The Body Snatchers Affair (16 page)

Sabina arched a skeptical eyebrow. “Disguised as a coolie food seller? Why, for heaven's sake? Why wouldn't he have sent one of his hatchet men to do his dirty work?”

“I can't say for certain. He may have had a personal reason. Or he may not have trusted an underling to break the Chinese code of nonviolence against white men. Or it could be a mental aberration, a power-mad megalomaniac's need to indulge in daredevil acts and to satisfy bloodlust. He covets Little Pete's criminal empire, and he doesn't care a whit who dies, white or yellow, in his quest to take it over.”

“You make him sound like a monster.”

“Just so, if I'm right about him. And I believe I am.”

“What led you to the conclusion he murdered Scarlett?”

“His hat.”

“His— Are you serious, John?”

“Never more so. The gunman outside the Cellar of Dreams wore a black slouch hat with a dark-colored topknot, as I told you. The more I thought about that topknot, the more certain I became that its color was red. And a red topknot—”

“Is a symbol of the highborn.”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“It's called a
mow-yung,
” Sabina said.

Now it was Quincannon's turn for the lifting of an eyebrow. “How do you know its name?”

“And why shouldn't a woman know something you don't?”

He chose to let that pass without comment. “Coolie food sellers don't wear such hats and neither do the
boo how doy
. The assassin therefore has to have been a high-caste Chinese. To my knowledge Little Pete has never resorted to personal violence, and never against an Occidental. That leaves only Mock Quan.”

“If it was a
mow-yung
on the shooter's hat.”

“It was. I'm convinced of it.”

“Mock Quan is just one of many highborn Chinese,” Sabina pointed out.

“Yes, but he's the only one keeping company with the woman who seduced James Scarlett and started him on his opium addiction.”

“Dongmei? You tracked her down?”

“I did. Last night I persuaded Lieutenant Price to allow me a look at his files. She's a known consort of Mock Quan's and her address was noted. I paid a visit to her apartment this morning.”

“And what did she have to say for herself?”

“She wasn't there. I took advantage of the opportunity to search the premises.”

“Illegal trespass, John?”

“In the cause of justice,” he said piously. He saw no reason to mention his brief confrontation with Dongmei and its somewhat ignominious conclusion. “I found a black slouch hat with a red topknot among her effects. It could belong to no one except Mock Quan.”

Sabina considered this. Then she asked, “What of the snatching of Bing Ah Kee's corpse? What is his purpose in that?”

“I'd bet five gold eagles,” Quincannon said, “that he has the corpse stashed somewhere and intends to produce it soon, to be found somewhere that will place the onus on the Kwong Dock and bring about the tong war he desires. If that doesn't finish off Little Pete, he reckons, Will Price's flying squad will. Thus leaving him in a position to step into the wreckage and build a new criminal empire.”

“Do you suppose he was intentionally trying to kill you, too, in Ross Alley?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Because he recognized you, or with premeditation?”

“The former. It's unlikely he could have known I was searching for Scarlett that evening. I suspect he knew in which resort Scarlett was holed up, learned it from an informant perhaps, and went there with the intention of murdering him while he lay drugged inside. By happenstance I must have arrived just before he did. He recognized me, feared that Scarlett was my quarry as well as his and that the lawyer had told or would tell me something that might threaten his plans, and determined to kill me, too, if I emerged with Scarlett in tow, as I did. He set up his ambush by frightening off the genuine coolie food seller and assuming position over his brazier.”

“And Fowler Alley?” Sabina said after a pause. “Have you learned its significance yet?”

“No, confound it. Although I feel as though I should have by now.” He stood abruptly and went to the window overlooking Market Street, his hands clenched behind his back. Rumbling trolley cars and a near collision between one of them and a horse-drawn barouche held his attention for a few seconds. Then he turned and began to pace the office, muttering, “Fowler Alley, Fowler Alley…”

There was a sudden loud thumping on the office door. It brought him up short, and a second thump sent him to the door. When he opened it he found himself looking at an elderly woman dressed in black and wearing a black veil, a gold-headed walking stick upraised in one thin hand in preparation for a third thump.

“Yes, madam?”

“Are you the other half of Carpenter and Quincannon?”

“I am. John Quincannon, at your service. How may I help you?”

“By stepping aside and letting me enter. I've come to speak to Mrs. Carpenter.”

“Is she expecting you?”

“No, but she will certainly see me. Well, young man?”

Quincannon stepped aside. Sabina was on her way around her desk, he saw out of the corner of his eye. The old woman entered and then stopped to lift her veil and scrutinize him as if sizing up a side of beef.

“He's a big one, isn't he,” she said to Sabina.

“Yes, he is.”

