The Dangerous Ladies Affair Page 3

  I have a new case that likely will keep me busy for some time. Details when next I see you. Your turn to attend to the monthly necessities. No excuses!

  S.

  The prospect of dealing with “the monthly necessities” displeased him, but it was more than offset by the acceptance of not one but two new cases to begin the week; separate investigations meant separate fees to swell the agency’s bank account. He hoped Sabina’s client was likewise a person of means, not one of the indigent types she was sometimes inclined to succor. Altruism was all well and good, but it did not pay the bills. Well, he would find out soon enough. About her new case and Banker Wrixton’s problem, both.

  When Quincannon finished as much of the blasted paperwork as he could bear, he closed up the office and hied himself to Hoolihan’s Saloon on Second Street, his favorite watering hole during his drinking days. Hoolihan’s also provided the best free lunch in the city, and he partook liberally of it as usual. It was two minutes shy of the appointed hour of one o’clock when he walked into the Woolworth National Bank. He identified himself to one of the officers and was immediately shown into the president’s private sanctum.

  Titus Wrixton was a well-fed gent of some fifty years, with puffy muttonchop whiskers and florid features. His rather nervous manner, Quincannon judged, was not normal with him, but the result of whatever difficulty had led him to seek the services of a private investigator. Wrixton’s attire, like his office, was conservative, his handshake brief and slightly moist.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mr. Quincannon, and for arriving so promptly. Please. Sit down.” He indicated a burgundy-colored leather chair, then a humidor atop his massive mahogany desk. “Cigar?”

  “No thanks, sir. I’m strictly a pipe man.”

  “Ah, well then, feel free to smoke yours if you like.” Wrixton waited until Quincannon sat, then deposited himself in a large padded armchair behind the desk, pooched out his cheeks, said again, “Well then,” pooched his cheeks a second time, and fell silent.

  Quincannon, having removed his derby, adjusted the crease in one leg of his trousers and then crossed his legs and set the hat on his knee. It was warm in the darkly wood-paneled room, but he kept his navy-blue sack coat buttoned. He wore a flowered waistcoat today, as was his wont on occasion, and this was no place to display a handsome but somewhat gaudy white silk garment adorned with red and yellow rosebuds.

  He said, “I take it you asked me here for a professional consultation, Mr. Wrixton?”

  “Correct. Your profession, that is to say, not mine.” Pooch. “I don’t quite know how to begin. It’s, ah, a matter of some delicacy that demands considerable discretion.”

  “Rest assured, sir, that Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, is the soul of discretion in all matters.”

  “Yes, so I’ve been told. That is why I chose you.”

  “Is your problem connected with the bank?”

  Another pooch, an evidently habitual trick that gave Wrixton the unflattering look of a large, red-faced rodent. “No. No, ah, it’s personal.”

  “I see. And its nature?”

  Wrixton cleared his throat and then spat the word “Extortion” as if expectorating phlegm.

  “Someone is attempting to extort money from you?”

  “Yes. But it’s more than just an attempt.”

  “You’ve already paid?”

  “Once, yes.”

  “May I ask how much?”

  “Five thousand dollars.”

  Quincannon raised a bushy eyebrow. “That’s quite a lot of money.”

  “My God, yes.”

  “And now there has been a second demand?”

  “Last evening. For another five thousand.” Angry indignation wiggled its way through Wrixton’s nervousness. “I can’t … I won’t pay it. Once bitten, twice shy. The scoundrel will only keep demanding more and more.”

  “Blackmailers usually do,” Quincannon agreed. “It is blackmail, I take it? This individual has knowledge that might be harmful to you?”

  “To me personally, and to my position here at the bank.”

  “Of a criminal nature?”

  “Criminal? Good Lord, no! I am an honest man, sir, an honest banker.”

  As honest as any banker in this or other communities, Quincannon thought sardonically. “I have no doubt of that, sir. What is it, then, that you’re being blackmailed for?”

  “Do you need to know that?”

  “It would be helpful to have your complete confidence.”

  “But knowing the reason isn’t necessary in order for you to agree to provide assistance?”

  “Not if it has no direct bearing on my investigation.”

  “I don’t see how it could. You’ll respect my right not to divulge the reason, then?”

  “As you wish,” Quincannon said.

  “There is one very important thing you do need to know.” The banker paused, wincing as if struck by a sudden pang, and put his hand to his mouth to cover a faintly audible belch. He excused himself, saying, “I suffer from dyspepsia.” He produced a vial from his coat pocket, chewed and swallowed two of the tablets it contained, then plucked out and consumed a third.

  “You were saying, Mr. Wrixton?”

  “Eh?”

  “That there is something important I need to know.”

  “Yes. Yes. The blackmailer has, ah, certain items of mine in his possession. You must make every possible effort to obtain them and return them to me.”

  “And these items are?”

  “… Letters. Private letters.”

  “Written by you?”

