"No,” she said, “but I happen to have met him once."
"Did you, now? Under what circumstances?"
"At a reception at the Palace Hotel about a year ago."
"Reception? In conjunction with a case?"
"No."
"As an invited guest? Or in the company of one?"
"That's neither here nor there. Why are you interested in a photograph of Canford?"
Hell and damn! Her passion for privacy could be maddening sometimes. “To know what he looked like, of course. There weren't any photographs in evidence in the Canford mansion."
"Well, I can tell you that much. Five and a half feet tall, slight of build. Iron-gray hair, thinning on top, and gray muttonchop whiskers. Large ears set at an angle to his head. His eyes were brown, if I remember correctly."
"Remarkable powers of observation, as always."
"Another compliment, John? Or are you being sarcastic now?"
Blasted woman. She could read him like the proverbial book and he seemed unable to read her at all.
* * * *
Ezra Bluefield's Scarlet Lady Saloon was a scabrous establishment on Terrific Street, as Pacific Avenue was called, in the black heart of the Barbary Coast. Not so many years before, it had been a crimping joint, where seamen were fed drinks laced with laudanum and chloral hydrate and then shanghaied onto ships in need of crews. Now, through the efforts of the Sailors’ Union of the Pacific, and generous bribes to city officials that permitted Bluefield to remain in business, it was an “honest” deadfall in which percentage girls and rigged games of chance were the methods used to separate seamen and other patrons from their earnings.
Quincannon found Bluefield in his usual place, behind the desk in his office at the rear. An ex-miner in the Western gold fields, Bluefield considered himself a gentleman saloon keeper in spite of the Scarlet Lady's infamous reputation. He had remained aloof from the crimping activities, and did likewise from the current criminal endeavors; and it was a known fact that whenever brawls broke out, as they often did, he stayed in his office behind a locked door and relied on his team of bouncers to restore peace. But he had a blunt finger on the pulse of the Barbary Coast and knew as much about its denizens and their nefarious activities as anyone in the devil's playground.
He greeted his visitor effusively, as always. Quincannon had once prevented a rival saloon owner from ending Bluefield's life with a bullet, and the man had never forgotten it.
"Well, John, my lad, what brings you by to see old Ezra? As if I didn't know. Information, eh?"
"No one in this foul district has a greater storehouse."
Bluefield chuckled and stroked his handlebar moustache, the ends of which jutted out several inches on each side of his mouth and were waxed to rapier points—as resplendent in its way as Quincannon's full beard. “True enough. What's the game this time?"
"Body snatching,” Quincannon said. “For ransom."
"And a wicked game that is. Whose body has been snatched?"
"I'd rather not say, except that it was that of a prominent citizen."
"How much ransom?"
"Seventy-five thousand dollars."
Bluefield whistled. “More than you or I have ever seen in one lump, eh?"
"Or are ever likely to. Have you heard anything of such a plot?"
"Nary a whisper."
"But you would have if Coasters were involved."
"Aye, with that much jack at stake. Are you sure it's a plot hatched here?"
"No. In fact, it doesn't strike me as a mug's job."
"Nor me,” Bluefield said. “I can't think of a single scruff smart enough to plan such a caper. They're all too busy robbing, swindling, shanghaiing, and murdering the living."
"Will you ask around, Ezra, and send word if you find out anything?"
"That I will."
* * * *
The offices of the Canford Investment Foundation were well-placed in the Montgomery Block. One of Quincannon's business cards and a message that he was in the employ of Mrs. Agatha Canford bought him an immediate audience with Thomas Brody in the managing director's private office.
"I can't imagine why Mrs. Canford would need the services of a private investigator,” Brody said. He was a spare, clean-shaven man in his fifties with thin, nervous features and a priggish air.
"A private matter,” Quincannon told him. “If you'd like to telephone Mrs. Canford to confirm her engagement of my services . . . “
"No, no, that won't be necessary. Your reputation precedes you, sir. How can I help you?"
