Beyond the Grave

by Muller, Marcia

  Velasquez sat in one of the padded armchairs that faced the desk, placing the carpetbag on the floor beside him. Quincannon reoccupied his chair, opened the humidor he kept on the desk, and held it out. “Cigar?”

  “I will have one of mine.”

  Velasquez produced a leather case from inside his cutaway coat, extracted a green-tinged cigarillo that he lighted carefully. The smoke he exhaled was rich and fragrant. Quincannon arranged his features into what he calculated to be a servile expression. “How may I help you?” he asked gravely.

  “I have come on a matter of the utmost importance to my family,” Velasquez said. “Señor Adams said you are known as a man of honor and discretion.”

  “Honor and discretion. Yes, indeed.”

  “I hope that is so. You are familiar with the name of Don Esteban Velasquez?”

  “Ah, no, I'm afraid not.”

  “He was my father. In the days of los ranchos grandes he owned one of the largest grants in the Santa Ynez Valley, not far from Santa Barbara—Rancho Rinconada de los Robles. I was born there. I still live at the hacienda, what remains of it. But the land … it is a mere fraction of the original grant, all that was left to my family after my father was murdered.”

  “Murdered?”

  “During what you call the Bear Flag Revolution, by a detachment of John Fremont's soldiers.” Velasquez said this with such bitterness and hatred that Quincannon wondered if, beneath the gentlemanly exterior, the man harbored a deep resentment toward all Americans.

  “I see.”

  “Do you? Perhaps not. I will tell you the details of my father's death and the destruction of his property. They are important to my reason for coming here.”

  “By all means, Señor Velasquez.”

  Velasquez told his story in short, clipped sentences drenched in bitterness. Quincannon was a careful listener, and he thought that the account of the Americans' attack on Rancho Rinconada de los Robles was highly colored and possibly lacking facts as well as perspective. Nevertheless, he found it interesting—particularly so when Velasquez explained about his father's collection of religious artifacts. He took copious notes, as he always did on any investigation, from beginning to end, the easier to order all the facts for the report he would later write.

  “The artifacts were hidden somewhere on the rancho,” Velasquez said, “either at the hacienda or at the pueblo nearby. If Don Esteban did not hide them himself, he would have entrusted the task to the padre of San Anselmo de las Lomas, the pueblo church. Padre Urbano was also murdered during the siege. There were no survivors, other than the women and children who were evacuated before Fremont's butchers came.”

  “Were the artifacts later recovered?”

  “No, they were not. At least not by members of my family. Their hiding place has never been found.”

  “But surely your father or the padre provided some sort of written record …”

  “The day before the attack Don Esteban wrote a letter to my mother in Mexico City. She had taken me there ten months earlier, before the outbreak of war. I have always believed the location of the artifacts was included in this letter. But it never reached my mother. The woman to whom it was entrusted, a mestiza servant, gave it to the captain of a loyalist schooner at Refugio Beach; we later learned the schooner was sunk by an American gunboat before it reached Mexico. The letter was lost with the captain.”

  “And there was no other record?” Quincannon asked.

  “If there was, it was destroyed or confiscated by the revolutionists.” Velasquez made an angry slashing gesture with his cigarillo, as if it were a sword aimed downward at John Fremont's neck. “Part of the hacienda and most of the pueblo were blown apart by cannon or damaged by fire.”

  “Is it possible Fremont's soldiers found the artifacts?”

  “Possible, yes. There was much looting done. But my family and our emissaries were unable to locate any of the artifacts, or word of any of them, in nearly fifty years.”

  “Gold and silver can easily be melted down,” Quincannon pointed out.

  “Of course. But only half of the artifacts were made of gold and silver. The rest are holy books, devotional paintings, icons. At least some of those should have come to our attention.”

  “Then, you believe they are still hidden?”

  “That has always been my belief, yes. And my mother's, to the day of her death five years ago. Many searches were mounted after the war ended and we returned from Mexico. Our debts were great; we had little money, and the sale of the artifacts would have prevented much of our land from being sold at auction.”