  “Yes. Once you have the letters, I must ask you not to read any of them. It would be quite, um, quite…”

  The word he couldn’t quite bring himself to say, Quincannon thought, was “embarrassing.” A guess as to the nature of the letters was not difficult to make. Given Wrixton’s age, the fact that he had a prim socialite wife and a married daughter with two children, and the guilty flush that now stained his cheeks, his transgression likely involved a young and perhaps less than respectable member of the opposite sex. In any case, the banker had shown poor judgment in paying the first five-thousand-dollar demand and good judgment in turning to Quincannon to put an end to the bloodletting once the second demand was made. Which made Wrixton only half a fool.

  “Do you agree, on your word of honor?” Wrixton asked.

  “I do, though you realize I’ll need to identify the letters as yours.”

  “That won’t require reading them.” Pooch. “They were written on stationery that bears my letterhead.”

  Quincannon revised his opinion of the banker. Not half but three-quarters a fool. “How do you suppose these letters came into the blackmailer’s possession?” he asked.

  “I haven’t a clue. Not a clue.”

  “How were his demands made? In person, by message?”

  “By message, both of them. Here at the bank.”

  “Was the handwriting at all familiar?”

  “No.”

  “So you have no idea who the blackmailer is.”

  “None. The man I paid the five thousand to was an emissary, or so he claimed.”

  “You’d never seen him before?”

  “Never.”

  “Describe him.”

  “Hooked nose, sallow complexion. Rather short.”

  “Age?”

  “In the middle forties.”

  “Where did the payment take place?”

  “In the bar parlor of the Hotel Grant.”

  “And the second payment? It’s to be made in the same location?”

  “Yes.”

  All to the good. A public meeting place should make Quincannon’s task that much easier. “When?” he asked.

  “Tonight, at nine o’clock,” Wrixton said. “I’m to bring the money in a satchel, as I did the first time—small greenbacks, none larger than a fifty—and wait alone in a booth until the so-called emissary arr
ives.” He covered another belch and pooched again before continuing. “Do you advise that I keep the appointment?”

  “By all means.”

  “With the money?”

  “Did he examine the first payment before leaving with it?”

  “Oh, yes. Carefully, to make sure it was all there.”

  “Then you’ll bring the full amount this time as well,” Quincannon said. “And when the man comes to claim it, you’re to do or say nothing that will arouse his suspicions.”

  “You’ll be there?”

  “I will. But you’re not to acknowledge my presence in any way.”

  “What do you intend to do?”

  “Observe unobtrusively, and follow him when he leaves.”

  “And then?”

  “That depends. How would you prefer the matter handled?”

  “Why, if he’s not the blackmailer, find out who is and stop the scoundrel from harassing me. After retrieving the letters, of course.”

  “By turning him over to the police?”

  “No! My name must be kept out of this at all costs.”

  Easier said than done, Quincannon thought.

  Wrixton said, “There must be some, ah, other way for you to deal with his sort.”

  “I am not an assassin, Mr. Wrixton.”

  The banker looked horrified. “No, no, certainly not. Force, coercion … those are methods you employ, surely?”

  “When the situation calls for it,” Quincannon said. He fluffed his freebooter’s whiskers. “In which case, as I’m sure you realize, my fee will be substantially higher than our usual rate.”

  “The amount of your fee,” Wrixton said resolutely, “is not and will not be an issue if you succeed in retrieving and returning my letters. Especially that, sir. Especially that.”

  Once more Quincannon revised his opinion of Titus Wrixton, upward this time. The banker might be three-quarters a fool, but he was also smart enough and desperate enough to accept the fact that hiring the best detective in the city, if not in the entire western United States, required compensation commensurate with said detective’s substantial talents.

  * * *

  The agency offices were still closed, Sabina not having returned during his absence. It was a bit stuffy in there on this warm April afternoon, but he did not open any of the windows. The reason being that the faint scent of Sabina’s favorite sandalwood perfume continued to linger in the air, a scent that never failed to stir his Scot’s blood.

  Just a few whiffs invariably brought back memories of their recent social engagements, the closeness that had begun to develop between them after five years of having his persistent attempts to establish a personal as well as professional relationship fended off. Finally—finally!—he had convinced her that his intentions were honorable and she had relented in her stand against fraternization and permitted him to keep company with her away from the office.

  Evenings at the symphony, the opera, the Stage Door Theater; dinners at the Tadich Grill, the Poodle Dog, and other of the city’s better restaurants; weekend carriage rides in Golden Gate Park. Thus far these outings were all she had permitted except for chaste good-night kisses, not that he had attempted any additional liberties. And thus far the kisses were enough for him, though they and the promise that lay behind them, the closeness of her slender body and the tantalizing scent of her perfume, disturbed his rest on those nights. She was a desirable woman in the prime of her life, she had been a widow for eight years now, and so far as he knew she had remained celibate since the tragic death of her husband. She was passionate in her professional pursuits; surely passion of the earthy physical variety lay dammed and dormant inside her. Someday. Ah, someday …

  Such thoughts made him feel like a lovesick fool. Which he supposed he was, confound it. Love, by Godfrey, was not all joy and sweet yearning; it could be, and often was, a blasted nuisance. Yes, and bad for a man’s digestion as well as his peace of mind. He banished the thoughts by opening the windows behind Sabina’s desk and banishing her lingering scent. Then he sighed and sat down to attack the remaining paperwork.

