is far greater than their monetary worth.”
“I’m sure it is. Did you report the theft to the police?”
“Of course. Immediately. They did nothing but blunder about. One of the clumsy fools nearly damaged a Shang plate.”
John would have said that such was typical police ineptitude. Sabina tended to agree, but she refrained from saying so. She asked, “When did you discover the other four pieces had been stolen?”
“Just last night. Four even more valuable than the first six.” Brandywine’s anger sparked hot again; he jabbed out the remains of his cigar in the ashtray on John’s desk with enough force to spray ashes across the blotter. “Including one of my greatest treasures, an eight-thousand-year-old jade dragon in remarkably fine condition. That is what brought me here, rather than to the Hall of Justice again.”
Sabina couldn’t resist saying, “A wise decision, sir.”
“That,” Brandywine said darkly, “remains to be seen.”
“Tell me about the antiquities room.”
“The only door has a pair of locks of the best manufacture. There is one set of latched French-style windows that can’t be reached from the outside, or opened if they could. Can’t be opened at all anymore, for that matter—you’ll see why when you come to the house.”
“How many keys are there to the double locks?”
“Only one for each.”
“Do you keep them with you at all times, even at night?”
“No. In the safe in my study. The only time I remove them is when I am about to enter the antiquities room, and I replace them immediately upon locking up again.”
“You’re certain no one could have gained access to the keys long enough to have them duplicated? Or to make wax impressions?”
“Absolutely certain. No one has the combination to the safe, not even my wife.”
“How many people live with you?”
He bristled at the question. “Are you inferring someone in my household is responsible for the thefts?”
“That would seem to be the most likely explanation in a case such as this.”
“Well, you’re wrong, young woman. Everyone who occupies my home and property is above reproach.”
“I would still like you to identify them, please.”
“Very well. My wife, Alice. My nephew and ward, Philip—my late brother’s son. The housekeeper and cook, Mrs. Endicott. And Grimes, the coachman, gardener, and handyman.”
“Are the two servants live-in residents?”
“Yes. Mrs. Endicott has a room off the kitchen, Grimes another in the carriage house. But neither of them has ever exhibited any interest in my collection, or has knowledge of the various pieces. The same is true of my wife and nephew. And my daughter Ruth and her husband.”
“Where do they live, may I ask?”
“In Berkeley. Ellis teaches at the university.”
“Do they visit often at your home?”
Brandywine’s scowl deepened. “What are you implying?”
“Nothing, sir. I am merely asking questions.”
“Hmmpf. No, they don’t visit often. Too busy. None of my family or my employees has need of money, if that’s to be your next question—I am quite generous, if I do say so myself. The thief must be an outsider, a professional burglar.”
One with specialized knowledge of Chinese curios, Sabina thought, not to mention a foolish and generous nature to have prowled twice and made off with only ten of several hundred valuable items? Highly improbable. But she said only, “How easy would it be for an outsider to gain access to your home?”
“To the grounds, not difficult,” Brandywine said. “To the house is another matter. All the doors and windows are kept securely locked at night.”
“Have there been any recent signs of illegal entry?”
“No. None. But there are ways to enter homes without leaving traces, I’m sure.”
Oh, yes. More than you’d care to know about. “When was the last time anyone other than yourself was inside the antiquities room?”
“More than a week ago. Evander Hightower, an old friend and fellow collector. But I’ve known Evander for twenty-five years—he is as honest as the day is long. Besides, he was never out of my sight on that or any other occasion when he visited.”
“Were you in the room prior to last night’s theft?”
“Yes, briefly. Alone. We had no guests. And as always I was careful to make certain both lock bolts were turned when I left again.”
The Seth Thomas clock on the wall above John’s desk chimed the half hour. Brandywine blinked and peered up at it; then, as if he didn’t trust its accuracy, he produced and consulted an embossed gold pocket watch. “Tempus fidgets,” he said, frowning.
“… Excuse me?”
