Beyond the Grave jq-2

by Bill Pronzini

  “In a way. Mrs. Manuela, what can you tell me about the religious artifacts your grandfather hid during the Bear Flag Revolution?”

  The non sequitur didn't seem to surprise her. “Ah, yes-the artifacts. That is part of the family folklore. But how did you learn of them?”

  I explained about the detective's report in the marriage coffer. Mrs. Manuela's faded old eyes sparkled with excitement.

  “So that was where the key to the chest was,” she said. “I never knew about that little compartment. The chest was where my mother kept her important personal papers, and she always locked the drawer, since I was an exceptionally curious child, and not a tidy one when prying into other people's belongings.”

  “Then, all the years you had it, you were never able to look inside the drawer?”

  “No. I thought the key had been lost.”

  I said, “But you did know that your father had hired someone to look for the artifacts.”

  “No, I am afraid I did not. You must remember that I was very young when he died and we moved from the rancho. And my mother never mentioned anything of the sort.”

  “Did she speak to you of the artifacts?”

  “No, never. What I knew of them came from Maria Santiago.”

  “Perhaps there would be something about them in the box of papers you mentioned on the telephone?”

  She smiled, her face a fine web of wrinkles. “Of course. Come with me, please.”

  She led me through the small dining ell to the door to the bedroom. Inside was a heavily carved canopied bed, obviously one of the furnishings Senora Velasquez had removed from the hacienda. Mrs. Manuela pointed to it. “There is a wooden box under there that contains the papers. Will you bring it out, please?”

  I got down on my hands and knees and peered under the overhang of the bedspread. The box was a low one and measured perhaps three by four feet, with an unlocked hasp and brass hinges similar to the fittings on the marriage coffer. I grasped it and pulled; it was heavy and cumbersome but slid easily on the hardwood floor.

  Mrs. Manuela said, “The box contains many of my family's papers. The lawyer had it sent down along with the furniture. In those days I was too involved with my life as a newly married woman to go through them, and in later years whenever I started to, I couldn't withstand the pain. You are welcome to look, however. Take all the time you need. I will be in the living room watching the news.”

  I waited until she had left the room, then raised the heavy lid of the box. A musty odor rose to my nostrils: dust, old paper, and maybe a touch of mold. I sat cross-legged on the floor and slowly went through the box's contents.

  There were shabby leather-bound ledgers full of long columns of figures that I supposed told the story of the last days of Rancho Rinconada de los Robles. A sheaf of papers showing transfer of title to various portions of the land was a sad footnote to the numbers. I set aside several bundles of what looked to be personal correspondence, letters written in Spanish in various old-fashioned hands. A Bible was inscribed with the birthdates and death dates of Velasquez family members. I studied it for a few moments, noting that Mrs. Manuela, the last entry of any kind, had been born in 1892. In addition to the record in the Bible, there were a number of fes de bautismo, certificates of baptism, and partidas de defuncion, death certificates.

  Stacks of bills from Santa Barbara merchants continued the story of Senora Velasquez and the young Sofia after they had moved from the hacienda: They were for food, clothing, cordwood, medical attention. There was a deed in the name of Olivia Velasquez to a house on a street not far from mine; evidently the document had not been turned over when the house had been sold after her death. There was also a pair of books in the box: One was a heavy, leather-bound California history in which a page about two-thirds of the way through had been marked with a white silk ribbon. I opened it and saw the name Don Esteban Velasquez. The three-paragraph account praised his bravery as a soldado and described the parcel of land granted him by the Mexican government. The other volume turned out not to be a book at all but a photograph album.

  I paged through it and found it was only half-full of faded, sepia-toned photographs showing men and women in heavy old-fashioned garments striking the exaggerated, dramatic poses favored in the latter part of the last century. One of the last pictures was of a man in his fifties, a woman half as old, and an infant. The parents stood on a rocky hillock covered with live oak, the child in the mother's arms. When I turned the page, the picture came loose from its hinges, and I saw on the opposite side the notation “Felipe, Olivia, Sofia.”

