Witherspoon's knobbly face screwed up as if it were being tightened in a vise. He seemed to be trying valiantly to think. At length he said, “Who sent you down from Frisco?”
“Luther Duff.”
“Don't know any Luther Duff.”
“He knows you, Ollie. How do you suppose I come to have your name and where to look you up?”
More facial contortions. “What's the job for Jimmy?”
“I'll tell that to him.”
“Not until I hear it first. Maybe I heard of Luther Duff, but I never heard of nobody named Boggs.”
“Where's Jimmy? Close by?”
Witherspoon glared at him and said nothing.
“Wouldn't be on the lammas, would he?”
“I ain't talking,” Witherspoon said. “You are. What's your game, Boggs?”
“Mine and Luther's. And Jimmy's, if he wants in.”
“Well?”
“Religious statues. Gold ones.”
“Huh?”
“Jimmy swiped a gold statue six months ago-the Virgin Mary-and laid it off to Duff. Duff's just sold it to a lad who wants more of the same. He sent me down to … Now what's this, Ollie? What's tickled your funny bone?”
Witherspoon was laughing. At least, Quincannon assumed that was what he was doing; the sounds that came out of him were a series of low rumbles and squeaks, as if a herd of mice were tumbling down a coal chute. The sounds continued for another fifteen seconds, at which point Witherspoon ran out of wind. He bent over at the middle, gasped several times, finally caught his breath, coughed explosively, and wiped drool off his mouth with the back of one hairy paw.
“Gawddam,” he said. “Gawddam.”
“If it's a joke, let me have a laugh, too.”
“It's a joke, all right. And gawddam if it ain't on you and Luther Duff.”
“How so?”
“There ain't no more of them statues like the one Jimmy swiped. Not where he got it, by Gawd.”
“And where was that?”
“Out of a Mex storekeeper's rooms, while the greaser was downstairs sellin' boots and shirts. Now ain't that a gut-buster?”
Quincannon's smile was genuine. “It is that, Ollie; I'll admit it. Where does this Mex live? Here in Santa Barbara?”
“Sure. Jimmy was on the hog at the time; he was only after some fast jack. I wisht I'd seen his face when he come on that statue. He said he like to fell down dead on the spot.” The rumbling and squeaking noises started again. “Gawddam,” Witherspoon said.
“What was his name?”
“Whose?”
“The Mex storekeeper's.”
“Who knows? Don't matter-he ain't got no more of them statues, that's for certain.”
“Too bad for Jimmy, then, if he's still on the hog.”
“He ain't. He blew wise to a pretty lay down south.”
“Is that where he is now?”
Witherspoon's good humor evaporated. “I ain't sayin'. You still after him?”
“Not anymore,” Quincannon said. He moved to the claybank, swung himself into the saddle. “When you see him tell him Duff's in the market for the right booty.”
“I'll do that. You headin' back to Frisco, Boggs?”
Quincannon said, “Tomorrow, with any luck. Let me give you some advice, Ollie: Never spark a stubborn widow, especially in the spring. It can be damned frustrating.” He rode off, leaving Witherspoon once more engaged in the monumental task of trying to produce thought inside a peanut shell.
Chief Vandermeer was gone from the police station when Quincannon paid his second call of the afternoon. Constable Ogilvy, however, was still on duty and as obliging as he had been earlier. He reexamined the local theft reports for the previous six months, and much to Quincannon's relief, found one filed on October 6, 1893, by a man named Luis Cordova who owned a dry-goods store on Canon Perdido Street and who lived in quarters above it. A gold statue of the Virgin Mary did not appear on the brief list of items stolen, nor did any other kind of statue, religious artifact, or valuable.
“Peculiar, ain't it, Mr. Boggs?” Ogilvy said. “This fellow Cordova lives poor in the Mexican quarter, so what was he doing with an expensive gold statue? And why didn't he report it stolen?”
“Why, indeed?” Quincannon said, and went to find out.