“I’ve just remembered I have a business meeting in twenty minutes that I cannot afford to miss. It shouldn’t last more than an hour. Are you to begin your investigation early this afternoon?”
There being nothing else on her agenda for today, Sabina was quick to say, “Certainly.”
“Then I’ll expect you at my home promptly at one o’clock.” Brandywine pocketed the gold watch and then stood, adjusting the drape of his expensive cutaway coat. “I am not a patient man, Mrs. Carpenter,” he said then. “No, not a patient man at all in such an outrageous matter as this. I demand results.”
“If at all possible, you shall have them.”
“Guaranteed?”
“No reputable detective agency can guarantee anything in advance except service to the best of their ability. That much I can promise you.”
“Very well. What are your fees?”
Sabina told him. John no doubt would have inflated the sum a bit, given Mr. Brandywine’s wealth and stature, but she didn’t believe in doing business in such a cavalier fashion. To her way of thinking, a client was a client to be treated equally whether a prince or a pauper.
Brandywine said that the fee was acceptable, and surprised her by offering bonuses of five hundred dollars if she successfully resolved the case in forty-eight hours or less, one thousand dollars if within twenty-four. Honesty, she thought, was indeed the best and potentially most rewarding policy.
14
SABINA
Joshua Brandywine’s home was an ornate two-story pile high atop Nob Hill, not far from the Blanchford mansion she’d had occasion to visit twice during the course of the Body Snatchers Affair. Mr. Brandywine’s was not quite as palatial, nor was the view it commanded of the bay and the piers and anchored ships along the broad sweep of the waterfront below quite as panoramic. It was set well back from the street behind an impressive fence of filigreed black iron pickets, surrounded by flower beds and greensward. The carriage gates in front stood open, evidently in preparation for Sabina’s arrival.
The fence, she noted as her hansom entered the grounds, was six feet in height all the way around and the tips of the iron pickets were as sharp as spear points. The tops of the two gate halves were similarly spiked. Climbable, certainly, but at some risk to life and limb.
Through the hack’s side window, then, she spied a slender young man dressed in white trousers and what appeared to be the sleeveless top of a bathing costume engaged
in a series of oddly antic maneuvers on the long green to her right. The fellow lay tilted on his back, hands on hips, legs pumping the air as if he were riding an invisible bicycle; then he hopped up in one agile movement and began jumping up and down and flapping his arms like a swan about to take flight.
Calisthenics? If so, he was certainly doing them energetically.
As the hansom rattled past, the young man erupted into a headlong sprint, his strides long and surprisingly swift. Having gone some three hundred feet or so, he slowed, turned, and then raced back at the same lightning speed. After which he dropped to the turf and commenced another round of supine calisthenics.
Joshua Brandywine had evidently been watching for her arrival; he waddled out and stood waiting on the drive, one of his expensive cigars clenched between his teeth, when the driver reined his horse to a halt.
He took her hand and helped her step down, then released it immediately and consulted his gold watch. “One o’clock exactly. Very good. I am a stickler for punctuality, as I told you.”
The young man on the green caught Sabina’s eye again. He was once more on his feet, bouncing up and down and waving his arms. “Is that your nephew, Mr. Brandywine?”
“Yes, that’s Philip. Fancies himself an athlete. Gymnastics, footraces. Sissified nonsense, if you ask me.”
She watched the youth do a back flip, then several forward rolls, then a handstand, then leap to his feet and commence another sprint. The exact purpose of the maneuvers may not have been completely comprehensible, but any activity requiring that much dexterity could hardly be termed sissified.
Mr. Brandywine once more peered at his watch. “Come along inside,” he said. “Tempus fidgets.”
That phrase again, an intentional or unintentional alteration of tempus fugit. Evidently it was habitual with him.
He led the way into the house, across a dark foyer to a wide, curving staircase. As they started up, Sabina asked him if his wife was at home.
“Out at one of her club meetings,” Brandywine said. “You needn’t bother with her, there is nothing she can tell you.”
The Bags of Tricks Affair--A Carpenter and Quincannon Mystery Page 10