  This, then, was the last of the Velasquez family. I held the photograph up and studied the faces of the couple, Felipe's in particular. There was intelligence in his dark eyes and a slightly selfish, aristocratic set to his mouth. As I stared at the faded print, I found myself seeing the man as John Quincannon might have, filling in the gaps that, by its nature, the detective's report did not contain. Finally I set the album aside and began to remove the few items remaining in the box.

  One of these was another accounts ledger, and I was about to set it aside when I saw the ragged edges of some yellowed vellum pages protruding from its top. I pulled them out-and recognized John Quincannon's familiar handwriting.

  Excited, I dropped the ledger on the floor and glanced through the loose pages; they were wrinkled and torn in places, but they appeared to be a continuation of the detective's report. Somehow they had gotten separated from the first portion and dumped in here with the other family papers. It was a wonder they hadn't been destroyed.

  Hurriedly I put the papers on the bed and began to replace the other items in the wooden box. It would be rude, of course, to rush off right away after having imposed on Sofia Manuela and partaken of her hospitality, but I thought she would understand. And I could also plead the necessity of returning to Santa Barbara so I could visit my mother in the hospital.

  But Santa Barbara seemed terribly distant at the moment. I didn't want to wait until I got back there to read these reports. And I didn't have to visit Mama tonight anyway; she'd said this morning-ungraciously, I'd thought at the time-that one visit a day would suffice.

  I considered what to do for a few moments longer and then made up my mind. First I would take polite leave of Mrs. Manuela, promising her a return visit when I'd looked further into the story of the search for the Velasquez artifacts. Then I'd find a drugstore and buy a toothbrush, toothpaste, and other necessities. And then I'd find a reasonably-priced motel with a coffee shop, get carryout food, and curl up in my room with this second installment of John Quincannon's investigation.

  PART IV

  1894

  ONE

  The Chief of police of Santa Barbara was a robust, bullnecked man with enormous bristling mustaches. His name was Vandermeer. He wore his blue uniform as if it were a West Point dress outfit, stood and sat with such erectness that Quincannon wondered idly if he had a deformed spine, spoke between tight-pursed lips, possessed a fondness for the word “mister,” and managed to convey a curious mixture of deference and suspicion in his speech and actions. He studied Quincannon's Secret Service credentials for a full three minutes, scowling all the while and at the last with such ferocity that Quincannon was certain he was about to pronounce them forgeries and hurl their bearer into the nearest cell; then he said in a deferential voice dripping with suspicion, “My office is at the government's disposal, mister. What can I do for you?”

  Relieved, Quincannon said, “I'm looking for a man named James Evans, in connection with a counterfeiting case under investigation. The last address I have for him is number twelve hundred-and-six Anacapa Street, this city, but he no longer resides there.”

  “Evans, eh? Evans.” Vandermeer shook his head as if to jog his memory but with such violence that his mustaches cracked like whips-or so Quincannon fancied. “Only one James Evans I know. Burglar and cracksman, among other things. I expect he's your man.”

  “No doubt,” Quincann
on said, “if he resided at number twelve hundred-and-six Anacapa Street.”

  “We'll soon find out, mister. We'll soon find out.”

  Vandermeer summoned one of his constables, who in turn brought in a thick file on James Evans. The constable's name was Ogilvy, and it developed that he had twice arrested Evans, once on suspicion of breaking-and-entering and once for public drunkenness and lewd and lascivious behavior at the Arroyo Burro hot springs. “Exposed himself to an old lady and two girls of sixteen,” Ogilvy explained. “Waved his pizzle about like it was Old Glory on a parade day. Drew quite a crowd.” He paused thoughtfully. “Most of 'em women, as I recall.”

  Vandermeer was looking through the file. “Last known address, number twelve hundred-and-six Anacapa Street,” he said, and then fixed Ogilvy with a suspicious glance. “What happened to Evans? Any idea?”

  The constable shook his head. “He seems to have vanished.”

  “Dropped out of sight, eh?”

  “Yes, sir. Not a whisper of him for some time now. Higgins and me went to question him about a robbery two months ago; he'd been gone awhile then.”

