Bill Pronzini - Quincannon

But his chance few minutes of eavesdropping had paid some dividends. He now had more confirmation, by implication if not by direct statement, that Bogardus and Helen Truax were involved in an illegal enterprise that almost certainly had to be the coney game. And that Bogardus considered him a potential threat, and would arrange “another disappearance” if he deemed it necessary.

The significance of the rest of their conversation, however, eluded him. What was it Bogardus had been demanding that she do tonight? What were the two of them plotting? He felt he ought to have some inkling of the answer, yet he couldn’t quite grasp it. That second whiskey he had taken before going to the Truax house still had his mind fuddled. He would have to be more careful about how much and how often he drank, at least until this business was resolved.

Downtown again, he found himself on Avalanche Avenue. He glanced up at the window of Sabina’s Millinery as he walked by, but he didn’t hesitate; he had nothing more to say to Sabina Carpenter, not this soon after last night. At Jordan Street he turned downhill. His intended destination was Cadmon’s Livery for a horse, which he would ride to the Paymaster mine for another talk with Oliver Truax; but the Western Union sign beckoned as he passed the Wells Fargo office. He turned inside.

Waiting for him was a second telegram from Boggs, just come in from San Francisco. This one said:

SC CONFIRMED DENVER PINK ROSE ASSIGNED PMC FMFM STOP PROBABLE OT PYRAMID STOP IS THERE CONNECTION OUR BUSINESS QMK PINK ROSE RELIABLE ALLY IF JOINT VENTURE DESIRABLE OR NECESSARY

Quincannon stared at the words in amazement. Well I will be damned, he thought.

The news that the Paymaster Mining Company flimflam was a probable pyramid swindle — in which Oliver Truax would be juggling stock proceeds, paying dividends to early investors with the money from sales to later investors and then pocketing the difference — came as no surprise. It was the other revelation that astonished him, the fact that Truax and his scheme were already being investigated first-hand and undercover by a “Pink Rose.”

Sabina Carpenter was an operative for the Denver branch of the Pinkerton Detective Agency.

She was alone in the front part of the millinery shop, cutting a strip from a bolt of paisley cloth, when Quincannon turned in off the stairs. She looked up, wearing the polite smile of a proprietress for a prospective customer; then the smile vanished and she straightened and set down her shears. She stood stiffly, watching him.

He stopped five feet from the table. Her hair was different again today: pulled back and rolled into a tight chignon. It gave her face a severity that was enhanced by the displeasure in her expression. Nevertheless he felt the same physical desire as last night: like it or not, she was a fire in his blood. He forced himself to remember their last meeting, the embarrassment of it; to face her with a professional detachment.

She said, “You have quite a nerve, Mr. Lyons, coming back here after last night. I should have thought I made it quite clear how I felt.”

“You did. The purpose of this visit is strictly business.”

“What sort of business?”

“The sort that needs to be discussed in complete privacy. I think you should go downstairs, put up the ‘Closed’ sign, and lock the door so we won’t be disturbed.”

She smiled wryly. “I’m sure you do.”

“I assure you,” he said with some of her stiffness, “that I have no intention of making any more improper advances. Your virtue is quite safe.”

“Just what is it you wish to discuss?”

“Among other matters, you and your reason for coming to Silver City.”

She frowned. “My reason for coming here was to open this millinery shop.”

“No it wasn’t,” he said. “You came to prove, if you could, that Oliver Truax is operating a pyramid swindle with Paymaster Mining Company stock.”

The words startled her. Some of the color faded out of her cheeks; the displeasure and the feminine righteousness faded with it, leaving her with an uncertain look. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, realized what she was doing, and released it. She didn’t speak.

Quincannon said, “The fact is, Miss Carpenter, you are a Pink Rose operating out of Denver. You do know what the term ‘Pink Rose’ means, don’t you?”

She knew and she grew even paler. Her gaze held his for another second or two, then slid away. Abruptly she came away from the table, moved past him to the stairs, picked up her skirts, and hurried down. He heard her at the door, the sound of the bolt being thrown. When she came back up she returned to the table, without looking at him as she passed, and stood with one hand resting on the bolt of cloth. Her fingers, he noticed, were only inches from the sharp pair of shears.

“Your name isn’t Andrew Lyons, is it,” she said.

“No. It’s Quincannon. John Quincannon.”

“Quincannon,” she repeated, as if tasting the word. “Very well, Mr. Quincannon., what is it you want from me?”

“Cooperation.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We are more or less in the same profession, you and I,” he said. “I am an operative of the United States Secret Service, attached to the field office in San Francisco.”

Her eyes widened. Incredulously she said, “The Secret Service? Really, Mr. Quincannon…”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Why should I? After all, you’re a — ” She broke off.

“A drunkard? Yes, Miss Carpenter, I am. And the fact will no doubt cost me my job one day.” He took out his Service badge and Boggs’ latest telegram, moved over to set both items on the table, and then stepped back. “Perhaps those will convince you.” He waited until she had examined them, then said, “The telegram is from the agent in charge of the San Francisco office. He signs himself Arthur Caldwell, but his real name is Boggs. You can verify that by wire, if you like, through the Pinkerton office in Denver. I’m sure Mr. Boggs has been in touch with your superior there.”

She seemed confused and nonplussed now, as if all of this was too much for her to grasp at once. She moved away from the table again, this time to sit down on a stool used for customer fittings. After a moment she said, “You’ve shaken me, Mr. Quincannon. More than I’d care to admit.”

“It was as much of a shock for me to learn that you’re a Pinkerton.”

“I suppose so. But what is a Secret Serviceman doing here? Not also investigating Oliver Truax and the Paymaster Mining Company, surely…”

“No. A gang of counterfeiters is what I’m after.”

“Coneymen? In Silver City?”

“Yes. One of the largest and most organized boodle games ever to operate west of the Rocky Mountains.”

“Do you know who is running it?”

“I have strong suspicions, yes.”

“It’s not Oliver Truax?”

“No. I don’t believe he’s involved. But I do think his wife might be.”

That surprised the Pink Rose, but not as much as it might have. She said, “How would Helen Truax be mixed up with counterfeiters?”

“Jack Bogardus,” he said.

“You mean you suspect Bogardus is the ringleader?”

“I do. And that the Rattling Jack mine is the manufacturing and shipping point for the queer.”

She nodded slowly and thoughtfully. “Yes, I can see how that might be possible. Do you have proof?”

“Not quite enough to act on as yet. I take it you had no suspicions anything of the sort might be going on?”

“No, none. It’s common knowledge that Mrs. Truax and Bogardus are engaged in a clandestine relationship; I have even seen the two of them together. But I believed, as everyone else does, that Bogardus’ newfound wealth was the result of a rich new silver vein.”