2 The Spook Lights Affair

by Marcia Muller

  Lucas Whiffing seemed to have a penchant for inciting parental objection in his female relationships, Sabina thought. And with good cause, apparently. Not only was he brash and the possessor of dubious morals, but also a confirmed liar.

  “But that has no bearing on the matter at hand,” Meeker said, and thumped the floor with his cane as if in dismissal of the subject. “The neighbor who saw the spook lights was E. J. Crabb. He occupies a car not far from the abandoned group where they first appeared.”

  “At what time of night do these happenings take place?”

  “After midnight, in all four instances. Crabb was the only one who spied the thing the first time it appeared.”

  “When was that?”

  “Five nights ago, when the first of the week of heavy fogs rolled in. I happened to awaken on the second night and saw it in one of the cars. I went out alone to investigate, but it fled and vanished before I could reach the cars. Lucretia, my wife, and my daughter and I all saw it on Saturday night and again last night—in one of the cars and then on the dune tops. I examined the cars by lantern light and again in the morning by daylight. The marks on the walls and floor were the only evidence of its presence.”

  “Claw marks, you said.”

  Meeker repressed an involuntary shudder. “As if the thing had the talons of a beast.”

  And evidently the heart of a coward, Sabina thought wryly. Why else would it run away or bound away or whatever it allegedly did? It was humans who were afraid of ghosts, not the converse.

  “Just what is it you expect our agency to do, Mr. Meeker?”

  “Investigate, of course. Find an explanation for these bizarre occurances, paranormal or not. Put a stop to them before word gets out and curiosity seekers and spiritualists and God knows who else overrun our little community. If that happens, residents will begin leaving, new ones will shy away, and Carville will become a literal ghost town.”

  Sabina thought he was over-dramatizing the threat, if threat it was, but she said nothing, merely offered a sympathetic nod.

  “Carville-by-the-Sea is my home,” Meeker went on, “and if such as these ghostly manifestations are not allowed to interfere, one day it will be the home of many other progressive-minded citizens like myself. Businesses, churches—a thriving community. Why, Mayor Sutro himself has expressed the hope of persuading wealthy San Franciscans to buy land there and build grand estates like his own at the Heights.”

  “A noble aim,” Sabina lied. Grand estates built on windswept sand dunes and beach grass? If Adolph Sutro actually believed this, he was guilty of grand folly. More likely, given the mayor’s shrewd business acumen, it was merely a ploy to sell the beach land for large profits.

  “I am willing to pay five hundred dollars for a satisfactory explanation of these fantastic goings-on. And an additional five hundred for a guarantee that we will never again be plagued by them.”

  “One thousand dollars?” If John had been present, his ears would have pricked up like a hound’s.

  “You say that as if you believe I can’t afford it,” Meeker said, bristling. “Would I offer it if I couldn’t?”

  “No, naturally not—”

  “I suppose you’re unsure because of where I reside. It so happens I am a man of considerable means.” He thumped his stick on the floor for emphasis. “Our firm specializes in railroad and mining-stock investment, as I’m sure you noticed, and I have a substantial portfolio of my own. I make my home in Carville-by-the-Sea because I have always been fond of the ocean and the solitude of the dunes, and because I share Mayor Sutro’s belief in the future of our little community.”

  “Please, Mr. Meeker. I have no doubts about your financial position or the veracity of what you’ve told me.”

  This seemed to mollify the little man. “Well, then? Will your agency investigate?”

  “Yes.” But only because of the tenuous connections between Meeker’s problem and her own concerning Virginia St. Ives.

  “Excellent. How soon can your partner or one of your male operatives come to Carville? Tonight?”

  “You don’t wish me to come myself?”

  “A woman, chasing after God knows what in the fog?” Meeker seemed shocked at the idea. “No, Mrs. Carpenter. I realize you are a professional detective and your credentials worthy of respect, but after your experience on Sutro Heights … well, I am sure you understand.”

