The Body Snatchers Affair Page 11

  “On my oath.”

  “Splendid! Now then, why have you come to see me? Something to do with one of your investigations?”

  “Yes. Of course I can’t reveal the specific nature of the case, but it concerns one of the city’s more prominent families, the Blanchfords.”

  “Oh? Some sort of financial matter?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, there have been rumors that Ruben Blanchford and his philanthropic foundation were no longer quite as solvent as they seemed before his death. You weren’t aware of that?”

  “No. I understood he left quite a large estate.”

  “Large enough, certainly,” Millie said, “but Ruben was generous to a fault in funding the foundation, and apparently none too wise when it came to recent stock market investments. The rumors hint at fairly substantial losses. Though if he hadn’t become ill and died, he might well have recovered. You never see society gents in top hats standing in the bread lines, now do you?”

  “Come to think of it, no. Nor society widows such as Harriet Blanchford. What’s your opinion of her?”

  “A rather headstrong woman, matriarchal, with conservative attitudes where money is concerned. She must not have been consulted when the bad investments were made. She’ll make certain the balance of the family fortune remains intact.”

  “What about the son, Bertram? I understand he’s a promoter of some sort.”

  Millie laughed, revealing her rather large teeth. “In his case ‘promoter’ is a polite term for dabbler in various not very lucrative enterprises, mainly those involving the so-called sport of kings.”

  “What else can you tell me about him?”

  “Not very much, I’m afraid. He shuns the social scene so I’ve had virtually no contact with him. One of those feckless young men who drift through life with little or no purpose, tolerated because of their background but not held in high regard.” Millie laughed again. “A bachelor not necessarily by choice, but because no self-respecting woman would have him.”

  * * *

  Ross Cleghorne, self-styled “florist to the wealthy and influential,” operated out of an elaborate shop on Geary Street. The fresh scents of myriad blooms and flowering plants enveloped Sabina as she entered, and she couldn’t help but be impressed once again by the array of floral arrangements completed and awaiting pickup or delivery; they were beautiful and original, with everyday items such as bits of metal, ribbons, fancy buttons, fragments of seashells, and oddly shaped and colored shards of glass nesting among the blossoms and greenery. Each of the various ornaments on display to complement his creations was also tastefully elegant.

  Mr. Cleghorne was not a prepossessing figure, barely five feet tall and somewhat pear-shaped, but his effusive charm and impeccably tailored clothing more than made up for his lack of stature. To create the illusion of greater height, at least in his own mind, he wore his full head of white hair in an upswept pompadour and generous lifts in the heels of his patent-leather shoes. There was something endearing in his spritely salesmanship methods, at which he had few peers. They were on full display at the moment, as he succeeded in selling a well-dressed couple a rock-and-coral fountain for their daughter’s wedding reception.

  When the transaction ended and his customers departed, Mr. Cleghorne greeted Sabina effusively, bowing and taking both her hands in his. “My dear Mrs. Carpenter. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  “A small corsage of your choosing. And if you will, the answers to a few questions.”

  He smiled brightly. In addition to being an excellent florist, Ross Cleghorne, like Millie Munson, was not above discreetly telling tales about the city’s elite as long as they wouldn’t prove harmful to his business or his reputation. He had proven in the past to be an excellent source of information. But before he would impart anything, it was tacitly understood that a quid pro quo purchase had to be made. Hence Sabina’s request for the corsage.

  “I have the perfect confection for you already assembled,” he said, beaming. “I shall fetch it once we’ve had our little talk.” He drew her to a corner of the shop, out of hearing of his assistants at work in the large room behind the sales counter. “What is it you would like to ask me?”

  “In the strictest confidence, Mr. Cleghorne.”

  “Of course, dear lady. I often indulge in a bit of gossip, but I never reveal a confidence when sworn to secrecy.”

  “It’s about Carson Montgomery.”

  “Ah! The handsome and eligible Mr. Montgomery. You and he have been keeping company, I’m told.”

  Everyone seemed to know about her and Carson. Did that include John? If so, he had shown remarkable restraint in not confronting her with the knowledge.

