The Body Snatchers Affair (24 page)

Sabina looked into his blue, Stephen-like eyes and again felt none of the once-strong attraction. She said slowly, “That isn't an easy question to answer.”

“Please be truthful. You don't feel quite the same, do you?”

“Perhaps not.”

“And you'd rather not have anything more to do with me.”

“I can't say right now, Carson. I do know I'd prefer not to attend the performance at the Baldwin tomorrow evening, or to share any more dinners in the immediate future.”

“I understand.”

There was nothing more to be said. They stood as one and without speaking left the Grand Court and then the hotel. At the bridge that spanned New Montgomery and connected with the Grand Hotel across the street, his parting smile was melancholy, his good-bye handshake weak, his step slow and ponderous as he left her. Watching after him, she couldn't help wondering if this was the last she would ever see of Carson Montgomery.

 

25

QUINCANNON

Quincannon finished regaling Sabina with a somewhat embellished account of his role in defusing the Chinatown powder keg by saying, “Gentry's shell was no harder to crack than a Dungeness crab's. It took Crowley and Price less than fifteen minutes to break him wide open.”

“Doubtless with the aid of some not so gentle persuasion.”

“Have you ever known the police to use another kind on a treacherous renegade?”

She smiled and took a sip of her tea. Quincannon gazed fondly at her across the white linen tablecloth with its red rose in the center between them. It was Saturday noon and they were seated in the rather intimate atmosphere of the Maison Riche at Dupont and Geary Streets, one of the city's tonier French bistros, whose dinner specialties included such epicurean delights as
caviar sur canane
and
poulet de grain au cresson
. The luncheon fare, in Quincannon's opinion, was no less elegant, even if the portions were on the skimpy side.

He was in high good spirits today. It was not often he was able to persuade Sabina to dine with him, and he had anticipated yet another turndown when he broached the subject at the agency the previous afternoon. Her acceptance had surprised and delighted him, the more so because it had been neither slow in coming nor apparently grudging.

Her present mood, however, was less ebullient than his. She seemed quiet and introspective, he thought, though she was nonetheless splendid company outside the business confines of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services. He hadn't asked what was troubling her, sensing that she wouldn't have told him. Carson Montgomery again, mayhap? Perhaps, but her acceptance of the luncheon invitation was a sign, or so he fervently hoped, that she might not be as enamored of the socialite as he'd feared.

She said as she lowered her cup, “Gentry's motive, I imagine, was power and greed, the same as Mock Quan's.”

“Those, and an obsessive passion for the services of flower willows, a vice he shared with James Scarlett. An endless supply of beautiful courtesans, Dongmei among them, was the reason he joined forces with Mock Quan in the first place, just as opium and Dongmei were the sources of Scarlett's corruption.”

“A police sergeant and the Western-educated son of a tong president—strange bedfellows.”

“And a pair of incompetent bughouse fools, else all of Chinatown might be in the midst of a bloodbath by now.”

“Yes. Another crisis averted.”

“For the time being, anyway. Until another, more stable Mock Quan emerges or someone else lights the fuse—some cold-blooded hound like Little Pete. Mark my words. One of these days, the whole Quarter will go up in flames.”

“You may be right. In any event, it's a relief to mark this case closed—particularly for Mrs. Scarlett.”

Quincannon concurred. After leaving the Hall of Justice the day before, he had gone to Elizabeth Petrie's home on Clay Street to give their client the news. Andrea Scarlett had been weepingly grateful that she need no longer fear for her life and could return to her home; the arrest of her husband's murderer and her would-be assassin seemed much less important to her. Understandable, if a bit on the callous side.

Sabina took a bite of her
salade de crevettes
. And then nearly caused him to drop his fork by saying, “I've been thinking that we should waive the rest of Mrs. Scarlett's fee. I'll include a letter to that effect with our final report— Why are you looking at me that way?”

“Waive her fee?” he said, aghast. “What put that daft notion in your head?”

