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Bill Pronzini: Beyond the Grave

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Bill Pronzini Beyond the Grave

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I opened the lid of the chest, took the rusty hairpin out, and threw it in the wastebasket. There was a lot of dust in the compartment, so I went to the kitchen for a rag and began to clean it out. As I was scrubbing along the rear of the space, the edge of the rag caught on something. I gave it a tug, and it tore. Poking with my fingernail, I removed the fragment of fabric and saw that there was a crack in the wood. Not only had the auction house neglected to tell prospective buyers that the key was missing, but they'd also omitted the fact that the chest had been damaged. I sighed in exasperation and probed with my fingers to see how bad the crack was.

But it wasn't a crack at all; its edges felt smooth, beveled. I pushed my fingernail into it. The nail tore to the quick and I swore, putting my finger in my mouth and tasting blood. After a few seconds, I got my nail clipper from my purse and trimmed the nail's ragged edge, then used the fold-out file portion of the clipper on the crack in the chest. I wiggled it back and forth a little, and then a narrow three-inch-long piece of wood came loose and clattered to the bottom of the compartment.

I dropped the nail clipper next to the wood fragment and pushed my fingers through the little opening. They encountered a cylindrical metal object. When I pulled it out, I saw it was a brass key.

How clever of the cabinetmaker, I thought, and also how typical of furniture of that era. I remembered reading somewhere that the dons had been big on secreting their treasures, tucking away even inconsequential things like this key in well-concealed hidey-holes. Maybe there was more treasure in the drawer.

The thought was a fanciful one, and I expected the drawer to be empty. But when I unlocked it and looked in at a flat brown-leather folder, I started in surprise. I set the key down and took the folder over to my desk to examine it in better light.

The cracked leather was rough-grained, probably cowhide, and the folder had been bound together by a now-frayed brown cord. I opened it and found a sheaf of papers. They were yellowed, on a once-fine vellum letterhead that read in ornate script, “Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, Flood Building, Market Street, San Francisco.” Below was what appeared to be a detective's report, dated April 1894. The hand in which it was written was angular and fine, incorporating all the whorls and flourishes popular before the turn of the century.

What a find! I thought. What a fascinating relic of the past! Dave would love this; I should call him-

And then I stopped, remembering I would never call Dave again. Gloom descended on me, threatening to destroy my pleasure in my discovery. To fend it off, I went back to my rocker and began reading.

Report of Investigator John F. Quincannon, in the Matter of Religious Artifacts Belonging to the Family of Don Esteban Velasquez

April 4. The offices of the above were visited by Felipe Velasquez, shortly past noon. Senor Velasquez recounted the facts surrounding his father's death during the Bear Flag Revolution, and stated that a cache of religious artifacts hidden during that time of strife had not been heretofore recovered by his family. However, he said, one artifact had at last been located. He requested aid in obtaining information as to the source of this particular artifact. It was his belief that an investigation might lead to the whereabouts of the remaining pieces.

It was like reading a mystery novel-only this had been written by the detective's own hand and had really happened. My pain over Dave's defection and my worry over Mama receded for the moment, and I quickly turned the page….

PART II

1894

ONE

Quincannon was alone in the offices having his lunch-bread, cheese, strong coffee-and reading a temperance tract, when Senor Felipe Velasquez paid his visit.

It was a rare early-spring day in San Francisco, cloudless and warm. Quincannon had opened the window behind his desk, the one that overlooked Market Street and bore the painted words CARPENTER AND QUINCANNON, PROFESSIONAL DETECTIVE SERVICES. A balmy breeze off the Bay freshened the air in the room, made it seem almost fragrant. The city sounds that drifted in had a quality of sharpness that permitted each to be clearly identified: the passing rumble of a cable car, the clatter of a dray wagon, the calls of vendors hawking fresh oysters and white bay shrimp in the market across the street, the booming horn of one of the fast coastal steamers as it drew into or away from the Embarcadero. The air and the sounds made Quincannon restless. It was much too fine a day to waste indoors. A day, instead, for a carriage ride to Ocean Beach, or a ferry trip to Marin County, or perhaps a stroll in Golden Gate Park-all in the company of an attractive woman. A day that stirred a man's blood and gave rise to amorous thoughts of the mildly indecent sort.

He wondered if Sabina was weakening.

She showed no outward signs of it. Their relationship was to be strictly business, she had said more than once. But she had consented to spend a social evening with him, also more than once, and there was a softness in the way she looked at him sometimes, a softness in her voice even when she rejected his mild advances. Perhaps she was weakening. Perhaps underneath her reserve, she felt toward him as he felt toward her and it was only a matter of time before she agreed to become his lover. Or his wife. He had been a firm bachelor all his life; he had considered marriage an unsuitable undertaking for an operative of the United States Secret Service, a position he had held for fourteen years, and he considered it an equally unsuitable one for a flycop, his new profession for the past five months. Still and all, if it was the only way to possess Sabina; warm, smiling Sabina …

Quincannon sighed, ate a wedge of cheese and sourdough, and forced his attention back to the temperance tract. It was another of those written and printed by Ebenezer Talbot, one of the founders of the True Christian Temperance Society. It bore the title “A Bibulous Evening with Satan” and was highly inflammatory in its denunciation of the evils of drink. Two weeks ago, when Sabina had found him reading a different one of Ebenezer's handiworks, “Drunkards and Curs: The Truth About Demon Rum,” she had said in surprise, “I must say, John, you're a man of excesses. For more than a year you saturated yourself with alcohol, and now you've joined a temperance union.” But this was not the case, as he had explained to her. The other founders of the True Christian Temperance Society had hired him to investigate Ebenezer Talbot, whom they suspected of having embezzled Society funds. Quincannon had subsequently confirmed these suspicions; he had also discovered-and three days ago obtained evidence to prove-that Ebenezer had used his ill-gotten funds to finance the manufacture and distribution of bootleg whiskey to miners in the Mother Lode. Quincannon no longer needed to read temperance tracts, but he found himself buying and reading them just the same-those written by other individuals as well as by the amazing Ebenezer Talbot. They proved to be amusing light reading, a pleasant change from the volumes of poetry and short stories he customarily read for relaxation.

He was absorbed in the tract when the latch clicked and the door opened. He glanced up, expecting to see Sabina. The man who entered was slim, dark, gray-maned, with a neatly trimmed graying beard and the bearing of a Mexican aristocrat. He seemed uncomfortable in a black cutaway coat and matching trousers, as if charro garb would be more suited to his temperament; and in his left hand he carried a small carpetbag. His string tie was fastened with a turquoise clip in the shape of a bull's head; his sombrero was studded with silver conchas. The clothing and the turquoise and silver ornamentations suggested that this man, whoever he might be, was not a pauper.

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