Quincannon (10 page)

He went south on Jordan, into Silver’s red light district near Long Gulch Creek, and found his way into a deadfall called Mother Mack’s. The place was bedlam — two pianos competing with each other, hurdy-gurdy girls dancing with burly miners and leaned-down cowpunchers, roulette and faro and chuck-a-luck games receiving heavy play, and a noisy poker match in progress in one corner. Quincannon found elbow room at the bar and drank two double whiskeys in rapid succession. This was the place for him tonight, the kind of low dive he belonged in. The haunt of whores, sure-thing men, bunco steerers, thieves — and other murderers. They were fitting company for the likes of him.

He ordered a third whiskey, and would have drunk it straightaway, to obliterate Katherine Bennett and Sabina Carpenter from his thoughts, if the man next to him hadn’t departed just then and left a copy of the Owyhee
Volunteer
on the bar.

It was the most recent edition, the one that had come out this day, and Quincannon saw that it carried a front-page editorial under the heading ANOTHER CHINESE OUTRAGE. He drew the paper over in front of him. Will Coffin had waxed eloquent and indignant over the second illegal entry of the newspaper office, accusing “unsavory elements of the Chinese population, among them the scurvy merchant Yum Wing” as the culprits and claiming that the crimes were “in retaliation for public condemnation, in this newspaper, of the vicious practices of selling opium and encouraging opium addiction in our fair city.” He went on to say that “anyone guilty of such mean acts, whether he be a Chinaman or a white man, would steal the leather hinges off a blind woman’s smokehouse and ought to be dealt with accordingly. The time has come to put an end to such open lawlessness, a fact with which City Marshal Wendell McClew must surely agree.”

Quincannon pushed the paper aside. Chinaman or white man, he thought.

He drank his third whiskey, slowly. His mind seemed clear again, empty for the moment of the self-loathing that had brought him here, focused once more on the business at hand. One of the hurdy-gurdy girls began to rub her bosom against his arm, to murmur enticements — half an hour of dancing for fifty cents, more intimate activities for a dollar and up. Her voice and her painted face repelled him; he brushed her away. The deadfall itself repelled him now: he no more belonged in this part of society than he did among the cloistered rich on San Francisco’s Nob Hill. He belonged to no part of society, not anymore. He was a man alone, who answered to no one on this earth, not even the United States Government; who would answer only to God.

He threaded a path through the noisy throng, went outside and put Mother Mack’s behind him. For the first block he was a little unsteady on his feet, but the wind soon remedied that. He walked up Washington Street and over to the office of the
Volunteer,
found it dark. From the third passerby he stopped he learned that Will Coffin’s home was on Union Street, off Morning Star north of Jordan Creek.

He found his way to Union Street. Coffin’s house was a weathered frame structure perched apart from others on the steep hillside, with a second-story privy curiously set on stilts and connected to the house by a catwalk. Lamplight made a yellow rectangle of the front window. He climbed the stairs, lifted the brass knocker on the door and let it fall.

It took Coffin almost a minute to respond. He was in shirt sleeves and stocking feet, galluses down and his hemp-colored hair tousled; he blinked sleepily at Quincannon, stifled a yawn, and said, “Well, you do surprise me, Mr. Lyons. This is the second unexpected visit from you in two days.”

“Have I come at a bad time, Mr. Coffin?”

“No, no. I was reading and I must have fallen asleep. I was up until all hours last night, getting out this week’s edition of the paper.”

“Yes, I’ve just seen it. An impressive editorial.”

“Thank you. I rather thought so myself.”

“The editorial is the reason I’ve come tonight. Can we talk inside? It’s a bit chilly out here.”

“Of course.”

Coffin led the way into the front sitting room. “I can offer you a brandy, if you like. I don’t keep whiskey on hand, I’m afraid.”

Quincannon hesitated, but then shook his head. “Thank you, no. I expect I won’t be staying long.”

“Well then. Sit down and tell me what’s on your mind.”

