Bill Pronzini - Quincannon

“No, I can’t say that I have.”

“A very important man,” Quincannon said. “He is a close friend of Mar. Charles Crocker, among others.”

Truax had heard of Crocker, one of the “Big Four” railroad tycoons who had been potent factors in the shaping of California politics and economy for close to thirty years; and the name impressed him. Interest glittered in his eyes again, ignited by what Quincannon took to be the spark of greed. “Mr. Caldwell is well-to-do, then?” he asked.

“Extremely. Stock speculation is both a hobby and an avocation with him; he has been quite successful.”

“Am I to understand that you act as his agent in such matters?”

“No, not at all. I am merely a patent medicine drummer, as you pointed out, although I do have ambitions, of course. I have scouted likely stock prospects for Mr. Caldwell in the past, and he has seen fit to reward my help with cash bonuses. I expect I will also soon be promoted to a managerial position with our San Francisco office.”

“I see,” Truax said. He waved away a cloud of fragrant smoke. “And you feel the Paymaster Mining Company would be a good investment for him?”

“I do, based on inquiries I made in town this morning. I spoke to Sabina Carpenter, for one. She told me she recently purchased an amount of Paymaster stock.”

“Yes, that’s correct. Five thousand dollars’ worth.”

Quincannon raised an eyebrow. “That’s quite a substantial investment for the owner of a millinery shop.”

“An inheritance from an aunt in Denver, I believe.”

“Ah, I see,” Quincannon said. But he was wondering if that was really where Sabina Carpenter had obtained the five thousand dollars. “Can you tell me how much stock is available for purchase by Mr. Caldwell?”

“Well, the original issue was twenty-five thousand shares, nearly all of which has been sold. I’ll have to check to determine just how much is left. However, I can tell you now that one of our large Seattle stockholders has expressed a willingness to sell at the right price.”

“How many shares does this stockholder control?”

“Let me see… two thousand, I believe.”

“Do you know how much he would be willing to take for them?”

“He has said he would accept fifty dollars a share. Fair market value, I assure you.”

“You yourself own controlling stock in the company, I take it — you and your charming wife.”

“I do, yes,” Truax said. “Ten thousand shares. But the stock is in my name alone.

“Mrs. Truax has none at all?”

“No. Well, I gifted her with two hundred and fifty shares as a wedding present, but that is hardly a significant amount.”

“Do any of the other major stockholders live in Silver City?” Quincannon asked.

“No. They are all scattered throughout Idaho, Oregon, Washington, and California.”

Quincannon sat in speculative silence for a time. Truax, who seemed to be trying to contain his eagerness, took the opportunity to fetch up a bottle of Kentucky sour mash from a sideboard behind his desk.

“Drink, Mr. Lyons?”

“Well… I don’t mind if I do.”

Truax poured one for each of them. Quincannon drank his without savoring or even tasting it; except for its low heat in his throat and stomach, it might have been bootleg hooch made out of tobacco and wood alcohol.

Truax said in greasy tones, “May I count on you to recommend the Paymaster Mining Company to Mr. Caldwell?”

“I will recommend that he consider it, yes.”

“Excellent.”

“He will make inquiries of his own, naturally,” Quincannon said. “And if he does decide to buy, I’m sure he’ll contact you directly.”

“I shall be delighted to hear from him.” Quincannon made as if to vacate his chair, and Truax said, as Quincannon had hoped he would, “Another drink before you leave?”

“Yes, thanks. Kind of you.”

He made the second whiskey last for two swallows. Then he stood and shook hands with Truax, who remained seated. “Perhaps we’ll see each other again before I leave Silver City, Mr. Truax,” he said.

“It would be a pleasure. Will you be staying long?”

“Not as long as I had expected.” Quincannon assumed a solemn expression. “The old friend I had hoped to see, Whistling Dixon, was killed last night.”

Truax’s reaction was nil, beyond a look of sympathy as feigned as Quincannon’s grief. If anything, he seemed disinterested — but that may have been feigned too. “What happened to the poor fellow?”

“No one knows exactly. He was shot sometime last night, in Slaughterhouse Gulch.”

“Shot?”

“Murdered.”

“Bandits,” Truax said immediately. “These mountains are acrawl with them.”

“Yes, so I’ve been told.” Quincannon shook his head. “It seems to be a day for unpleasant news,” he said. “I spoke to Will Coffin this morning; he told me the newspaper office was broken into again during his absence.”

Truax showed no particular interest in that either. “Was there much damage?”

“Little enough.”

“Those damned heathen Chinamen ought to be run clear out of the Owyhees.”

“So you said yesterday,” Quincannon reminded him blandly. “Poor Mr. Coffin. To compound his problems, his part-time printer, Jason Elder, has disappeared.”

“Elder? Oh yes, the opium addict.”

“You don’t know the man personally?”

“Of course not. I don’t keep company with dope fiends.”

Perhaps not, Quincannon thought, but your wife surely does. He said, “Well, I won’t take up any more of your time, Mr. Truax. Thank you for seeing me, and for your excellent whiskey.”

“Not at all. My pleasure. Ah, you will be sending a wire to Mr. Caldwell right away, won’t you?”

“This very evening.”

“Will you let me know if you have a reply from him?”

“Right away.”

Truax beamed at him. He even stood up as Quincannon took his leave of the office.

Riding out of the mine yard, Quincannon fired his pipe and reflected sourly that he was accumulating a great deal of curious information but that none of it seemed to fit together into a useful pattern. Nor did any of it seem directly related to the gang of koniakers, with the probable exception of Whistling Dixon’s murder and the possible exception of Jason Elder’s disappearance. And now he needed the answers to several puzzling and related questions before he could even begin to piece things together.

Why had Helen Truax signed over all of her two hundred and fifty shares in the Paymaster Mining Company to Elder — shares worth better than twelve thousand dollars?

Why had Sabina Carpenter taken those shares from Elder’s shack and what did she intend to do with them?

Why was Truax so eager to sell Paymaster stock?

What, exactly, was Helen Traux’s relationship with Jack Bogardus?

And if Bogardus was as dishonest as Truax claimed, did that dishonesty extend to counterfeiting and murder?

When he arrived back in town Quincannon went directly to the Western Union desk at the Wells Fargo office. It was too early to expect answers to his wires, but there was always the chance that Boggs had news of his own to impart. He found nothing for him when he arrived, however. He sent Boggs another wire care of Caldwell Associates, this one requesting information on Jack Bogardus, and then returned his rented horse to the livery and walked back up to the War Eagle Hotel.

In his room he lay on the bed and cudgeled his brain for an hour, without much consequence. Restlessness and hunger drove him out again. He ate a small meal at a cafe nearby, and when he was done it was early evening and the saloons were beginning to fill up with cowhands, miners, and townsmen. He did as he had done the previous night: drifted from saloon to saloon, taking a drink in each, engaging this man and that in apparently idle conversation.