  Sabina suppressed a sigh. She understood all too well. As many advances as she and other members of her sex had made in recent years, most men continued to view them as fair and inferior flowers. Barnaby Meeker was one of them. And there was nothing to be gained, and perhaps an investigation to be lost, by arguing with him.

  “Very well,” she said. “But there may not be enough time to make arrangements for tonight. It depends on whether or not my partner has other plans and how soon I’m able to contact him. If not tonight, then tomorrow night, if that is satisfactory.”

  “I suppose it will have to be. The counterman at the coffee saloon on the highway can point the way to our home.” Meeker paused. “Tonight or tomorrow night, no further delay?”

  “One or the other,” Sabina said, “you can rely on it.” Even if it meant flying in the face of Barnaby Meeker’s objections and going ghost hunting herself.

  13

  QUINCANNON

  Bob Cantwell seemed to be in no hurry as he made his way along the sidewalk toward the late Matthew Drennan’s printing and photography building. He was dressed as Quincannon had last seen him, the heavy corduroy coat buttoned tightly around his scrawny frame, one hand thrust deeply into a pocket. In the other hand he carried what appeared to be a small lantern. He walked with his head down and his chin tucked into the coat collar, but even if he had been casting furtive glances to and fro, it wasn’t likely he’d have spied Quincannon in the shoemaker’s doorway; the number of pedestrians and passing conveyances provided plenty of screening.

  Cantwell opened the gate to his hideout and entered the property without hesitation, as if he belonged there. He went straight back to the rear. As soon as he vanished from sight, Quincannon hurried across the cobblestones, dodging a lumberman’s wagon on the way. At the gate he paused for a few seconds, to make sure his quarry had had enough time to light his lantern and enter the building, then proceeded to the rear along the opposite wall from the one Cantwell had followed.

  The yard was empty, the door closed. He eased the door open as silently as he could, stepped inside, and quickly shut it behind him. The faint sounds of Cantwell moving about in the office area reached his ears. Flickery light gleamed in the darkness ahead, more of it than there had been earlier: Cantwell had left the inner door open. The hanging lamp would have burned dry by this time, but the lantern he carried must have plenty of oil and a strong wick. There was enough illumination so that Quincannon could make his way slowly across the storage room without risking a collision with any of the clutter of photographic equipment.

  He paused at the inner door and peeked around the edge of the jamb. Cantwell was in the office, his back to the window; he had set the lantern on the desk and was leaning close to it to study a paper of some sort that he must have brought with him. Quincannon stepped through the doorway, unholstering his Navy as he catfooted past the old printing press. He made no sounds to alert Cantwell to his presence; the lad continued his study without altering position. So stealthy was Quincannon’s progress that he was able to walk right up to the open office door.

  “Hello, Bob. Remember me?”

  Cantwell whirled so suddenly and with such terror misshaping his features that it might have been an exploding bomb rather than four quiet words that came from behind him. His eyes bugged when he recognized Quincannon and saw the pistol in his hand. He made a choked sound and backed up hastily, all of four steps until his shoulders struck the window glass.

  “How … how did you find…”

  “It wasn’t difficult. You’re not half as clever as you think you are.�
��

  Cantwell’s gaze remained fixed on the Navy. “What do you want? What are you going to do?”

  “One question at a time, lad. What do I want? The same as on Friday night at Drake’s Rest. What am I going to do? Unless you tell me what I need to know, and don’t lie to me again, you’ll rue the consequences. If you’re still able to do any ruing, that is. I haven’t forgotten that head knock and beer-soaking you gave me Friday night.”

  A sound not unlike a frog’s croak came out of Cantwell’s throat. His hand spasmed, crinkling the paper clutched in it.

  “Planning a trip south, were you?” Quincannon asked him.

  “… What?”

  “That paper you were studying. A Southern Pacific train schedule, unless I miss my guess.”

  Cantwell shook his head. Not in denial, but as if trying to clear it of the cobwebs his fear had woven.

