Sleuths

by Bill Pronzini

  "Familiarity with what?" Quincannon asked.

  "John, you're one of the best detectives I've known, but honestly, there are times when you're also one of the least observant. Tell me, what did I wear on the trip out to Arizona? What color and style of outfit? What type of hat?"

  "I don't see what that has to do with -" Then, as the light dawned, he said in a small voice, "Oh."

  "That's right," Sabina said, smiling. "Mr. Gaunt plundered the wrong woman's grip in the baggage car. The gray serge traveling dress and Langtry bonnet he was wearing are mine."

  Medium Rare

  The night was dark, cold; most of San Francisco was swaddled in a cloak of fog and low-hanging clouds that turned streetlights and house lights into ghostly smears. The bay, close by this residential district along lower Van Ness Avenue, was invisible and the foghorns that moaned on it had a lonely, lost-soul sound. Bitter sharp, the wind nipped at Quincannon's cheeks, fluttered his thick piratical beard as he stepped down from the hansom. A sudden gust almost tore off his derby before he could clamp it down.

  A fine night for spirits, he thought wryly. The liquid kind, to be sure—except that he had been a temperance man for several years now. And the supernatural kind, in which he believed not one whit.

  He helped Sabina alight from the coach, turned to survey the house at which they were about to call. It was a modest gingerbread affair, its slender front yard enclosed by a black-iron picket fence. Rented, not purchased, as he had discovered earlier in the day. Gaslight flickered behind its lace-curtained front windows. No surprise there. Professor Vargas would have been careful to select a house that had not been wired for electricity; the sometimes spectral trembles produced by gas flame were much more suited to his purposes.

  On the gate was a discreet bronze sign whose raised letters gleamed faintly in the out-spill from a nearby street-lamp. Sabina went to peer at the sign as Quincannon paid and dismissed the hack driver. When he joined her he, too, bent for a look.

  UNIFIED COLLEGE OF THE ATTUNED IMPULSES

  Prof. A. Vargas Spirit Medium and Counselor

  "Bah. Hogwash," Quincannon said grumpily, straightening. "How can any sane person believe in such hokum?"

  "Self-deception is the most powerful kind."

  He made a derisive noise in his throat, a sound Sabina had once likened to the rumbling snarl of a mastiff.

  She said, "If you enter growling and wearing that ferocious glare, you'll give the game away. We're here as potential devotees, not ardent skeptics."

  "Devotees of claptrap."

  "John, Mr. Buckley is paying us handsomely for this evening's work. Very handsomely, if you recall."

  Quincannon recalled; his scowl faded and was replaced by a smile only those who knew him well would recognize as greed-based. Money, especially in large sums, was what soothed his savage breast. In fact, it was second only in his admiration to Sabina herself.

  He glanced sideways at her. She looked even more fetching than usual this evening, dressed as she was in an outfit of black silk brocade, her raven hair topped by a stylish hat trimmed in white China silk. His mouth watered. A fine figure of a woman, Sabina Carpenter. A man engaged in the time-honored profession of detective couldn't ask for a more decorous — or a more intelligent and capable — partner. He could, however, ask for more than a straightforward business arrangement and an occasional night on the town followed by a chaste handshake at her door. Not getting it, not even coming close to getting it, was his greatest defeat, his greatest frustration. Why, he had never even been inside Sabina's Russian Hill flat . . . .

  "John."

  "Mmm?"

  "Will you please stop staring at me that way."

  "What way, my dear?"

  "Like a cat at a bowl of cream. We've no time for dallying; we're late as it is. Mr. Buckley and the others will be waiting to begin the séance."

  Quincannon took her arm, chastely, and led her through the gate. As they mounted the front stairs, he had a clear vision of Cyrus Buckley's bank check and a clear auditory recollection of the financier's promise of the check's twin should they successfully debunk Professor Vargas and his Unified College of the Attuned Impulses.

  Buckley was a reluctant follower of spiritualism, in deference to his wife, who believed wholeheartedly in communication with the disembodied essences of the dead and such mediumistic double-talk as "spiritual vibrations of the positive and negative forces of material and astral planes." She continually sought audiences with their daughter, Bernice, the childhood victim of diphtheria, a quest which had led them to a succession of mediums and cost her husband "a goodly sum." Professor Vargas was the latest and by far the most financially threatening of these paranormal spirit-summoners. A recent arrival in San Francisco—from Chicago, he claimed—Vargas evidently had a more clever, extensive, and convincing repertoire of "spirit wonders" than any other medium Buckley had encountered, and of course his fees were exorbitant as a result.