  “So it would seem they were hidden too well.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “Perhaps not, though,” Quincannon said. “Or am I wrong in assuming one or more of the artifacts have now surfaced? That one, in fact, is in that carpetbag alongside your chair?”

  Surprise stiffened Velasquez, bent him forward. “Diablos! How do you know this?”

  Quincannon said sagely, “An elementary deduction.” Not so long ago he had read a volume of detective stories by a British physician named Conan Doyle; Doyle's detective used phrases such as that, and Quincannon liked the sound of them. “You wouldn't have explained about the artifacts if they weren't all or part of your reason for consulting me. Nor would you have brought a carpetbag here unless it contains something you wish to show me. And you could hardly want a private detective to mount a blind search for treasure buried since 1846. The logical conclusion, then, is that one or more of the artifacts have been located and you wish me to investigate the circumstances surrounding the recovery. And to determine if other of the artifacts can also be recovered. Correct?”

  Velasquez seemed reluctantly impressed. “That is it exactly,” he said. “You must be a detective of uncommon skill, señor.”

  “Others have been kind enough to say so.” Quincannon was enjoying himself. Perhaps it was the winy air, the sounds and smells of spring; he felt very self-confident today, in a whimsical sort of way. “Now then, about the recovered artifacts. How many were there?”

  “Only one. A statue of the Virgin Mary.”

  Velasquez lifted the carpetbag, opened it, and took out a large cloth sack closed at the top by a drawstring. The content of the sack was clearly heavy, and Quincannon saw why when it was revealed: the statue was some fourteen inches in height, several inches wide, and made of what appeared to be pure gold, dulled now by age and showing the gouges and scratches of careless handling. Almost reverently Velasquez passed it across the desk. Quincannon turned it over and around in his hands. It was of the Holy Virgin standing in an attitude of prayer, hands below her chin, eyes closed. On the flat bottom of the base, etched into the gold, were the words FRANCISCO PORTOLÁ POR DON ESTEBAN VELASQUEZ, and the date 1843.

  At length Quincannon set the statue down on his desk, equidistant between Velasquez and himself. His whimsical feeling had vanished; something about the statue had turned his thoughts serious. Still looking at it, he said, “Where was it found?”

  “Here in San Francisco. In a curio shop on McAllister Street owned by a man named Duff.”

  “Luther Duff?”

  “Yes. Do you know him?”

  “Only by reputation.”

  “He is not honest?”

  “Occasionally he is,” Quincannon said. “Did he contact you about the statue?”

  “No, no, it was found in his shop by a man named Barnaby O'Hare.”

  “And Barnaby O'Hare is—?”

  “A historian. He is writing a history of los ranchos grandest.”

  “A friend of yours?”

  “Hardly,” Velasquez said, as if the very idea of friendship with a gringo offended him. “I permitted him a short stay at Rancho Rinconada de los Robles three months ago and provided him with information for his book.”

  “Does he reside in San Francisco?”

  “No. In Los Angeles. He has been here for two weeks, examining documents and photographs in
your Bancroft Library.”

  “He came upon the statue by accident, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “And notified you immediately?”

  “By telegram.”

  “You'd told him the story of the hidden artifacts?”

  Velasquez shrugged. “He knew it when he came to me. It is not common knowledge, but neither is it a secret. My family has spent too much money, and employed too many men, in the search for the artifacts.”

  “What were your actions when you received Mr. O'Hare's wire?”

  “I made immediate arrangements for the statue's purchase.”

  “With O'Hare?”

  “Yes. And with an official of the California Commercial Bank. That was three days ago. I arrived myself only yesterday.”

  “What was Duff's asking price?”

  “Two thousand dollars.”

  “A pretty sum,” Quincannon observed.

  “I would have paid twice that amount.”

  “You are satisfied the statue is authentic?”

  “Completely satisfied. The inscription on the base could not have been forged.”

  “Where did Duff obtain it? Would he say?”

  “He claimed it was included in a lot he purchased at auction two years ago in San José. He does not know who owned it or from where it came, he said.” Velasquez scowled as he rubbed out the remains of his cigairillo in Quincannon's abalone-shell ashtray. “But from what you have told me about him, he might have lied.”