“It's the least we can do for the woman. She may not be the most virtuous person, but neither is she wicked. She has had a trying time, and she's a widow with insufficient funds to support herself, much less pay us. She will surely have to return to her former work as a seamstress. Seamstresses, whether you're aware of it or not, are not at all well paid.”

Quincannon made a pained sound in his beard. “Sabina, have you forgotten that I was shot at by Mock Quan on two separate occasions and nearly killed both times? Not to mention made to trek through low Chinatown alleys, prowl opium dens, invade an undertaking parlor in search of a snatched corpse—”

“Don't be melodramatic. Of course I haven't forgotten.”

“Well, then? All of that, not to mention a near tarnish on our reputation as detectives, for not so much as a copper cent?”

“We have Mrs. Scarlett's retainer—”

“A mere pittance.”

“—and we'll hardly miss the remaining few hundred dollars. It's the proper thing to do and you know it.”

“I know nothing of the kind.”

“Well, it is,” Sabina said. “Just as not telling Mrs. Harriet Blanchford what her son did is the proper thing to do.”

“What's that? According to your account, Bertram Blanchford is a nasty piece of work—lower than a gopher's hind end. He deserves whatever punishment comes his way.”

“Yes, but the old woman doesn't deserve to suffer any more than she already has. She is still grieving over the loss of her husband, and relieved and happy to have him back in his final resting place. The truth about Bertram would make a misery of the rest of her days.”

“Is that why you've yet to return the ransom money to her?”

“Yes. I'll do that once I've invented a story to explain how I came by it and who is responsible.”

“And what if Bertram should try another scheme to dupe money from her?”

“I daresay he won't. Not after I put the fear of God into him.”

“He'll still stand to inherit when she passes on.”

“The bookmakers and sure-thing men who hold his markers may not allow him to live that long,” Sabina said. “Billy the Bookie has an evil reputation. But if Bertram surives with nothing more than a beating or two, Harriet Blanchford is no fool. She knows of his profligate ways and she may not trust him with what remains of the Blanchford fortune. In any event, that is her business. Ours is to spare her any more grief.”

“And to collect our due for services rendered. You don't intend to waive any of our fee in
her
case, do you?”

“No, of course not. And a not inconsiderable one it is, you'll be pleased to note. Five hundred dollars, plus expenses.”

Quincannon admitted that this was a sizable sum. In other circumstances it might not have completely made up for a loss of the Scarlett fee, but here in the Maison Riche, with Sabina for company and on the table in front of him one of his favorite dishes,
foie de veau aux oignons,
the fattening of their bank balance seemed not quite as important as it usually did. He was, in fact, reasonably content with his lot and that of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services. And would be even more so if he knew the precise nature of Sabina's relationship with Carson Montgomery, past and present.

Should he take the bull by the horns, as it were, and bring up the subject here and now, admit to what he'd been told by Theodore Bonesall? There might not be a more propitious time or place than over a congenial luncheon in a crowded restaurant.

He was considering this when Sabina surprised him by broaching the subject herself, almost as if she had been reading his mind. “I spoke to Mr. Bonesall at Western States Bank the other day,” she said, almost offhandedly, “regarding the Blanchford matter. He told me in passing that he'd had a conversation with you about my private life. Evenings spent in the company of Carson Montgomery, to be specific.”

Quincannon was at a loss for words. All he could manage was, “Ahh.”

“You know all too well how I feel about that sort of thing, John.”

“Yes, but … ah, Bonesall happened to mention seeing you and Mr., ah, Montgomery dining together at the Old Poodle Dog, so naturally I was a trifle curious—”

“Naturally. And your trifling curiosity has led you to speculate about my relationship with Carson ever since.”

“Well, now…”

“I am not now nor have I ever been romantically involved with Mr. Montgomery in any way,” Sabina said in her no-nonsense voice. “Does that put your mind at ease?”

“My dear Sabina, I never once imagined—”

“Oh, bosh. Admit it—you've been fretting for days over the possibility that Carson and I have been having illicit relations. Well, we haven't. As a matter of fact, you might as well know that we are no longer keeping company. Now will you be so good as to stop prying?”