  The Buckleys had attended one of Vargas's sittings a few days ago—a dark séance in a locked room in his rented house. The professor had ordered himself securely tied to his chair and then proceeded to invoke a dazzling array of bell-ringing, table-tipping, spirit lights, automatic writings, ectoplasmic manifestations, and other phenomena. As his finale, he announced that he was being unfettered by his friendly spirit guide and guardian, Angkar, and the rope that had bound him was heard to fly through the air just before the lights were turned up; the rope, when examined, was completely free of the more than ten knots which had been tied into it. This supernatural flimflam had so impressed Margaret Buckley that she had returned the next day without her husband's knowledge and arranged for another sitting — tonight and a series of private audiences at which Vargas promised to establish and maintain contact with the shade of the long-gone Bernice. Mrs. Buckley, in turn and in gratitude, was prepared to place unlimited funds in the medium's eager hands. "Endow the whole damned Unified College of the Attuned Impulses," was the way Buckley put it. Nothing he'd said or done could change his wife's mind. The only thing that would, he was convinced, was a public unmasking of the professor as the knave and charlatan he surely was. Hence, his visit to the Market Street offices of Carpenter & Quincannon, Professional Detective Services.

  Quincannon had no doubt he and Sabina could accomplish the task. They had both had dealings with phony psychics before, Sabina when she was with the Pinkertons in Denver and on two occasions since they had opened their joint agency here. But Cyrus Buckley wasn't half so sanguine. "You'll not have an easy time of it," he'd warned them. "Professor Vargas is a rare bird and rare birds are not easily plucked. A medium among mediums."

  Medium rare, is he? Quincannon thought as he twisted the doorbell handle. Not for long. He'll not only be plucked but done to a turn before this night is over.

  The door was opened by a tiny woman of indeterminate age, dressed in a flowing ebon robe. Her skin was very white, her lips a bloody crimson in contrast; sleek brown hair was pulled tight around her head and fastened with a jeweled barrette. Around her neck hung a silver amulet embossed with some sort of cabalistic design. "I am Annabelle," she said in sepulchral tones. "You are Mr. and Mrs. John Quinn?"

  "We are," Quincannon said, wishing wistfully that it were true. Mr. and Mrs. John Quincannon, not Quinn. But Sabina had refused even to adopt his name for the evening's play-acting, insisting on the shortened version instead.

  Annabelle took his greatcoat and Sabina's cape, hung them on a coat tree. According to Buckley, she was Professor Vargas's "psychic assistant." If she lived here with him, Quincannon mused, she was likely also his wife or mistress. Seeking communion with the afterworld did not preclude indulging in the pleasure of the earthly sphere, evidently; he had never met a medium who professed to be celibate and meant it.

  "Follow me, please."

  They trailed her down a murky hallway into a somewhat more brightly lighted parlor. Here they found two men dressed as Quincannon was, in broadclo
th and fresh linen, and two women in long fashionable dresses; one of the men was Cyrus Buckley. But it was the room's fifth occupant who commanded immediate attention.

  Even Quincannon, who was seldom impressed by physical stature, had to grudgingly admit that Professor A. Vargas was a rather imposing gent. Tall, dark-complected, with a curling black moustache and piercing, almost hypnotic eyes. Like his psychic assistant, he wore a long flowing black robe and a silver amulet. On the middle fingers of each hand were two enormous glittering rings of intricate design, both of which bore hieroglyphics similar to those which adorned the amulets.

  He greeted his new guests effusively, pressing his lips to the back of Sabina's hand and then pumping Quincannon's in an iron grip. "I am Professor Vargas. Welcome, New Ones, welcome to the Unified College of the Attuned Impulses." His voice was rich, stentorian. "Mr. and Mrs. Quinn, is it not? Friends of the good Mr. Buckley? Your first sitting but I pray not your last. You are surrounded by many anxious friends in spirit-life who desire to communicate with you once you have learned more of the laws which govern their actions. Allow your impulses to attune with theirs and your spirit friends will soon identify themselves and speak with you as in earth-life . . . ."