"I understand you were one of the pallbearers at Mr. Canford's funeral."
If Brody found the question odd, he didn't show it. His thin face assumed a dolorous expression. “I had that honor, yes. He was a friend of long-standing as well as my employer."
"Well-attended, was it?"
"The funeral? Oh, yes. Mr. Canford had many friends in the city."
"I'm not familiar with Joshua Trilby's Evergreen Chapel. A first-class establishment, no doubt?"
"Ah, I wouldn't say that, no.” Brody lowered his voice, after the fashion of a man about to reveal a confidence. “Rather small and . . . well, somewhat less suitable than one might have hoped for a man of Mr. Canford's stature."
"How so?"
"Well, for one thing, Mr. Canford didn't look as . . . natural as he might have. Rather a slipshod job, in my opinion. The viewing room was quite small and the floral offerings haphazardly arranged."
"A shame. Was the procession handled properly?"
"More or less, except for the delay."
"Delay?"
"After the service. Some sort of problem with the hearse that kept us all waiting for ten minutes before the casket could be carried out. Poor Mrs. Canford . . . she wept the entire time."
"Unconscionable. Was it she who chose the Trilby mortuary?"
"I suppose it must have been.” Brody seemed to feel that perhaps he'd been too candid in his remarks. He made haste to change the subject. “Such a great loss to us all, especially those who have benefited and will continue to benefit from Mr. Canford's philanthropic endeavors. He was a fine man, generous and caring to a fault."
"His widow seems to be cut from the same cloth."
"Oh, yes. A wonderful woman."
"And his son."
Brody hesitated before he said, “Yes, of course."
"Is Bertram Canford involved in the foundation's work?"
"Ah, no. No, he isn't."
"By his choice? Or his father's?"
Another hesitation, longer this time. Brody's nose and upper lip quivered in a way that made Quincannon think of a disapproving rabbit. “I believe his interests lie elsewhere."
"Bertram is a promoter, I'm told. What does he promote?"
"I have no idea."
"Well, I don't suppose it matters. I expect his father left him well provided for. They did get on well together, didn't they?"
"I really couldn't say, sir. I hardly know the man."
Quincannon asked a few more questions before leaving Brody to puzzle over the purpose of his visit.
* * * *
He spent the rest of the day gathering information and placing requests for more.
After a look at Joshua Trilby's Evergreen Chapel, a small brick establishment as unprepossessing as Brody's depiction, he returned to the Barbary Coast for another brief talk with Ezra Bluefield. From there he made his way to Hoolihan's Saloon on Second Street, his favorite watering hole in the days when he'd worked as a Secret Service operative and been an imbiber of strong spirits.
Hoolihan's was still a place he frequented; it was a short cable-car ride from his rooms on Leavenworth, he was on friendly terms with the barmen, and among the clientele were a number of individuals who could be counted on to share their knowledge of the city and its various strata for a few coins or rounds of free drinks. If this coterie of informants didn't have the necessary answers, they generally knew someone somewhere who did.
He spent three hours in Hoolihan's darkly gaslit interior, drinking clam juice and conversing with the other habitues as they filtered in. When he left shortly before five, he had all the facts he required except for one. That one could easily be guessed at, but full and accurate data was essential in an investigation such as this. Detailed corroboration of the last fact would come sooner or later.
It came sooner, as a matter of fact. From one of Ezra Bluefield's runners, who knocked on his door at eight-thirty that evening. And it was just as he'd expected it would be.
Tomorrow, then, he would see to the safe return of Ruben Canfield's mortal remains—and mark the end of another triumph in the long and illustrious career of John Quincannon.
Or so he believed until he walked into the agency offices at nine o'clock the following morning.
* * * *
"Mrs. Canford telephoned,” Sabina said, “not five minutes ago. She wants to see you."
"And I her. But not just yet."
"She has news. Surprising news."
"Yes?"
