Marcia Muller - The Body Snatchers Affair

The Gold King business was still a disturbing puzzle. Had Carson been mixed up with the high graders and somehow escaped being identified as one of the gang? Had Artemas Sneed been paroled from San Quentin, and was he in fact blackmailing Carson? And what, in the name of all that was holy, was the bughouse Sherlock up to? If only she could talk to him again! She would demand straightforward answers this time, if necessary at gunpoint. But of all the tasks she had set for Slewfoot, Madame Louella, and their coterie of sources, the present whereabouts of the elusive Mr. Holmes would likely prove the most difficult.

She mentally replayed her conversation with Ross Cleghorne. He’d said that Carson had returned to San Francisco and taken a position with Monarch Engineering in the summer of 1887, the same month that the gold-stealing scheme had unraveled and the known gang members arrested. A coincidence? Or—

A sudden thought occurred to her. George M. Kinney, the man who had masterminded the gold-stealing plot, had been described by Ephraim Ballard as as an investor and former Gold King Mine stockholder. Had he been a client of Montgomery and DeSalle, Carson’s father’s brokerage firm? If so, it was quite possible Carson had known him...

Ross Cleghorne might have the answer to that, but asking him any more questions might put him on alert. Who else could she consult? Ah, yes, Theodore Bonesall. The manager of Western States Bank, he was both a stock-market investor and a former client for whom she and John had successfully handled an embezzlement matter.

Western States Bank was on the Telephone Exchange. Sabina gave the operator the number, and after the usual delay in connecting and another as Mr. Bonesall was summoned to the telephone, she asked her carefully worded questions.

He had two pieces of information for her. The first answered her queries and unfortunately added to her doubts about Carson. Yes, Mr. Bonesall said, he’d known George M. Kinney moderately well before greed and poor investments had brought about the man’s downfall. Kinney had in fact been a client of the Montgomery and DeSalle brokerage firm, and a close enough friend of Evander Montgomery that the latter reportedly had been badly shaken by the news of Kinney’s arrest and conviction. That being the case, it was almost certain that Carson and Kinney had been acquainted, thus strengthening the likelihood of Carson’s involvement in the gold-stealing operation.

The second piece of information, casually offered by Mr. Bonesall near the end of their conversation, was bemusing in a different way. For he asked if she was still keeping company with Carson Montgomery. How had he known she was? Well, as he’d told her partner, she and Carson had been seen dining together on two occasions, once by him and once by an acquaintance.

“You told this to Mr. Quincannon? Was he the one who brought up the subject?”

“No, I did. We met in passing and spent a few minutes together over coffee. I happened to mention it to him, and I must say he was keenly interested. Shouldn’t I have?”

She wanted to say, “No, you shouldn’t. My personal life is of no concern to anyone but me.” But it wouldn’t do to take a sharp tone with a former client who had been cooperative and might require the agency’s services again. She settled for saying, “It’s of no consequence, Mr. Bonesall. Thank you again for your time and your candor.”

So John was aware of her liaison with Carson. Knowing John and how he felt about her, “keenly interested” was an understatement. More likely he had been and still was acutely jealous. And no doubt he considered the relationship to be much more intimate than it was, imagining all sorts of lewd goings-on between her and the suave Mr. Montgomery. Why hadn’t he said anything to her? Sneakily checking up on her and Carson? She wouldn’t put it past him. Well, as long as he kept quiet, so would she. Let him stew in his own masculine juices. It served him right.

Sabina was just finishing up the paperwork when the young man arrived with an envelope clutched in one grubby hand. She knew him: a young half-wit named Cheney who acted as a runner and errand boy for several individuals, Madame Louella among them. He handed her the envelope without speaking, grinned foolishly when she gave him a quarter in exchange, and left her alone again.

The sheet of notepaper inside the envelope bore a single line of writing in a flowing hand.

Whereabouts A.S. known to me by 7 P.M.

Madame L.

A.S. — Artemas Sneed. The Gypsy fortune-teller had outdone herself; Sabina hadn’t expected to hear from one of her informants so soon. Very fast service, indeed.

The Seth Thomas clock on the wall read 4:55 as Sabina pinned on her straw boater, donned her cape, and left the office. She had just enough time for an early, leisurely meal at Darnell’s, one of the small restaurants near Union Square she favored, before once more venturing to Madame Louella’s abode on Kearney Street. Despite another long day and the grim nature of the situation with Carson, she hadn’t lost her appetite: She was, in fact, famished.

No sooner had he emerged from the building that housed Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, than he was accosted by Homer Keeps. The flatulent little muckraker for the Evening Bulletin had an air of sweaty eagerness, his puffy cheeks glistening in spite of the coolness of the afternoon. In the pocket of his cigar-ash-spotted coat he carried a folded copy of what was probably the latest edition of the rag that employed him.

“Ah, finally,” he said. He removed the derby from his bald head, with its scraggly fringe of brown hair, and used it to fan himself as he spoke. “You’re a difficult man to track down, sir.”

Quincannon’s desire to do Keeps bodily harm had cooled somewhat, though his fingers flexed and his palms itched at the man’s nearness. He said, “And you’re a difficult one to avoid,” and kept on walking down Market Street.

Keeps scurried after him, caught his arm. This brought him once more to a halt, and earned the reporter a sharp swat on the knuckles. “Hands off, you little toad.”

“Now, now.” The reporter sounded aggrieved, but there was malice in his subsequent grin — one which revealed large nicotine-stained teeth any horse in the city would have been ashamed to own. “I merely took hold of your sleeve. I could press charges for assault, you know,” he said, rubbing his knuckles. “And sue you for slander for the name you called me.”

“You wouldn’t dare do either. You use a pen filled with poisonous lies and innuendo to do your dirty work.”

“I write the truth as I see it.”

“Bah. Go away and stay away, Keeps. I have nothing to say to you.” He began walking again.

The little muckraker hurried to keep pace. “What are you trying to hide, Mr. Quincannon?”

“From you, anything and everything.”

“In particular the nature of your involvement in the Chinatown shooting, eh?”

“Bah,” Quincannon said again. “I tried to prevent the death of James Scarlett while acting on behalf of a client. I was almost shot and killed myself, as you no doubt know.”

“So you say. But is that the true version of what happened in Ross Alley?”

“It is, no matter how you try to twist it otherwise.”

Keeps showed his equine teeth again. “Mrs. Andrea Scarlett is your client, is she not? What have you done with her?”

“Done with her? What kind of question is that?”

“She’s nowhere to be found. Hiding her for some reason, are you?”

“If I were, which I’m not, I wouldn’t admit it to the likes of you.”

“What’s your connection with the Chinaman known as Little Pete?”