  “He might well have. Luther Duff would lie to God Himself for a twenty-dollar gold piece. There are ways of dealing with the likes of Mr. Duff, however—ways of finding out the truth of a matter.” Quincannon smiled his capable, reassuring smile. “At which hotel are you stopping, sir?”

  “The Bellevue,” Velasquez said, “but I have already checked out. Tonight I will be reluming to Santa Barbara. As much as I would prefer to remain here until your investigation is completed, there is business that demands my attention at home.”

  “Will you be traveling by train?”

  “Of course.”

  “Departing when?”

  “Seven o'clock.”

  “I will meet you on the platform at six-thirty,” Quincannon promised, “with a report of my talk with Luther Duff and an outline of how I will proceed.”

  “Bueno.”

  Contractual matters and the exchange of fifty dollars in greenbacks were quickly consummated. It was while Velasquez was resacking the gold statue of the Virgin Mary that Sabina returned from an errand that had taken her to the Wells Fargo office on Sutter Street.

  She appeared pleased to find a new client on the premises and the crisp sheaf of greenbacks on Quincannon's desk. But her pleasure lasted only until Quincannon introduced her as his partner, the Carpenter of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, and she observed the expression of incredulity on Velasquez's walnut-brown face, heard him say in scornful tones, “Partner? A woman?”

  Sabina said stiffly, “And why not, Señor Velasquez?”

  “Women should not be detectives.” He spoke to Quincannon rather than to her, and there was censure in his voice; it was plain he thought less of Quincannon's judgment than he had before Sabina's arrival. “Their place is in the home—”

  “Faugh!” Sabina said. “What old-fashioned nonsense! I'll have you know that before Mr. Quincannon and I opened this agency, I was an operative of the Pinkerton Agency in Denver …”

  “And a fine one she was,” Quincannon said. “Progress, Señor Velasquez. Changing times. The new century is only six years hence.” He had taken Velasquez's arm and was gently steering him and his carpetbag away from Sabina, toward the door. “There are tasks a woman can perform that a man cannot, even in the detective business. Many such tasks. Surely you understand, a man of your intellect and insight.”

  “Women have no place in the affairs of men—”

  “Thank you so much for placing your trust in me. A decision you won't regret, I assure you. Until six-thirty this evening, then? Good-bye, Señor Velasquez, have a pleasant afternoon.” And Quincannon, smiling, nudged him through the door and shut it quickly before Velasquez could offer another comment.

  When he looked at Sabina, he saw that there were spots of color on her cheeks the size of silver dollars. She said between her teeth, “What an insufferable, smug, pompous—”

  “Now, now. Progressive ideas are foreign to gentlemen of the Mexican aristocracy. Señor Velasquez is a victim of his lineage.”

  “Señor Velasquez,” Sabina said, “is an ass.”

  Quincannon moved to his desk and gestured at the sheaf of greenbacks. “Fifty dollars, my dear, and the promise of considerably more. He may be an ass, but he isn't a poor one.”

  “Mm. Just what is it he hired you to do?”

  Quincannon explained. Sabina continued to look ruffled and annoyed, but he was not displeased by this. He thought that she was radiant when she was aroused. She was not a beautiful woman, or even a pretty one in any conventional sense; but at thirty-one she possessed a mature attractiveness. There was strength in the shape of her face and mouth, intelligence in eyes the dark color of the sea at dusk. Her hair, layered high on her head and fastened with a jeweled comb (a fashion he found exotic and appealing), shone a sleek blue-black in the sunlight slanting in through the windows at her back. And her figure was a fine, slim one, handsomely draped today in a lacy white shirtwaist and a Balmoral skirt. Looking at her as he spoke, he found his thoughts stirring, shifting again toward those mildly indecent speculations he had indulged in earlier.

  “Do you really suppose the statue can be traced to its previous owner?” she asked.

  “Perhaps. That depends on what can be learned from Luther Duff.”

  “You're going to see him now?”