  “Los Angeles? A visit to the old neighborhood where you and cousin Jack Travers spent your youth?”

  “I … I…”

  “Only he’s not your cousin, nor any other relation. Why did you tell me he was?”

  “I don’t know, I just … it seemed…”

  “The truth has a bad taste in your mouth, eh? Spit it out.”

  Cantwell said miserably, “I … I didn’t want you to think I had anything to do with the robbery, that I was forced into supplying the hideout for Travers.”

  “But you weren’t forced. You were paid to do it.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t know what they … what he was planning until after the robbery, I swear I didn’t.”

  “You started to say what they were planning. Who else was involved? The Kid?”

  Cantwell opened his mouth, closed it again, and shook his head.

  “Who is he, Bob?”

  “I … I can’t…”

  “You can and you will. The Kid’s name and what part he played in the robbery. Zeke’s name and what part he played.”

  Another head wag. Cantwell shifted his gaze to the window, as if looking for a method of escape.

  “Confound it,” Quincannon said, “tell me who they are.”

  “I can’t! If I do, he’ll … he…”

  “Who? Zeke?”

  “No…”

  “The Kid, then. What will he do, ventilate you as Zeke did Travers? Or was it the Kid who did that job?”

  “No. No, it was Zeke.”

  “And his part in the robbery?”

  “He … he didn’t have any part…”

  “No? Then who is he? And how did he know where Travers was hiding? Did you tell him?”

  “I had to. He said he’d hurt me if I didn’t. But I had no idea he was going to shoot Travers, I swear I didn’t.”

  “Where is Zeke now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re lying to me again, Bob.”

  “No…”

  “Who planned the robbery? The Kid?”

  Cantwell gave voice to another croak, this one tapering off into a moan. His face was the color of a grub’s hind end. “Please…”

  “How did he know about the Express shipment and when it would be ripe for plucking?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Did you tell the Kid about Zeke?”

  “I was afraid to, until…”

  “Until he found Travers dead and thought you might have done it?”

  “… He didn’t tell me Travers was dead, I didn’t know it until I heard it from you. He just wanted to know who I’d told about the house.”

  “Does he know where Zeke is?”

  Cantwell’s head flopped from side to side.

  “Or that you sold him out to me for money to fund your gambling habit?”

  “I didn’t sell him out! I never said anything to you or Mr. Riley about him. I didn’t care what happened to Travers.…”

  “You were afraid of Zeke, and afraid of me—that’s why you ran the other night and came here to hole up. But not afraid of the Kid, or you wouldn’t have decided to blackmail him—”

  “No! It isn’t blackmail … a loan, that’s all, a loan…”

  “Has he paid you yet?”

  No answer.

  Quincannon cocked the Navy’s hammer with an audible click. “Enough of this pussyfooting. His name—now!”

  Cantwell’s gaze flicked to the window again. Quincannon saw his eyes widen, his mouth shape an unspoken word; one hand came up to push against the window. And the glass shattered and Cantwell went reeling backward with a strangled cry, blood spurting over the front of his coat. Three more pistol shots created loud rolling echoes; more glass shattered, bullets thudded into wood, and there was the hard thump of Cantwell’s body hitting the floorboards.

  Quincannon was already on the floor, having thrown himself down sideways at the crack of the first shot. Glass fragments showered his back and buttocks as he crab-crawled to the open doorway. The shooter was beyond the light spill from the still-burning lantern, a shadow shape crouched in darkness alongside the printing press. Quincannon got his right arm up, elbow locked, and fired at the shape, but the cramped position threw his aim off. He heard the bullet spang harmlessly off metal.

  The lantern light made him a clear target; he jerked his head back just before the assailant squeezed off twice more. Wood splinters flew from the door frame inches in front of his nose. When he chanced another look, he saw the dark shape running away from the press toward the inner doorway. He loosed another round from his Navy, missed again in the powder-smoked darkness. The miss unleashed an involuntary roar of anger and frustration. He scrambled to his feet and gave chase.