  There was more, but Quincannon shut his ears to it.

  More introductions followed the medium's windy come-on. Quincannon shook hands with red-faced, mutton-chopped Cyrus Buckley and his portly, gray-haired wife, Margaret; with Oliver Cobb, a prominent Oakland physician who bore a rather startling resemblance to the "literary hangman," Ambrose Bierce; and with Grace Cobb, the doctor's much younger and attractive wife. Attractive, that is, if a man preferred an overly buxom and overly rouged blonde to a svelte brunette of Sabina's cunning dimensions. The Cobbs, like the Buckleys, had attended the professor's previous séance.

  Margaret Buckley looked upon Vargas with the rapt gaze of a supplicant in the presence of a saint. Dr. Cobb was also a true believer, judging from the look of eager anticipation he wore. The blond Mrs. Cobb seemed to find the medium fascinating as well, but the glint in her eye was much more predatory than devout. Buckley appeared ill at ease, as if he wished the evening's business was already finished; he kept casting glances at Quincannon which the detective studiously ignored.

  Vargas asked Quincannon and Sabina if they would care for a refreshment, coffee, tea, perhaps a glass of sherry. They both declined. This seemed to relieve Buckley; he asked Vargas, "Isn't it about time to begin the séance?"

  "Soon, Mr. Buckley. The spirits must not be hurried."

  "Are they friendly tonight?" Mrs. Buckley asked. "Can you tell, dear Professor Vargas?"

  "The auras are uncertain. I perceive antagonistic waves among the benign."

  "Oh, Professor!"

  "Do not fear," Vargas said. "Even if a malevolent spirit should cross the border, no harm will come to you or to any of us. Angkar will protect us."

  "But will my Bernice's spirit be allowed through if there is a malevolent force present?"

  Vargas patted her arm reassuringly. "It is my belief that she will, though I cannot be certain until the veil has been lifted. Have faith, dear Mrs. Buckley."

  Sabina asked him, "Isn't there anything you can do to prevent a malevolent spirit from crossing over?"

  "Alas, no. I am merely a teacher of the light and truth of theocratic unity, merely an operator between the Beyond and this mortal sphere."

  Merely a purveyor of pap, Quincannon thought.

  Grace Cobb touched Vargas's sleeve; her fingers lingered almost caressingly. "We have faith in you, Professor."

  "In Angkar, dear lady," Vargas told her, but his fingers caressed hers in return and the look he bestowed upon her had a smoldering quality—the same sort of cat-at-cream look, Quincannon thought, that Sabina had accused him earlier of directing at her. "Place your faith in Angkar and the spirit world."

  Quincannon asked him, "Angkar is your spirit guide and guardian angel?"

  "Yes. He lived more than a thousand years past and his spirit has ascended to one of the highest planes in the After-world."

  "A Hindu, was he?"

  Vargas seemed mildly offended. "Not at all, my dear sir. Angkar was an Egyptian nobleman in the court of Nebuchadnezzar."

  Quincannon managed to refrain from pointing out that Nebuchadnezzar was not an Egyptian but the king of Babylon and conqueror of Jerusalem some six centuries B.C. Not that any real harm would have been done if he had mentioned the fact; Vargas would have covered by claiming he had meant Nefertiti or some such. None of the others, except Sabina perhaps, seemed to notice the error.

  Sabina said, "Those rings are most impressive, Professor. Are they Egyptian?"

  "This one is." Vargas presented his left hand. "An Egyptian Signet and Seal Talisman Ring, made from virgin gold. It preserves its wearer against ill luck and wicked influences." He offered his right hand. "This is the Ring of King Solomon. Its Chaldaic inscription stands as a reminder to the wearer that no matter what his troubles may be, they shall soon be gone. The inscription here translates as 'This shall also pass.'"

  "Oh, Professor Vargas," Mrs. Buckley gushed, "you're so knowledgeable, so wise in so many ways."

  Quincannon's dinner stirred ominously under his breastbone.

  He was spared further discomfort, at least for the present, by the entrance of the psychic assistant, Annabelle. She announced, "All is in readiness, Professor," and without waiting for a response, glided out again.