"Her husband's body is back in the family crypt."
"What!"
"Brought there and left sometime last night, in the same mysterious manner as its taking."
"Then that means— Hell, damn, and blast!"
"Why are you so upset?"
"The damned scoundrels have stolen my thunder. I should've been the one to see that the body was safely brought home."
"Well, Mrs. Canford did say she wanted you to continue your search for the men responsible."
"At a reduced fee, no doubt."
"Oh, for heaven's sake, John. Is that all you ever think about?"
"Why else are we in business?” Quincannon said grumpily. “In any case, there's no need for a continuing search. I've already found out who is responsible."
"You have?"
"Yes, and how their tricks were worked. A fool's game from start to finish."
"Well? Are you going to tell me?"
"I haven't the time now.” He had shed his coat and derby hat when he entered; he quickly put them on again.
"Did Mrs. Canford say if her son was at home with her?"
"She did and he is. Is that where you're off to?"
"As swiftly as I can get there."
* * * *
Agatha and Bertram Canford were having tea on the terrace overlooking her rose garden. She no longer seemed quite so frail; her relief was evident in the erect set of her body, the color in her cheeks, and the brightness of her eyes. She offered Quincannon a wan smile when Edmund showed him to the table.
"Ah, good, you received my message. Isn't the news splendid?"
Indeed it was, he agreed, and managed to keep tartness out of his voice. He declined a cup of tea, but accepted her invitation to occupy the heavy wrought-iron chair between her and her son. Bertram was smoking an expensive cigar— evidently her prejudice against tobacco didn't extend to the outdoors—and wearing an expression of smug solemnity.
Quincannon said, “Tell me, Mrs. Canford—why did you pay the ransom?"
"Bertram convinced me it had to be done."
"We had no other choice,” her son said. “Another note was delivered yesterday noon. Even more harshly worded and threatening than the first. It said Father's remains would be . . . disposed of if the seventy-five thousand dollars wasn't paid by five p.m. The threat was too great to be ignored."
"You should have notified me."
"I meant to,” Mrs. Canford said, “but it slipped my mind in all the necessary hurry. We had very little time to obtain the money from the bank and for Bertram to deliver it by five o'clock."
"The note demanded that it be left near one of the bandstands in Golden Gate Park,” Bertram said. “I managed to get it there just in time."
"I was afraid the kidnappers would fail to release Ruben once they had the money. But when Bertram went to the mausoleum this morning, there he was —back safe and sound."
"How he was returned is as much a mystery as how he was taken. The door was locked as before and nothing was disturbed."
"Of course you'll continue with your investigation, Mr. Quincannon. The ransom money is of no real consequence to me, but as I told you before, I won't rest until the villains are caught and punished."
"And so they shall be.” Quincannon shifted his gaze to Bertram, who was just finishing his cigar. “I'll have another look at the crypt. You don't mind accompanying me?"
"No, of course not. The key, Mother?"
She took it from the pocket of her dress, handed it to her son. And he and Quincannon set off to where the mausoleum squatted, cool and dark, at the foot of the garden. When the heavy bronze door was unlocked, Bertram stepped back and to one side. “I'll wait here while you have your look inside."
"I have no need for a look inside."
"But you said—"
"A ruse to bring you down here alone.” Quincannon stepped up close and fixed him with an eye as fierce as a gargoyle's. “Now then. Where is the ransom money?"
"Wh . . . what?"
"Have you shared it with your confederates and debtors yet? Or is it all still in your possession?"
"I . . . I have no idea what you're talking about."
"The devil you don't. You no more delivered those greenbacks to Golden Gate Park than I flew upside down in the last windstorm. The plain truth is, you're the lad who planned this body-snatching business. And wrote and ‘delivered’ the ransom demands."
Bertram blinked, sputtered, then made an effort to draw himself up indignantly. “That's a slanderous accusation! How dare you!"
Quincannon moved even closer, crowding him back against the mossy stone wall. “There's no use denying it."