  The pound of his footsteps overrode those of the fleeing man’s, so that when he reached the doorway, he was forced to pull up rather than go charging through; if the shooter had stopped running and stood waiting in ambush, a headlong rush would be met with a bullet. But the assassin hadn’t stopped. There was a crashing sound as he banged into something in the storage room. Whatever it was, it failed to slow him; the hollow pound of his steps resumed. Quincannon swung through the doorway just in time to see the flying tail of a coat disappear through the rear door.

  The darkness impeded his own run for the door. His foot struck against an unseen obstacle, causing him to stumble; he kicked free of whatever it was and remained upright, only to bump into something else. The second obstacle cost him his balance and sent him thumping down onto one knee. The roar that burst out of his throat this time would have done justice to a distressed lion. He lurched upright, staggered to the door.

  No ambush awaited him in the yard, either. By the time he determined this and stepped out, the assailant was gone over one of the fences or back out front to mingle with the street crowd. There would have been no hope of catching him even if he knew what the man looked like.

  He resisted the urge to go back inside and check on Bob Cantwell. The assassin’s first bullet had taken the lad squarely in the chest and he hadn’t moved afterward. Dead for sure. And the fusillade of shots had been loud enough to have been heard by passersby. Remain on the premises and he risked arrest on a murder charge.

  A wise decision, as it turned out. As he was holstering his revolver and draping the tail of his coat over it before hurrying out along the side of the building, he heard excited voices raised out front. The shots had been heard and a concerned citizen had gone to fetch a copper; truncheon in hand, a blue-coated patrolman came hurrying along the sidewalk not five seconds after Quincannon stepped off the property and melded into the flow of pedestrians. No one paid any attention to him as he drifted away unobtrusively in the opposite direction.

  The murderer, he thought as he went, was either Zeke or the Kid, most probably the latter. And Cantwell had been expecting him; that was why he had kept glancing through the window. The shooting itself? The Kid might have come to put an end to the blackmail threat by putting an end to Cantwell, and had succumbed to panic when he spied a second man in the office, whether or not he knew who Quincannon was; that w
ould explain why he’d kept on firing until his weapon was empty or near empty. In any event, the why of it was not important. The who of it was.

  Only now, with Cantwell dead, he had no definite and immediate method of finding out.

  Hell, damn, and blast!

  14

  SABINA

  John had still not returned to the office when the hands on the small gold timepiece pinned to the bodice of her shirtwaist pointed to five o’clock. Sabina considered writing a note informing him of her discussion with Barnaby Meeker and her reasons for accepting the man as a client, but it was too late for John to venture out to Carville-by-the-Sea tonight. Besides, it would require a lengthy explanation, and he would have questions and perhaps objections that would need dealing with. The matter could wait until she saw him tomorrow.

  She locked the office and walked to her usual trolley stop a short distance up Market Street. As she waited for the car that would deliver her two blocks from her rooms, she spied an odd-looking individual who seemed to be watching her at a distance with uncommon interest. He had a sweeping handlebar mustache, and wore a stovepipe hat drawn down on his forehead and a gaudy purple satin vest embroidered with what appeared to be orange nasturtiums. When Sabina’s gaze met his, he smiled—a smile that she didn’t return. As tired as she was, she was in no mood to fend off an unwanted admirer.

  It was not long before her car clattered to a stop. She boarded, taking a seat by the window on the right-hand side. Seconds later, someone slipped into the seat beside her even though there were several single seats available. A glance caused her to stiffen: it was the oddly dressed stranger. She turned aside to look out the window. But not before her mind registered the fact that there was something familiar about the man.

  “Good evening, dear lady,” he said as the car jerked ahead along the rails.

  She ignored the greeting. But his clipped, accented voice struck a familiar chord as well.

  “Forgive me for approaching you in this fashion, Mrs. Carpenter, but neither you nor your partner were in when I stopped by your office earlier. I was fortunate to arrive at your usual trolley stop just ahead of you.”