“Looks like pictures I've seen of Blackbeard, the scourge of the Spanish Main.”

Quincannon wasn't sure whether to be flattered or offended until Sabina said, “John, this is our client Mrs. Harriet Blanchford.” Then he allowed a bright professional smile to crease his whiskers.

“Ah, yes. A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Blanchford, even under such trying circumstances—”

“Eyewash,” the old lady said in her feisty way. “Whether or not it's a pleasure remains to be seen.”

Sabina took gentle hold of her elbow, guided her to one of the client's chairs. “What brings you here?” she asked then. “Have you news?”

“I have. A decision that neither of you will agree with, I imagine, but that is neither here nor there. I've just come from my bank, the Whitburn Trust, where I made a substantial withdrawal of funds.”

“You don't mean—”

“I do. For payment of the ransom demand.”

 

16

SABINA

Sabina exchanged a look with John, whose smile had turned upside down. Before he could say anything, she asked Harriet Blanchford, “Tell us, please, why you decided to pay the ransom?”

“Bertram convinced me it had to be done,” she said. “Another note was delivered this morning. Even more harshly worded and threatening than the first. It said my husband's remains would be … disposed of in a most disgusting fashion if the seventy-five thousand dollars wasn't paid this afternoon. The threat was too great to be ignored.”

“Do you have the money with you?”

“No, Bertram has it. He is on his way to deliver it to the specified location.”

“And that is?”

“Near one of the bandstands in Golden Gate Park.”

Sabina repressed a sigh. As gently as she could, she said, “I must say I wish you had consulted with me before withdrawing the funds.”

“You would not have been able to talk me out of it. My mind was made up. Besides, there was no time for a consultation. The ransom is to be paid no later than four o'clock.”

“One of us could have accompanied your son,” John said, “perhaps apprehended the culprit—”

“I wouldn't have allowed it. It might well have jeopardized the safe return of my husband's remains. The note promised in its crude way that if instructions were followed to the letter, Ruben would soon be back in his final resting place.”

“Unfortunately, the promises of kidnappers of any stripe are seldom to be trusted.”

Sabina gave him a reproving look; he was not always as tactful as he should be. The old matriarch glared at him. “Are you saying these fiends
won't
keep their word?”

“Not at all,” Sabina said quickly. “They may well return the body or inform you where it can be found.”

“But it is a possibility I should be prepared for?”

“I'm afraid so. But even if that should be the case, it doesn't mean that any harm will have been done to the body. It might still be recovered intact.”

“By whom? You? You have no idea who the kidnappers are or you would have said so by this time.”

“That's not entirely true,” Sabina said. “I am gathering information that I expect will soon reveal their identities.”

“Indeed? What sort of information?”

“I would rather not say just yet.”

“If you are being deliberately evasive, Mrs. Carpenter—”

“I assure you, I'm not. Merely cautious. You do want me to continue my investigation?”

“Naturally. I came here to keep you informed, not to discharge you. I want those fiends caught and punished for their heinous crime, whether they keep their promise or not.”

“They will be,” John put in. “And if at all possible, the seventy-five thousand dollars will be recovered and returned to you as well.” Leave it to him to mention the money.

“That is the least of my concerns.” With the aid of her cane, Harriet Blanchford rose to her feet. “I'll be going now. I want to be home when Bertram returns from the park.”

“Please let us know right away of any new developments.”

“I will.”

John, in his courtly fashion, sought to take her arm as she started toward the door. She shrugged off his hand. “I am quite capable of making my own way, young man.” She squinted up at him through her glasses. “You really ought to trim those whiskers of yours,” she said then. “Blackbeard the pirate is one breed, Blackbeard the detective quite another.”

Sabina hid a smile as the door clicked shut behind her. The expression on John's face was a delight to behold. He was not at all used to dealing with women of Harriet Blanchford's age and outspoken manner, and she'd left him more than a little nonplussed. Not that he would admit it. And of course he didn't.

*   *   *

John soon departed, not saying where he was bound for but only that he didn't expect to return before closing time. Alone in the quiet office, Sabina attended to necessary paperwork—reports, invoices—that had begun to pile up on her desk. While she worked, part of her mind reviewed the Blanchford case and what she'd discovered about the Gold King scandal.

The former was the least mystifying of the two. The fact that a second threatening note had convinced Harriet Blanchford to pay the ransom, she decided, was a blessing in disguise. Usually it was a bad idea to give in to the demands of kidnappers of the living or the dead, but in this case it might well hasten a successful conclusion. She was reasonably sure now that she knew the how, why, and who of the matter. By tomorrow, if the next development happened as she now anticipated, and if her informants came through with the necessary information she'd requested, she would know for certain and proceed accordingly.

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.