  She repeated what she’d told Millie about the casual nature of the relationship. Then she asked, “How well do you know Carson?”

  “Not well. A customer now and then. Pleasant chap, well mannered.”

  “He worked in the Mother Lode gold mines in the mid to late eighties. Do you know anything about that period in his life?”

  Mr. Cleghorne considered, pinching his lower lip between thumb and forefinger. “No, I can’t say I do.”

  “Or what prompted his decision to return to San Francisco?”

  “A lucrative offer to join Monarch Engineering, I believe. And I imagine he’d had his fill of the rough-and-tumble life in the gold fields and decided it was time to settle down.”

  “When exactly was that, do you recall?”

  “Oh, about eight years ago.”

  “In 1887, mid-year, perhaps?”

  “Yes, I believe it was.”

  Sabina didn’t pursue the subject any further. Mr. Cleghorne was incurably nosy and it wouldn’t be wise to arouse his curiosity. He was a man of his word and would not intentionally break a confidence, but as much gossiping as he did, there was always the chance that he might let something slip to one of his customers. It wouldn’t do for Carson to find out she’d been asking questions about him and his past. If he was innocent of any wrongdoing, and in no criminal danger despite the bughouse Sherlock’s dire warning, she would surely continue to accept his social invitations.

  She changed the subject to the Blanchford family. Mention of the name caused Mr. Cleghorne to make a little moue of dissatisfaction. “Yes, of course I know them. I had the privilege of creating several birthday and anniversary bouquets for Mrs. Harriet Blanchford at her husband’s request. What I did not have the privilege of doing was handling the floral presentations for Mr. Blanchford’s funeral.”

  “You weren’t asked?”

  “No. The honor went instead to the Fielder brothers, inferior florists if I do say so myself. I should have thought Mrs. Blanchford had better taste and a greater sense of loyalty. Either she was too distraught, or more likely, she allowed that gauche son of hers to make the arrangements. That would explain why the services were held in such an undesirable establishment as the Evergreen Chapel.”

  “You don’t approve of Joshua Trilby?”

  “Not in the least. Trilby is a second-rate mortician with a reputation for cutting corners and paying his bills only upon threat of legal action. If I had been asked to provide floral displays for Ruben Blanchford’s funeral, I would have attempted to convince his widow to choose a more suitable venue. Otherwise I should have declined.”

  “Do you know Bertram very well?”

  “I do not, nor do I want to.” Mr. Cleghorne’s moue grew even more pronounced. “Gentleman sportsman, my eye. The man is nothing but a common racetrack habitué. God only knows where he obtained the money to invest in the new Ingleside course.”

  Sabina knew about the new racetrack. The newspapers had run several stories about it since ground was broken in the sparsely populated Ingleside district southwest of downtown. The course was being constructed under the auspices of the Pacific Coast Jockey Club and would, according to one of the reports in the Morning Call, “inaugurate a new era of horse racing on th
is side of the continent.” Construction of the track and a five-thousand-seat grandstand was nearing completion; its opening was scheduled for Thanksgiving Day, with quality breeders from all over the country shipping their horses to take part in the premier races.

  “I didn’t know Bertram was one of the investors,” Sabina said.

  “I have it on good authority that he is.”

  “Do you have any idea how much money he has in the project?”

  “As much as he could scrape together, I suppose.”

  Another drain on the family finances?

  There was nothing more to be learned from Ross Cleghorne. When Sabina had asked the last of her questions, he left her and soon returned with her corsage—a rather elaborate one consisting of a trio of white rosebuds, white Monte Casino, and variegated pittosporum laced with white ribbon. “And for you, Mrs. Carpenter,” he said as he pinned it on her shirtwaist, “a special price of only ten dollars.”

  Only ten dollars!

  * * *

  Sabina had three more stops to make after leaving the florist shop. The first was at the offices of M. R. Wainwright & Associates, a financial consultancy firm whose advice and assistance she and John had sought in the past. There was little that Matthew Wainwright, its principal executive, did not know about the financial status of the city’s prominent citizens. The fifteen minutes she spent with him turned out to be well worth her visit.