TWO
The neighborhood in which Luis Cordova lived and worked was a poor one, as both Witherspoon and Ogilvy had indicated; but it was not without its pride or its zest for life. There was a good deal of activity along Canon Perdido Street, a good deal of animated conversation flavored with laughter. Inside a cantina someone was playing a guitar with enthusiasm; Quincannon recognized the liquid rhythms of “Cielilo Lindo” as he passed. The spicy scent of frijoles and simmering taco meat floated on the balmy spring air, reminding him that he had not eaten since breakfast.
He dismounted in front of Luis Cordova's dry-goods store and looped the claybank's reins around the tie rail. The building, of wood and adobe, with an upstairs front gallery, was situated at the end of a mixed block of private dwellings and similar small businesses-a harness shop, a feed store, a shabby tonsorial parlor, a greengrocer's. An outside stairway led up along the east wall, giving access to Cordova's upstairs living quarters; a huge olive tree effectively concealed the upper half of the stairs from the street, an arrangement to tempt the black soul of any housebreaker. The westside wall faced on an intersecting street; it was open now and a buckboard had been drawn up near it. Two young men were busily unloading bolts of brightly colored cloth and carrying them into a rear storeroom. Neither man was Luis Cordova; Senor Cordova, Quincannon was told when he approached them, could be found at the front of the shop.
He entered through the front door and was greeted by the not-unpleasant odors of dust, cloth, lye soap, and oiled leather. The interior was well-stocked with a variety of goods, among them simple clothing for men, women, and children, boots and huaraches and high-top shoes, serapes, rebozos, textiles of different types. In the middle of all this, a thin gray-haired man of indeterminate age was having a spirited argument with a fat woman over an inexpensive black mantilla. The woman, as near as Quincannon could tell with his limited command of Spanish, was upset over the fact that the brand-new mantilla had torn the first time she put it on; she wanted it replaced. The man kept insisting that the mantilla had not been damaged at the time of its sale, that he always inspected each item for defects before allowing it to leave the premises.
The argument raged for another five minutes, with neither side gaining an advantage. Finally the fat woman threw up her hands, told the gray-haired man that she would never again buy so much as a button from him, told him further that he was an hijo de garanon-son of a jackass-and stormed out. Quincannon smiled at her as she passed, and tipped his hat; he received a milk-curdling glower in return.
The gray-haired man sighed elaborately, as if such altercations offended his sense of propriety. Then he dusted his hands together and moved to where Quincannon waited. If he was surprised to find a gringo in his store, and a gringo who resembled a pirate at that, he gave no indication of it. He said, “Buenos tardes, senor. I may help you?”
“If you are Luis Cordova, you may.”
“Si. Yes, I am.”
“I'd like a word with you about the burglary you suffered six months ago.”
“Que pasa? My English, it is not so good. Burglary?”
Quincannon rummaged through his Spanish lexicon and said haltingly, “Robo con escado. Soy aqui a discutir un ladron que escala una casa.”
“Ah, si, si.” Interest brightened Cordova's swarthy features, but it was outweighed by an odd sort of apprehension. “You are from the policial
“I represent a man who now possesses one of the items stolen from you,” Quincannon said in Spanish.
“What item is that, senor?”
“A gold statue of the Virgin Mary.”
Cordova winced as if he had been struck. He backed up a step, put out a de
fensive hand, and said anxiously, “There must be some mistake, senor. I know nothing of such a statue.”
“It was sculpted by Francisco Portola for Don Esteban Velasquez in 1843. These words and date are engraved in the base.”
“I have never seen such a statue.”
“It was stolen from your rooms.”
“No, senor. No …”
“A man named James Evans has admitted stealing it from you,” Quincannon lied. “In the face of this, do you still deny possessing it?”
Cordova backed up several more steps, shaking his head violently. Fear glistened in his dark eyes; the sweat of it beaded his forehead. Its cause, Quincannon thought, was something profound, to affect the man this way.
He pursued Cordova until the storekeeper's retreat was stayed. by a low wooden counter. Then he said with as much portent as he could muster in his halting Spanish, “The rightful owner of the: statue is the family of Don Esteban Velasquez in Santa Ynez Valley. It is now in the hands of Felipe Velasquez, Don Esteban's son; he is the man I represent. Are you aware of the statue's history, Senor Cordova?”