  "Good ladies and gentlemen," Vargas said, "before we enter the spirit room may I accept your most kind and welcome donations to the Unified College of the Attuned Impulses, so that we may continue in our humble efforts to bring the psychic and material planes into closer harmony?"

  Quincannon paid for himself and Sabina—the outrageous "New Ones" donation of fifty dollars each. If he had not been assured of reimbursement from their client, he would have been much more grudging than he was in handing over the greenbacks. Buckley was tight-lipped as he paid, and sweat oiled his neck and the lower of his two chins; the look he gave Quincannon was a mute plea not to botch the job he and Sabina had been hired to do. Only Dr. Cobb ponied up with what appeared to be genuine enthusiasm.

  The medium casually dropped the wad of bills onto a table, as if money mattered not in the slightest to him personally, and led them out of the parlor, down the gloomy hallway, and then into a large chamber at the rear. The "spirit room" contained quite a few more accoutrements than the parlor, of greater variety and a more unusual nature. The floor was covered by a thick Oriental carpet of dark blue and black design. Curtains made of the same ebon material as the professor's and Annabelle's robes blotted the windows, and the gaslight had been turned low enough so that shadows crouched in all four corners. The overheated air was permeated with the smell of incense; Quincannon, who hated the stuff, immediately began to breathe through his mouth. The incense came from a burner on the mantel of a small fireplace—a horsey-looking bronze monstrosity with tusks as well as equine teeth and a shaggy mane and beard.

  The room's centerpiece was an oval, highly polished table around which six straight-backed chairs were arranged; a seventh chair, larger than the others, with a high seat and arms raised on a level with that of the tabletop, was placed at the head. Along the walls were a short, narrow sideboard of Oriental design, made of teak, with an intricately inlayed center top; a tall-backed rococo love seat; and an alabaster pedestal atop which sat a hideous bronze statue of an Egyptian male in full headdress, a representation, evidently, of the mythical Angkar. In the middle of the table was a clear-glass jar, a tiny silver bell suspended inside. On the sideboard were a silver tray containing several bottles of various sizes and shapes, a tambourine, and a stack of children's school slates with black wooden frames. Propped against the wall nearby was an ordinary-looking three-stringed guitar. And on the high seat of the armchair lay a coil of sturdy rope Quincannon estimated as some three yards in length.

  When the sitters were all inside and loosely
grouped near the table, Vargas closed the door, produced a large brass key from a pocket in his robe, and proceeded with a flourish to turn the key in the latch. After which he brought the key to the sideboard and set it beside the tray in plain sight. While this was being done, Quincannon eased over in front of the door and tested it behind his back to determine if it was in fact locked. It was.

  Still at the sideboard, Vargas announced that before they formed the "mystic circle" two final preparations were necessary. Would one of the good believers be so kind as to assist him in the first of these? Quincannon stepped forward just ahead of Dr. Cobb.

  The medium said, "Mr. Quinn, will you kindly examine each of the slates you see before you and tell us if they are as they seem—ordinary writing slates?"

  Quincannon examined them more carefully than any of the devotees would have. "Quite ordinary," he said.

  "Select two, if you please, write your name on each with this slate pencil, and then place them together and tie them securely with your handkerchief."

  When Quincannon had complied, Vargas took the bound slates and placed them in the middle of the stack. "If the spirits are willing," he said, "a message will be left for you beneath the signatures. Perhaps from a loved one who has passed beyond the pale, perhaps from a friendly spirit who may be in tune with your particular psychic impulses. Discarnate forces are never predictable, you understand."

  Quincannon nodded and smiled with his teeth.

  "We may now be seated and form the mystic circle."

  When each of the sitters had selected and was standing behind a chair, Sabina to the medium's immediate left and Quincannon directly across from him, both by prearrangement, Vargas again called for a volunteer. This time it was Dr. Cobb who stepped up first. Vargas handed him the coiled rope and seated himself in the high chair, his forearms flat on the chair arms with only his wrists and hands extended beyond the edges. He then instructed Cobb to bind him securely—arms, legs, and chest—to the chair, using as many knots as possible. Quincannon watched closely as this was done. He caught Sabina's eye when the doctor finished; she dipped her chin to acknowledge that she too had spotted the gaff in this phase of the professor's game.