  Slewfoot, the “blind” news vendor, and Madame Louella, a self-proclaimed Gypsy who told fortunes on Kearney Street at the edge of the Barbary Coast, were Sabina’s two most reliable street informants. Both supplemented their incomes by gathering bits and pieces of salable information, much of it concerning illegal and quasi-legal activities in the Coast and other of the city’s less desirable areas. But neither had anything worthwhile to tell her, at least not yet. They had never heard of Artemas Sneed or any sort of blackmail scheme involving what Sabina labeled “a member of the social elite,” had no idea what the crackbrain Sherlock might be up to or where he was hanging his deerstalker cap, or knew anything about Bertram Blanchford or Joshua Trilby that she hadn’t already been told.

  Two dollars to each and the promise of more ensured that they would immediately spread the word among their many sources. If there was even the smallest piece of news to be learned, Slewfoot and/or Madame Louella would have it within twenty-four hours.

  For the time being, then, all Sabina could do was wait.

  14

  QUINCANNON

  The streets of Chinatown were even less populated today. The small number of black-clad, pigtailed men and work-stooped women abroad hurried on their errands, wariness in their movements, their usual singsong chatter muted. There was an almost palpable tension in the air. The danger of widespread tong violence, police raids, and vigilante retaliation from the Chinese-hating inhabitants of the poor white neighborhoods had spread fear throughout the Quarter.

  Mock Don Yuen’s herb shop was closed, shuttered, and apparently empty. Several sharp raps on the door and two more on the window glass brought no response. Well, this was no surprise. Whether or not the Hip Sing Company’s new president was mixed up in the intrigue, he would be sensitive to the ominous rumblings and likely have sought refuge in the tong’s headquarters.

  Quincannon briefly considered another visit there and discarded the idea. Mock Don Yuen would surely refuse to see him, as would Mock Quan; chances were he wouldn’t even be permitted to enter the building this time. There was nothing to be gained in making the effort. For that matter, he shouldn’t have bothered coming here to the herb shop. Neither Mock Don Yuen nor anyone else in a position of power in Chinatown would have anything to say at this point to an Occidental detective with no official standing.

  The Chinese woman, Dongmei, on the other hand …

  The building in which she resided was on the steep section of Clay Street that rose above Portsmouth Square. Two stories, built of brick with a slatted wooden front, it stood between a pagoda-corniced temple and a larger structure that Quincannon guessed, by dint of its shuttered windows and profusion of Chinese characters, belonged to one of the small benevolent associations that dotted the Quarter. A balcony festooned with colored lanterns stretched across the upper floor; the windows behind it were likewise shuttered.

  The entrance was narrow, recessed from the wooden sidewalk by two steps. The door there had no lock; it opened into a dark vestibule no larger than a cell. Stairs rose at its end, with another door behind them that would give access to the ground-floor apartment. Dongmei’s would be the one upstairs, he judged, as befitted a woman of status in the community.

  He climbed the stairs, quietly. The strong odor of incense came from behind the door on the landing above. He paused to listen, heard only silence, and rapped smartly on the panel, the sound echoing hollowly in the stillness. There was no response here, either.

  Not that her apparent absence was necessarily disappointing. It might, in fact, be a blessing in disguise.

  The door to her rooms was fitted with a locking plate, and when he tried the latch he found it secure. No locked door had ever deterred him for long, however, and this one was no exception. It took him less than thirty seconds of keyhole manipulation with the lock picks he carried, formerly the property of an East Bay scruff, to release the bolt.

  Dongmei’s abode, unquestionably. The unprepossessing building masked an apartment befitting the daughter of a highborn Chinese, a place as opulently furnished as any of the parlor houses. The furniture was of teakwood and bamboo, dominated by couches with soft cushions of embroidered silk; the walls were hung with exotic paintings, some of such an erotic nature that Quincannon couldn’t help admiring them. Atop a wooden cabinet was a large bronze statue of Buddha. Elaborately painted screens and beaded curtains separated the parlor from another rooms, one containing an agreeably large canopied bed in a frame decorated with carved dragons. Brass and porcelain incense pots were the source of the heavy, still fresh scent that choked the air. Dongmei had not been gone for long.