Cordova kept shaking his head. His mouth quivered open, but he didn't speak.
“It is one of many artifacts hidden by Don Esteban in 1846, during the war with Mexico. It is the only one that has been found since. Perhaps you know the whereabouts of the others?”
“No, I know nothing …”
“How did the statue come into your possession?”
“Please, senor…”
“Did you steal it? Are you a thief?”
“Madre de Dios! No, no …”
“Then how did you come to have it?”
“I did not have it, I have never seen such a statue, I know nothing about Don Esteban Velasquez, nothing!” The words burst out of him in a spray of spittle, his voice rising on each one until the last few were a shout. He twisted away to one side, almost upsetting a table stacked with rough-cloth peasant shirts; swung around and pointed a trembling finger at Quincannon. “Go away! Leave my place of business! You are not policia; you have no right to remain here without permission. Leave, or I will have you put out by force!”
Quincannon hesitated. “Listen to me, Senor Cordova-”
“No, no, I will not listen! Alfredo! Sebastian! Come in here, quickly!”
A rear door was thrown open, and the two young men ran in from the storeroom. Big, both of them-and strong; Quincannon knew it would be painful to do battle with them, even with his college training in pugilism and even if he had been inclined to a fight, which he wasn't.
He said to Cordova, “Very well. As you wish. But I will soon return, or others will come in my place. The policia, perhaps. You cannot hold your silence forever, amigo.”
Cordova said nothing. He seemed to have aged several years in the past few minutes, to have become a stooped and shrunken old man; even his clothing seemed to hang on him now, as baggily as on a scarecrow.
“We will know the truth,” Quincannon said ominously. “Sooner or later, we will know the truth.” He turned on his heel and walked out.
He sat the claybank for a full minute, waiting to see if Cordova would follow after him for any reason. No one followed after him. Finally, feeling disgruntled, he reined the horse around and made for Victoria Street and the Arlington stables.
It had been an odd encounter, he thought as he rode. Cordova had acted as though he were the thief, not the victim. Had he stolen the Velasquez statue? If he hadn't, how had it come into his hands? And why was he so afraid to admit to knowledge of it?
A pretty puzzle, to be sure. And one that might not have an easy solution. He had hoped to be on board tomorrow's train for San Francisco; as matters stood now, he would be spending tomorrow-and God knew how many others after it-in Santa Barbara and its environs.
Being a dedicated and conscientious detective had its drawbacks sometimes. Damned if it didn't.
It was dusk when he arrived at the Arlington Hotel. In his suite he changed clothes for the second time, putting on a fine new Cheviot coat, striped trousers, and a French cravat. Downstairs again, he paused to buy two more Cuban panatelas and a freshly blended latakia pipe mixture for his pouch; and then he took himself off to the St. Charles Hotel at State and De La Guerra streets, a few blocks away.
The St. Charles was an older, two-story adobe structure, its upper level girdled by a broad veranda. It was nowise as large or as opulent as the Arlington, but there was an air of comfort and stability about it-a hotel for businessmen and visiting residents of the outlying towns and valleys, rather than for tourists come to town to take the waters, the sights, or other tourists.
When Quincannon asked at the desk for Felipe Velasquez, the clerk directed him to the small, dark bar off the lobby. Inside the bar he found Velasquez sitting alone before the fireplace, elegantly attired in a black, silver-trimmed charro outfit, a ruffled shirt, and a string tie with the familiar bull's-head clasp. He was indulging in a before-dinner glass of wine, which seemed to have done nothing to mellow him. He was in one of his dour moods. He greeted Quincannon tersely, invited him to sit down, and demanded to know what progress he had made since their arrival.
“Quite a bit, sir. Quite a bit.”
“You have found James Evans?”
“No. But I've found the previous owner of the statue.”
“Diablos!” Velasquez sat forward abruptly, almost spilling his wine; the ends of his tie made a sharp clicking noise as they came together, like castanets. “Who is he, this previous owner?”