  “I am. I should be back by three.” He hesitated. “Sabina, have you plans for this evening?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, I had in mind dinner at the Old Poodle Dog, opera bouffe at the Tivoli, coffee and cordials at the Hoffman Café—”

  “—and a private carriage ride in the moonlight?”

  He pretended to be stung. “I had no such intention.”

  “Didn't you? John, will you never give up?”

  “Never. And will you never give in?”

  A smile played at the corners of her mouth. The smile encouraged him. He said, “A fine spring evening should not be spent alone in one's rooms.”

  “What makes you think I plan to spend it alone in my rooms?”

  Now he was stung. “Who is he?”

  “Whom?”

  “Your gentleman friend.”

  She laughed. “His name is John Quincannon and his persistence can be exasperating at times.”

  “Ah,” he said, and smiled. “Ah, but he means well. You'll join me for dinner, then?”

  “Yes, but not at the Old Poodle Dog. Such extravagance.”

  “Nothing is too extravagant for you, my dear.”

  “John's Grill will be fine.”

  “And the opera bouffe, the coffee and cordials?”

  “Yes. But not the moonlight carriage ride.”

  “I had no such intention …”

  “Oh, bosh,” she said, but she was still smiling. She turned toward her desk across the room from his. “Go about your business, John, and let me go about mine.”

  Quincannon plucked his derby off the hat tree by the door, placed it on his head at a jaunty angle, winked at her boldly when he saw that she wasn't looking, and went out to the elevators. He felt fine. There was no longer any doubt in his mind; he was absolutely certain that spring had worked its magic on Sabina just as it had on him.

  She was weakening. It was only a matter of time.

  TWO

  QUINCANNON RODE THE streetcar up Market to Van Ness, paused after disembarking to light his pipe, and walked to McAllister Street. There was considerable traffic today, as a result of the fine weather. The b
road expanse of Van Ness Avenue was clogged with buggies, surreys, hansom cabs. Men and women in their spring finery strolled the tree-shaded sidewalks. Lovers, some of them, Quincannon noted slyly. He smiled at them, tipped his hat to the ladies. He wished he had thought to bring his stick with him this morning; young blades always carried a stick, and he felt like a young blade again, one with the promise of a clandestine evening just ahead.

  No carriage ride in the moonlight, Sabina had said. Ah, but had she meant it?

  Luther Duff's Curio Shop, as it was unimaginatively called, was in the second block of McAllister west of Van Ness, crowded among similar establishments. A small bell announced his entrance into a gloomy, cluttered interior that smelled of dust, mildew, and slow decay. Only one window was visible, and that so begrimed its glass was opaque; four strategically placed electric lights provided nearly all of the dim illumination. As far as Quincannon could tell, the premises were deserted.

  He moved toward the rear, making his way between and around clusters of furniture. He recognized a French cabinet made of ebony panels inlaid with brass, a Spanish refectory table, a Dutch East Indies chest, a Tyrolean pine coffer, a black-lacquered Chinese wardrobe festooned with fire-breathing dragons. Other items caught his attention briefly in passing: a damascened suit of armor, shelves of dust-laden books, several clocks large and small, a trio of odd Aztec fetishes, a stuffed and molting peacock, a set of brightly enameled Japanese dishes, a wavy-bladed Malay kris, a collection of Florentine bronzes, an artillery bugle, a Georgian brass ship's compass, a case of tarnished silverware, a paint-splotched English saddle, an unmarked marble tombstone, and a yellow-varnished portrait of a fat nude woman who would have looked far more aesthetic, he thought, with her clothes on.

  At the rear of the shop, a counter ran the full width like a barrier. Behind it was a massive, gilt-trimmed cash register on an oak stand, and behind that was a set of musty damask drapes that curtained off a back alcove. The draperies parted as Quincannon approached the counter and a short, round balding man of about fifty popped out. Even at first glance he was as unappetizing as a tainted oyster. He wore slyness and venality as openly as the garters on his sleeves and the moneylender's eyeshade across his forehead. The suddenness of his appearance made Quincannon think of a troll jumping out in front of an unwary traveler.