"I do deny it. You know full well that I had no access to the key, no way of getting inside the crypt . . . “
"Bah,” Quincannon said. “All that mystification was designed for the same purpose as the two-week waiting period—to cloud the truth, keep your mother from becoming suspicious, and focus attention elsewhere. There is no mystery about the taking of your father's body or about its return last night."
Bertram shook his head, but not in denial. His eyes had already taken on the shine of a trapped animal's.
"We both know the body was never in the mausoleum, that it was removed from the casket at the mortuary, after the service and before the procession here. The casket is heavy and your father was a slight man—you counted on none of the pallbearers noticing the disparity in weight and none did. Joshua Trilby did the job, under the guise of a faked delay with the hearse. He also cut the piece from the satin lining, removed the ring, and stored the body until last night.
"Its return was even more simply managed. The mausolem key was still in your mother's possession; I expect you had little difficulty appropriating it while she was occupied or asleep. You came down here to meet Trilby at a prearranged time, opened the crypt, helped him with the transfer, locked the door again afterwards, and put the key back where you got it. Then, this morning, you pretended to a miraculous discovery."
"How . . . how could you . . . “
"I began to suspect the truth when I examined the empty casket. If a gang of genuine body-snatchers had been at work, all the heavy silver handles and other valuable silver trim would have been stolen as well. Just as telltale was the casket's pillow bed. If a body had lain there for two weeks, the satin would have retained some impression of it. But there was none; it was completely smooth."
Bertram said desperately, “If Trilby is guilty, he acted alone. I'm a wealthy man, I have no need of a large sum of cash. . . . “
"You're not a wealthy man—your mother controls the family purse strings and she doesn't approve of either gambling or consorting with loose women. You owe ten thousand dollars to Charles Riley at the House of Chance and smaller amounts at a number of other Uptown Tenderloin sporting houses, and you have no means of borrowing enough to pay the markers. Trilby is in the same bind, though he doesn't owe quite as much�
��a fact I learned last night. Birds of a feather. You met him in one of the gambling dens, I'll wager, and hatched your plan together while your father was still alive."
A sound halfway between a moan and a goat's bleat escaped Bertram's throat. After which he abandoned all pretense of innocence. “I had to do it, I had to. Threats against my life if I didn't pay soon . . . I had to do something!"
Quincannon resisted an urge to knock him down. “The ransom money. Still have it or not?"
"Yes, in my office downtown. I intended pay Trilby and my markers tonight, but now—"
"Now we'll go fetch it and I'll return it to your mother."
"And tell her that I— No, you can't do that! She'll be devastated, she'll disown me!"
"You should have thought of that,” Quincannon said, “before you decided to become a ghoul."
* * * *
"He was right, you know,” Sabina said when Quincannon finished his detailed explanations to her. “You can't tell Mrs. Canford what her son is and what he did."
"And why can't I? He's a nasty piece of work—lower than a gopher's hind end. He deserves whatever punishment comes his way."
"Yes, but she doesn't deserve to suffer any more. She's still grieving over the loss of her husband, and relieved and happy that he's back in his final resting place. The truth about Bertram would make a misery of the rest of her days—you know that as well as I do. Isn't that why you've yet to return the ransom money?"
He made grumbling noises in his beard. “I would have to invent a story to explain how I came by it and who is responsible."
"Well? That shouldn't be difficult, with your lively imagination."
"Bah. It might result in a reduced fee—"
"John,” she said warningly.
"And what if Bertram should try another scheme to dupe money from her?"
"I daresay he won't. Not after you put the fear of God and John Quincannon into him."
"He'll still stand to inherit when she passes on."
"The Tenderloin gamblers may not allow him to live that long,” Sabina said. “But if they do, Agatha Canford is no fool; you said so yourself. She knows about his profligate ways and she may not trust him with a large inheritance. In any event, that is her business. Ours is whether or not you're going to spare her."
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