  He set about a rapid search of the premises. If Dongmei and Mock Quan were conjoined in the opium seduction of James Scarlett, it was highly doubtful that he would find the lawyer’s private papers here. Anything of a sensitive nature that he might have left in her care would have been turned over to Mock Quan; might in fact have been the motive behind the assassination. What he did hope to find was evidence directly linking the pair to each other, if not to the late attorney.

  There was nothing in the parlor that might have belonged to Scarlett or any other Occidental, or for that matter to a Chinese of Mock Quan’s Westernized tastes. None of the few handwritten documents tucked into a black-lacquered parlor cabinet were written in English.

  Quincannon turned his attention to the bedroom. At the foot of the bed was a broad, intricately carved camphorwood chest. He unfastened the brass catch on the side of the chest, lifted the lid to look inside. Blankets. Silk sheets. An extra pillow. One of two bottom drawers contained several pieces of jade and ivory jewelry, valuable from the look of them, and little else. It was in the second that he found the first items of interest: a curved opium pipe, cooking bowl, needle, and a small supply of ah pin vin. Dongmei was either a hop smoker herself, or she kept the materials on hand for male callers such as James Scarlett and Mock Quan. Or perhaps both.

  A dragon-decorated, red-and-black wardrobe contained several silk robes, two of them much larger than the others. Dongmei was obviously of a diminutive stature; the large robes were masculine attire, though their pockets contained nothing to indicate who had worn them. But as he was about to close the wardrobe doors, he spied the second item of interest on a corner shelf: a man’s black slouch hat with a red topknot.

  He was studying the hat, turning it in his hands, when the sound alerted him—that of a key scratching in the front door lock.

  Caught, blast it! No sense in attempting to hide, even if the apartment had had a place large enough to conce
al him. If the windows facing Clay Street had been unshuttered, he might have managed to slip out onto the balcony and then to climb or drop down to the sidewalk. As it was, the only course of action open to him was to brazenly stonewall.

  Quickly he replaced the hat, then hurried to the bead curtains and stepped through them into the parlor just as the door opened. The woman saw him immediately as she came inside; she stopped with the door still open, stood stock-still. Tiny she was, no more than five feet tall; shiny ebony hair hung in a long queue down her back, and what Quincannon imagined would be an enticing body was concealed inside a loose-fitting garment that covered her from head to foot. She was strikingly attractive, or would have been if her elfin features hadn’t twisted into expressions of surprise and then cold fury.

  “Fan kwei!” She spat the phrase at him.

  Quincannon knew what it meant. Fan kwei—foreign devil. He assumed a sternly officious expression as he came forward, as if he had every right to be in her apartment.

  Dongmei chattered at him briefly in Mandarin, with such vitriol that he had no doubt he was being roundly cursed. Then, abruptly, she switched to lightly accented English. “Why you break in here?” she demanded.

  “Break in? The door was unlocked.”

  “You lie! Door locked like always. You steal something?”

  “I’m not a thief.”

  “What you come here for?”

  “Police business.”

  “Hai! You not police dog.”

  “No? Then who am I?”

  “Quin-cannon.” As if his name were two words instead of one, both of them obscene. “I know you.”

  “From Mock Quan, eh?”

  She made the same kind of angry hissing sound Mock Quan had the day before. Then, “You go away now.”

  “Not until you tell me about Mock Quan and James Scarlett.”

  “I tell you nothing. Nothing!”

  “Why was Scarlett killed?”

  “Get out!”

  “Talk to me or talk to the American Terror, Dongmei.”

  She made a spitting mouth, staring at him lynx-eyed, her hands hooked in front of her. The fingernails were an inch long and as sharp as claws. For a moment Quincannon thought that she might launch a furious attack, but when she moved it was away from him toward the windows.