Coffin moved a heavy volume of Shakespeare off a Morris chair and settled himself down in its place; Quincannon sat on an overstuffed divan. A wood fire burned on the grate nearby. Its warmth took away the night’s chill that had lingered on his face and hands.

He said, “I’m curious about the illegal entries into the newspaper office and your home. Just how many were there altogether?”

“Two at the office and one here.”

“Was anything stolen on those three occasions?”

“Not that I have been able to determine.”

“Was there any vandalizing done?”

“Not of the usual sort, no. Files, type, clothing and such were strewn around, but nothing was deliberately destroyed.”

Quincannon said, “That sounds as if the culprits might have been searching for something.”

“Searching?” Coffin frowned. “What the devil could those heathens have been searching for at the
Volunteer
office or among my personal effects?”

“You’re certain it
was
the Chinese who were responsible?”

“Of course I am.”

“Then you found evidence that pointed to one or more of their number?”

“No,” Coffin admitted, “no physical evidence. But the first break-in occurred the evening my first anti-opium editorial appeared in the
Volunteer.
I’ve angered no white man in Silver, made no other enemies. It could be no one
but
the Chinamen.”

“I see,” Quincannon said, and what he saw was the bigoted inflexibility of Coffin’s perceptions. He mused for a time. Then he said, “Tell me, did Jason Elder happen to give you anything for safekeeping before he disappeared?”

The question made the newspaperman frown again. “No, he did not. What are you implying? That the Chinamen invaded my office and home looking for something that belongs to Elder? That is preposterous.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t the Chinese who broke in after all,” Quincannon said.

“White men? I still say the notion is preposterous. What could Elder own of sufficient value to warrant three illegal entries?”

What, indeed? Quincannon thought. He made no reply.

Coffin said, “Your interest in Jason Elder strikes me as excessive. Do you believe he had something to do with the death of your friend Whistling Dixon?”

“It is possible, isn’t it?”

“Not to my mind. Elder disappeared some time before Dixon was shot.”

“From public view, yes. Not necessarily from the Owyhees. And the two of them
were
acquainted.”

“You’ve found that out, have you?” Coffin gave him a long, calculating look. “You know, you’re rather a persistent and inquisitive fellow for a drummer. You act more like a lawman — a detective I once knew in Kansas City.”

Quincannon laughed. “Hardly that, Mr. Coffin. My tolerance for violence is much too low and my fondness for whiskey much too high.”

The answer had its desired effect: Coffin laughed, too, and seemed to dismiss the notion, at least for the time being. He said, “Well, you do seem overly concerned about Dixon’s death — a man you hadn’t seen in a good many years.”

“Whistling Dixon and I were very close when I was a youngster,” Quincannon said, making his voice and his manner intense. “His murder ... well, it was quite a shock, happening as it did the very night I arrived in Silver City. I can find myself just a bit obsessed with identifying the man or men who killed him. You can understand how I feel, I’m sure.”

“I suppose I can.”

“I haven’t spoken to Marshal McClew. Has he uncovered any leads of his own, do you know?”

“He hasn’t,” Coffin said. “I had a drink with him not two hours ago.”

“How did he feel about your editorial?”

A wry smile. “He didn’t like it. He is of the opinion that I’m trying to foment racial strife, which is ridiculous. He thinks the damned heathens are a peace-loving bunch and ought to be left alone.”

Quincannon’s estimate of the marshal rose a notch; McClew might after all be a man whose confidence he would want to enter into. He said, “Then the marshal doesn’t share your certainty of their guilt?”

“He says he has no proof either way. He even refuses to interrogate Yum Wing, much less close down his filthy opium-peddling operation. I am beginning to believe that Oliver Truax is right: vigilante action is the only sure course of action open to us.”

“Violence is seldom the answer to any problem, Mr. Coffin.”

“Are you a pacifist? Not that it matters. I have no intention of debating the matter with you. You are not the victim of Oriental harassment and I am.”

There was no arguing with the man; Coffin’s prejudice acted on his judgment as a pair of blinders acted on a horse’s vision, making it impossible for him to take any but the narrowest view. Quincannon said, “As you wish, then,” and got to his feet. “I’ll be leaving now. With thanks for your time and hospitality.”