  “Rumors as to where?”

  “A passel. Los Angeles, Santa Maria, Los Alamos Valley, half a dozen more. None of 'em confirmed.”

  Quincannon asked, “Has Evans dropped out of sight before this?”

  “A time or two,” Ogilvy said. “Gone elsewhere on a job or to hide out from one he pulled here, I'll warrant. But he's always come back sooner or later.”

  “Good riddance, if he's gone for good this time,” Vandermeer said. “Bad apple, that one. Spoiled enough barrels in this town.”

  Quincannon asked if he could examine the file; Vandermeer, scowling his ferocious scowl, turned it over to him with suspicious deference. Reading through it at the chiefs desk, he learned that James Evans had served one three-year sentence at San Quentin for burglary and four shorter sentences at the county jail (one of those for exposing his pizzle at the Arroyo Burro hot springs). Evans had no particular specialities when it came to his choice of victims or the type of goods he stole; he was believed to have robbed the very poor as well as the very rich, and to have pilfered as much as eight thousand dollars and as little as twenty-seven pennies from a child's piggy bank. He had been born in Ohio, had come to California fifteen years ago, and had no known relatives living here. He had never married, or at least had not as far as the police knew. He had only two known acquaintances, Charles Tompkins and Oliver Witherspoon, with each of whom he had been arrested on suspicion of burglary. Quincannon asked about these two men.

  “Tompkins is no longer a threat to society,” Vandermeer said with tight-lipped satisfaction. “San Quentin is where you'll find him these days. I put him there myself, eight months ago.”

  “And Witherspoon?”

  “Still active, mister. But he won't be for long, by God.”

  “He lives in Santa Barbara, then?”

  “He does,” Ogilvy said, “but if you're thinking he'll give you a lead to Evans's whereabouts, Mr. Boggs, I'm afraid you're in for a disappointment. I talked to Witherspoon myself after Evans disappeared. He claims to know nothing and couldn't be budged.” The constable tapped his knuckles meaningfully. “Nor persuaded.”

  “I'll want to see him anyway,” Quincannon said. “That is, if you will be so good as to give me his address.”

  “Certainly, sir.” Ogilvy started out.

  “One other matter before you go. The reason I'm hunting Evans is that we of the Secret Service believe he is supplying stolen gold statuary to a vicious gang of koniakers, who then melt them down and use the raw metal to mint their counterfeit coins. We-”

  “Diabolical scheme,” Vandermeer interrupted. He sounded impressed. “Clever swine, eh?”

  “Very clever.” Quincannon paused to light the second of the two Cuban panatelas he had bought at the Arlington Hotel. “Naturally,” he said, “we are anxious to find the source of this stolen statuary. There may be more of it, and if we can prevent any further loss, the Service is of course bound to do so. Confidentially, gentlemen-and it pains me to say it-it may take a while to put the coney gang out of business.”

  “Expect you're doing your best, mister,” Vandermeer said. “The statuary was stolen here, you say?”

  “Or the environs. We know for a fact that one of the statues was of the Virgin Mary-approximately fourteen inches in height, sculpted by an artist named Francisco Portola, and made of pure gold. Was such a statue reported stolen within the past six to eight months?”

  “Not to my recollection. Constable?”

  “No, sir,” Ogilvy said. “But I'll have a look at the theft reports.”

  Quincannon sat back in the chiefs chair and patiently smoked his cigar while Vandermeer stood in a stiff military posture and glowered at nothing in particular. It was no more than ten minutes until Constable Ogilvy returned.

  “Well, mister?” Vandermeer asked him.

  “Nothing, sir. If a gold statue was pilfered here within the past year, the theft weren't reported to us.”

  Quincannon sighed. More work for him; and the more difficult his task, the longer it would be before his return to San Francisco. He asked Ogilvy for Oliver Witherspoon's address. The constable gave him two: a boarding house on Arrellaga Street where Witherspoon resided, and a produce warehouse at Gaviota Beach where he was employed on an irregular basis.