He could barely contain his elation. Not romantically involved! Dinner companions, nothing more! No longer seeing Mr. Montgomery!

“You have my solemn promise,” he said. He savored a tender forkful of calf's liver and onions before he added, “But may I ask a consideration in return?”

“That depends on what it is.”

“Now that your evenings are free again, and in deference to my deep affection for you, I would take it as a great personal favor if you relaxed your rule against fraternization and permitted me the privilege of acting as your escort on occasion—not only for luncheons such as this but for an evening's meal and entertainment. Just that, nothing more.”

She regarded him unblinkingly for such a long while that he felt sure she would decline, perhaps even launch into another of her business-only speeches. But bless her, she did neither. She sighed softly and said, “Very well. But only if you swear to make no advances, to behave as a gentleman.”

“At all times,” he said. “Oh, at all times.”

He meant it, too.

For the nonce anyway. For the nonce …

 

26

SABINA

She was enjoying a quietly relaxing evening in her rooms, curled up with Adam, a glass of white wine, and a copy of the
Police Gazette
(Cousin Callie would have been horrified at her choice of reading matter), when the door buzzer sounded.

That had better not be another messenger, she thought. Or a solicitor, although it was late for that breed to come calling. Not Carson, surely. John, attempting to take immediate advantage of her moment of weakness at Maison Riche? If it was John, she would not only recant, but give him a severe tongue-lashing.

But it wasn't John. Or Carson. Her caller was the alleged Mr. S. Holmes.

“Good evening, Mrs. Carpenter,” he said, bowing. He wore his Sherlock outfit tonight—gray cape, deerstalker cap. In one hand he carried the blackthorn walking stick; tucked under his other arm was a small wicker basket. “I trust I haven't come at an inopportune time?”

“No. But I must say I'm surprised to see you here after what you said to me three nights ago.”

“What I said? Ah, that I consider it unseemly for a gentleman to visit a lady in her quarters past nightfall. That is my usual policy, especially when a game is afoot. However, now that I am temporarily unencumbered again, I deemed it expedient to present myself in person. In point of fact I have a gift for you.”

“Gift?”

“A small token of my esteem for you and your skill in the practice of our noble profession. May I enter for a few moments?”

Sabina nodded and stepped aside. The Englishman swept off his cap as he entered the vestibule, stood there for a moment looking past her into the front parlor. “Charming quarters,” he said. “Quite befitting a woman of your taste and station.”

“I'm honored by your approval,” she said dryly.

He extended the wicker basket. “With my compliments, dear lady.”

It was somewhat heavier than it looked, and she felt movement inside. When she lifted the lid, she was looking at an all-black kitten. It peered up at her with enormous amber-colored eyes, mewed as if saying hello.

Her heart melted to it instantly. It seemed to feel the same toward her; it began to purr, flexing its tiny paws, when she picked it up and cuddled it against her breast. Its fur was as soft as eiderdown.

“As per your wishes, a playmate for your Abyssinian-Siamese mix—Adam by name, if memory serves. You're pleased with my choice of a black short-haired female?”

Yes, she was—pleased, surprised, and touched. “Very much,” she said, stroking the kitten's back. Adam would be, too, she hoped. “I don't know what to say, except thank you.”

“That will do splendidly. Unlike Adam, you see, this little beggar will not shed hairs upon your clothing.”

“Does she have a name?”

“Not yet. That is for you to decide.”

“Perhaps I'll name her after you.”

“I would be honored.”

Not necessarily. Two names came immediately to mind, “Crackbrain” and “Beelzebub,” though of course she could hardly saddle the poor kitten with either one.

“How did you know I was interested in a playmate for Adam?” she asked him.

The Englishman's only reply was his infuriatingly enigmatic smile.

“Carson Montgomery is the only person I mentioned it to,” Sabina said. “But he claims not to know you at all.”