Coffin made a dismissive gesture. “I’ll show you out.” At the door he said, “I wish you success in your quest, Mr. Lyons. Nothing would please me more than to write a story for the
Volunteer
about justice served.”

“Justice usually is served,” Quincannon said, “in one way or another.” He started out onto the porch and then paused. “Before I go, would you happen to know a man named Conrad who works for Jack Bogardus at the Rattling Jack mine? He’s a shirttail cousin of Whistling Dixon’s, I’ve learned.”

“Conrad? No, I can’t say I do.”

“You do know Bogardus, though?”

“I know him,” Coffin said with distaste. “A ruffian and a fornicator.”

“But a successful miner for all of that. Oliver Truax told me the Rattling Jack’s new vein assays at one hundred dollars the ton.”

“I suspect that sum is a gross exaggeration. Bogardus certainly doesn’t freight out much silver.”

“He doesn’t?”

“No. The man who runs the Poison Creek station is a personal friend of mine. He has told me that he seldom sees Bogardus’ wagons on the Boise or Nampa roads.”

Quincannon took his leave. As he started downhill to Morning Star Street, he considered what he had learned from Coffin. The information about Bogardus and the Rattling Jack coincided - with his suspicions. It also tended to eliminate the possibility of a link between Coffin and Bogardus; if Bogardus
was
the leader of the koniakers, it seemed unlikely that Coffin, in view of the man’s candor, was the engraver of the plates for the counterfeit notes. Jason Elder was still the most probable candidate.

But what had happened to Elder? And what, if Quincannon’s hunch was correct, could he have possessed that had prompted a ransacking of his shack and the illegal entry of the newspaper office and Coffin’s home? Helen Truax’s shares of stock in the Paymaster Mining Company were one possibility; the searchers had evidently overlooked the certificate at Elder’s shack. Yet the stock seemed a minor prize, hardly worth the effort and risk of
three
separate break-ins. It seemed important only to Helen Truax, her husband, and Jason Elder himself.

Whatever the object of the hunt, what had Elder done with it? The man had had no friends in Silver City. He hadn’t given it to his employer. And assume for the moment that he hadn’t hidden it where he lived. Was there anyone else to whom he might have entrusted such a valued object?

Yum Wing.

Quincannon cursed himself for being slow-witted, too befuddled by whiskey to see the obvious truth of the matter long before this. Elder was or had been an opium addict; who better to take into his trust than the man who supplied him with his daily ticket to the land of celestial dreams. And Yum Wing had plainly been hiding something behind his Oriental stoicism yesterday: his refusal to discuss Elder proved that.

At Jordan Street, Quincannon turned uphill toward the Chinese colony. Not surprisingly, considering the hour, he found Yum Wing’s store closed and dark. Across the street and a dozen yards farther uphill, excited Chinese voices and the click of Mah-Jongg tiles came from inside the meeting hall. He considered going there to ask where Yum Wing lived, but he had spent enough time among the Chinese to know that he would not be welcome in such a place and that his questions might not be answered. Instead, he turned along the uphill side of the store, thinking that he might find a way inside at the rear. He was not above nocturnal breaking-and-entering himself, if it might serve a useful purpose.

The darkness was thick and clotted back there, forcing him to move slowly. But when he came to the rear corner, starshine and the pale wedge of a moon let him see that there was a second building tucked in behind a knobby outcrop. It was connected to the store by a long, narrow shed that would probably serve as a covered passageway between the two and keep Yum Wing dry during the heavy winter snows. Because of the outcrop, neither the second dwelling nor the shed could be seen from downhill on Jordan Street.

Quincannon moved along parallel to the shed, out away from it to avoid the heaviest shadows that crouched there. There was light inside the house; he could make out the glow against the darkness around back, where the outside door must be. The near side wall was empty of windows or doors. He turned the corner. One window in that wall, but it was curtained in monk’s cloth; the light came through the partially open door beyond. He took a step toward the door, putting his hand on the Remington holstered inside his coat.