  “Try the boarding house first, Mr. Boggs,” Ogilvy advised. “Ollie Witherspoon only does honest work when he's forced to, and then you can be sure it ain't as honest as it might be.”

  As Quincannon prepared to take his leave, Vandermeer said, “Keep us apprised of your progress, mister. Let us know if there's anything else we can do. We stand four-square behind the government here in Santa Barbara.”

  “I'm sure the president will be pleased to hear that.”

  “The president? You're personally acquainted with Mr. Cleveland?”

  Quincannon had never met Grover Cleveland, nor seen eye to eye with him, for that matter. He said, “Oh yes. Grover is a close friend of mine.”

  “Good man,” Vandermeer said suspiciously. “Fine president.”

  “Indeed he is.”

  “I voted for him, mister. You can believe that.”

  Quincannon believed it. He said, “As any right-thinking citizen would.”

  “You'll give Mr. Cleveland my regards?”

  “The moment I see him.”

  Vandermeer smiled-an occurrence no doubt as rare, Quincannon thought, as a drunken burglar displaying his pizzle for public inspection. And little wonder, too. Now he knew why the chief wore a perpetual scowl and spoke through such tight-pursed lips. Vandermeer possessed an enormous set of teeth any horse in the state would have been proud to call his own.

  Oliver Witherspoon was not at his boarding house on Arrellaga Street. He was, in fact, his landlady said with some amazement, working at the produce warehouse at Gaviota Beach.

  Quincannon produced another sigh. Times must be difficult in the burglary trade, he reflected, though no more difficult than they were-at least for the moment-in the detective trade. He returned to the Arlington Hotel, where he changed into rougher clothing from his warbag; then he set out again. A block away, on Victoria Street, were the hotel's stables. From the hostler he rented a rather spirited claybank saddle horse and obtained directions to Gaviota Beach.

  When he arrived there half an hour later, he found himself not on the Pacific shore, as he had expected, but on that of the Santa Barbara Channel; the ocean was some distance away, around the bend of Point Conception. A grouping of warehouses, stock pens, and wharves had been built along the beach, and several small coastal freighters were tied up there. Teamsters and stevedores were busily transferring wool and a variety of produce from the warehouses, and cattle from the stock pens, to the waiting ships; profanity rang as loudly in the salt-tanged air as the bawling of livestock. Quincannon found the atmosphere to his liking. He had always loved water-
the Potomac and Mississippi Rivers in his youth, the Pacific after his move to California. If he had not become a detective like his father, he felt that he might have taken up the adventurous career of a riverboat pilot or a seafaring man.

  He located the nearest produce warehouse, dismounted, and began asking after Oliver Witherspoon. No one at this warehouse knew him, evidently; Quincannon rode to the next. But it was not until he came to the third and last warehouse that his questions produced results. A stevedore directed him around to where a group of men were unloading bales of wool from a Studebaker freight wagon bearing the words SAN JULIAN RANCH on its side panel. One of the men admitted to being Witherspoon, though he did so with reluctance, wariness, and as much suspicion as Chief of Police Vandermeer had displayed.

  Quincannon drew him around the corner of the warehouse, to where he had left the claybank horse. Witherspoon was a big man, heavy through the chest and shoulders, with powerful arms and legs; but he had one of the smallest heads Quincannon had ever seen. It put him in mind of a knobbly peanut crowned by a few sparse black fibers and set out upon a hulking rock. The kernels inside the peanut were proportionately small, Quincannon decided after two minutes with the man. So small, in fact, that they could not even be dignified by the term “brain.”

  “Well?” Witherspoon said in a reedy, goober-sized voice. “Who the gawddam hell are you?”

  “The name is Boggs. Down from Frisco.”

  “Frisco? After what with me?”

  “Nothing with you. It's Jimmy Evans I'm after.”

  “Who?”

  “Jimmy Evans. Used to hang his hat on Anacapa Street.”

  “Don't know any Jimmy Evans.”

  “Come along now, Ollie. None of that with me. I've got a lay on for Jimmy.”