  4

  SABINA

  The task facing her was daunting. On the surface it seemed unlikely that either Fenton or Prudence Egan had sufficient cause to threaten and then attempt to take Amity Wellman’s life, yet Sabina knew from experience that some people possessed hidden demons that caused them to act irrationally and violently. One of the Egans could be so afflicted. So could Nathaniel Dobbs or a member of the Liquor Dealers League or any other virulent opponent of woman suffrage. So could another individual Amity had offended in some way connected or unconnected to her work, perhaps without even knowing it. And it did not have to be the person who hated her enough to want her dead who had fired the shot last night; it could have been the botched work of a hired assassin.

  Despite the difficulty, there were steps Sabina could take to try to identify the culprit. And to see that Amity was protected from harm in the process. The first of these, early on Monday morning, was a visit to the Hyde Street home of Elizabeth Petrie.

  The one condition Sabina had placed on her willingness to investigate was that her friend agree to the company of an unobtrusive bodyguard. Amity had reluctantly done so. If Sabina was fortunate, Elizabeth would become that bodyguard.

  The former police matron, a graying widow in her middle forties with a deceptively placid exterior that concealed a sharp wit and a tough-minded, uncompromising nature, was home and pleased to see her. Elizabeth’s primary profession was quilting, which she had undertaken after her police inspector husband, Oliver, was implicated in a corruption scandal and sent to prison; not long after his release, he had resumed his heavy-drinking ways and died of acute alcoholism. The scandal had cost her her matron’s job, but police work was in her blood and she eagerly supplemented her income by working with the city’s various private investigative agencies whenever a woman operative was needed. She particularly admired Sabina, the only member of her sex to forge a successful career in a business dominated by men; they had become friends as well as occasional professional associates.

  As always—except when she was otherwise engaged, which she wasn’t at present—Elizabeth readily agreed to undertake the new assignment. She was even more enthusiastic in this case because of the subject’s identity. “I know Mrs. Wellman by reputation,” she said. “An admirable lady, to be working as hard as she does for the rights of women. I’ll do everything in my power to keep her safe.”

  Amity had insisted that no public mention be made of her being in the care of a bodyguard; she and Sabina agreed that the operative was to adopt the guise of an old friend and contributor of time and money to the suffrage movement, who had recently moved to San Francisco and been invited as a temporary houseguest. Elizabeth had no problem with this. She would contact Amity right away at the Parrot Street headquarters of Voting Rights for Women and arrange with her to move into the Wellmans’ home this evening.

  After leaving Elizabeth, Sabina considered paying a call on her cousin, Callie French, at the Van Ness Avenue residence she shared with her husband, Hugh, president of the Miners Bank. Callie was an active member of the social elite and as such knew or knew of everyone else of prominence in the city. Often she was Sabina’s first choice when information about the activities and foibles of influential citizens was required, for she was an eager gatherer and dispenser of gossip. If there was anything about the Egans, or Nathaniel Dobbs and others of his Anti ilk, that could be helpful, she might well know of it.

  But in a case as sensitive as this one, Sabina’s cousin was likely to be more of a liability than an asset. For one thing, although Callie always promised never to reveal a confidence, she wasn’t always as discreet as she should be; Sabina wouldn’t dare admit to her that Amity Wellman was her client or the reason why, for fear of news of her friend’s unfortunate affair with Fenton Egan leaking out. For another, Callie was greatly interested in, if not always approving of, Sabina’s
profession and was bound to ask too many probing questions despite Sabina having made it clear to her that professional ethics forbade her from discussing her cases.

  No, she wouldn’t risk questioning Callie. There were other sources of information available to her. Including another, more discreet, even more well-informed source of gossip about well-to-do San Franciscans.

  It was nearly ten o’clock when Sabina arrived at Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services. The door was locked, and when she entered with her key she found no indication that John had yet put in an appearance. This was typical of him; he seldom arrived mornings before she did. His excuses included business matters, transportation difficulties, and late-night activities that resulted in oversleeping, but she suspected that an indolent tendency and abhorrence for the mundane tasks of running a detective agency were equally responsible.

  Whenever bills, accounts receivable, and the like piled up, as they always did at the end of the month, he made himself scarce for long periods. Usually, if she wasn’t busy, she dealt with the paperwork herself to make sure it was all done properly instead of in his sometime haphazard fashion. But today she was busy. And since John had told her on Friday that he had no pressing business, she made sure before she left that there would be no shirking of his share of this month’s paperwork once he finally showed up.

  She spent the rest of the morning calling on the two most trustworthy informants she relied upon. The first was the Market Street newsstand operator known as Slewfoot. The fact that he was blind, or claimed to be, was more of a useful tool than a handicap; all sorts of people told him things or said things in front of him. Both he and the second information seller, Madame Louella, who ran a Gypsy fortune-telling dodge from a storefront on Kearny Street, had a coterie of contacts that extended into the bowels of the Barbary Coast, among other parts of the city. If a hired assassin had made the attempt on the life of “a prominent woman on Telegraph Hill” last evening, one or the other would eventually ferret out the fact and put a name to the gunman.