“A man named Luis Cordova.”
“Cordova, Cordova. I know no one by that name.”
“He owns a dry-goods store in the Mexican quarter. Evans pilfered the statue from his rooms above the store.”
“Only the poor live in the Mexican quarter. How would such a man-”
“-come to have a gold statue worth two thousand dollars? I don't know-yet.” Quincannon went on to recount the details of his brief confrontation with Luis Cordova.
Velasquez saw nothing very puzzling in Cordova's behavior. He said angrily, “He must have stolen the statue himself. From someone else, or perhaps even from the place where my father and Padre Urbano hid it.”
“He might not have stolen it at all,” Quincannon said.
“Nonsense. Why else would he lie to you? Why else would he be so frightened? His actions make no sense unless he is of the same breed as this man Evans.”
Quincannon adopted the patient, gently lecturing tone he used on stubborn and narrow-minded individuals. “There may be another explanation, Senor Velasquez. The facts we have now are too few. We need more information about Cordova, his background and private life, before any definite conclusion can be reached.”
“And how will you find out these additional facts?”
“I have my methods.”
Velasquez grunted. “How long will these methods take, eh? Days? Weeks?”
“I have only been in Santa Barbara half of one day,” Quincannon reminded him, “and already I've accomplished much.”
“Bah,” Velasquez said, unconvinced. “Put a pistol to Cordova's head; then he will tell you what we want to know.”
“I would, if I felt it would accomplish the purpose. But I don't believe it would.”
“And why not?”
“It isn't death or violence that Cordova fears. It's something else, something profound.”
“What is so profound as death?”
“For most men, nothing. For some men, a great deal.”
“Bah. You speak in platitudes.”
“And what is a platitude but a common truth?”
Velasquez seemed about to argue further, changed his mind, picked up his wine, and sat peering into its dark red depths for several silent moments. Then he drained the glass, wiped his lips delicately with a lace handkerchief, and said, “Very well. You are the detective, and a competent one, as you have proven. I accept your judgment.”
“Thank you.”
“But I will not tolerate a long delay in this matter. I must know where Cordova obtained the statue, and as quickly as possible. Comprende Usted?”
“Perfectly.”
“Bueno.” Velasquez consulted a gold, hunting-style pocket watch. “I must leave now; I have a dinner engagement in twenty minutes, with relatives of my wife.” He got to his feet.
Quincannon asked, “You still plan to return home tomorrow?”
“Yes. I leave at eight o'clock. And I will expect you at the rancho within three days. If you do not come …”
“I'll come. You have my word on that.”
Velasquez nodded and took his leave without another word. Quincannon watched him walk out into the lobby, thinking that he did not relish the prospect of a long ride out to Santa Ynez Valley, or the prospect of a day or more under the same roof with Felipe Antonio Abregon y Velasquez. He had a feeling gringos were not treated with much respect at what was left of Rancho Rinconada de los Robles.
THREE
Quincannon wandered down State Street, marveling at the big electric arc lights set atop tall wooden poles every half block that produced a white glare so bright the thoroughfare was like a strip of noonday cut from the darkness. Santa Barbara, he reflected, was quite a progressive and attractive little community. Still, he preferred San Francisco. Not only did it contain much that satisfied his broad and sometimes eccentric tastes, it also contained Sabina.
Near Stearns Wharf he found a seafood restaurant that served plump raw oysters and a substantial crab bouillabaisse as palatable as any in San Francisco. It was while partaking of such meals as this that he most regretted being a drunkard. A bottle of chilled French chardonnay would have offered an excellent compliment to the bouillabaisse.
He smoked a post-prandial pipe and considered the rest of the evening. The sulfur spring on Burton Mound? He had taken the waters there on his last visit to Santa Barbara-he had needed a little relaxation after his harrowing experience in Spookville-and had found them invigorating. But it was a long way to Burton Mound, as he recalled, he was not sure the spring was open to visitors after dark, and the waters did smell unpleasantly of rotten eggs.
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