The Body Snatchers Affair (10 page)

That last statement revealed the depth of Mock Quan's loathing for Little Pete; it was the bitterest of Chinese insults. Quincannon said, “Jackals feed on the dead. The dead such as Bing Ah Kee?”

“Oh, yes, it is beyond question Fong Ching is responsible for that outrage.”

“What do you suppose was done with the body?”

Mock Quan made a slicing gesture with one slim hand. “Should the vessel of the honorable Bing Ah Kee have been harmed in any fashion, may Fong Ching suffer the death of a thousand cuts ten thousand times through eternity.”

“If the Hip Sing is so sure he's responsible, why has nothing been done to retaliate?”

“Without proof of Fong Ching's treachery, the decision of the council of elders was that the wisest course was to withhold a declaration of war.”

“Even after what happened to James Scarlett? His murder could be termed an act of open aggression.”

“Mr. Scarlett was neither Chinese nor a member of the Hip Sing Company, merely an employee. Evidently an untrustworthy one.” Mock Quan took a tailor-made cigarette from a box on his desk, fitted it into a carved ivory holder. “The council of elders met again this morning. It was decided then to permit the American Terror, Lieutenant Price, and his raiders to punish Fong Ching and the Kwong Dock, thus to avoid the shedding of Hip Sing blood. This will soon be done.”

“What makes you so certain?”

“It is the only way to crush the life from the turtle's offspring and prevent tong bloodshed.”

“Did you have a say in the council's decision?”

The question discomfited Mock Quan. His eyes narrowed; he exhaled smoke in a thin jet. “I am not privileged to sit on the council of elders.”

“But I'll wager you have your father's confidence as well as his ear, and that your powers of persuasion are considerable.”

“Such matters do not concern you.”

“Anything relating to Scarlett's murder concerns me,” Quincannon said. “I was nearly shot, too, in Ross Alley. And I'm not as convinced as you are that Little Pete is behind the death of James Scarlett or the disappearance of Bing Ah Kee's remains.”

Mock Quan made an odd hissing sound with his lips, a Chinese expression of anger and contempt. There was less oil and more steel in his voice when he spoke again. “You would do well to bow to the superior workings of the police, lest your blood stain a Chinatown alley after all.”

“I don't like warnings, Mock Quan, much less threats.”

“A lowly Chinese warn or threaten a distinguished Occidental detective? My words were merely ones of caution and prudence.”

Quincannon's smile this time was a thin lip-stretch. He said, “I have no intention of leaving a single drop of my blood in Chinatown or anywhere else in this city.”

“Then you would be wise not to venture here again after the cloak of night has fallen.” Mock Quan smiled in return, his as counterfeit as Quincannon's. So was the invitation which followed. “Will you join me in a cup of excellent rose-petal tea before you leave?”

“Another time, perhaps.”

“Perhaps.
Ho hang la
—I hope you have a safe walk.”

Quincannon said, lying in his teeth, “Health and a long life to you, too, Mock Quan.”

*   *   *

On his way out of Chinatown, a shouting newsboy drew his attention to the fact that the
Evening Bulletin
had appeared. He bought a copy and glanced over the front page. Hell, damn, and blast! As he'd feared, some copper at the Hall of Justice had leaked his name to that scoundrel Homer Keeps. The bold headlines caused his blood pressure to soar.

One of them read:
NOTORIOUS PRIVATE DETECTIVE IMPLICATED IN CHINATOWN SLAYING.
Notorious! The story, which of course bore Keeps's byline, was even more outrageous—littered with allusions to Quincannon's “history of blatant disregard for human life,” “past excursions into the city's netherworld of violence,” and “escapades of dubious legitimacy,” and with sly insinuations that he was partly to blame for James Scarlett's death and that his presence at the opium resort indicated he, too, might be a “dude fiend” hop smoker. Altogether it amounted to another of Keeps's deliberate attempts at character assassination—potentially damaging not only to Quincannon's personal reputation but to that of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services. And yet so carefully worded that it was not quite actionable.

Damn Homer bloody Keeps! If the little bastard had been nearby just then, he might well have ended up strangled, shot, or severely maimed.

 

9

SABINA

Sabina's first stop after leaving the Blanchford estate was the Hyde Street home of Elizabeth Petrie. As was usually the case, the former police matron was in residence, working on one of her finely crafted quilts. Quilting had been her profession for several years, ever since her police inspector husband, Oliver, was implicated in a corruption scandal that resulted in a one-year prison sentence. Although Elizabeth had had no knowledge of his grafting activities, the scandal's taint had cost her her matron's job. And brought an end to what had been a stormy marriage marred by Oliver's fondness for strong drink. He had drowned himself in whiskey after his release from Folsom, and eventually died of acute alcoholism. Ironically, the house Elizabeth had shared with him and where she still resided was only a short distance from the Home for Inebriates at Chestnut and Stockton Streets, where many of the city's once respectable citizens drew their final breaths.

Police work was in Elizabeth's blood, and she had made it known to the private investigative agencies in the city that whenever a woman operative was needed, she would be available. In her middle forties, with graying hair perpetually worn in a bun, she had a grandmotherly air that concealed a sharp-witted, no-nonsense interior. Sabina had availed of her services on three previous occasions, and found her to be competent, fearless, and completely trustworthy.

Once the situation with Andrea Scarlett was explained to her, Elizabeth eagerly agreed to act as the woman's protector for as long as necessary. She would leave immediately for Delilah Brown's Pine Street rooming house, taking a loaded pistol with her, and bring Mrs. Scarlett back here to her home for safekeeping. The fact that she was a quilter and the client a former seamstress provided a common ground that should also help to ease Mrs. Scarlett's fright.

From Hyde, Sabina proceeded downtown to the newsstand presided over by a “blind” vendor known as Slewfoot, who, in addition to dispensing newspapers and magazines, gathered information on various illegal and extralegal activities throughout the city and served as one of her and John's most reliable informants. Armed with two recent back issues of the
Morning Call,
she then returned to the agency offices.

John was not there, nor had he been, evidently, since this morning. Still trekking about in Chinatown, no doubt—without his customary recklessness, she hoped. As much as she chided him for his interest in her personal life, she couldn't help feeling a concern for his well-being that went beyond their business arrangement. Sometimes, she admitted to herself, it approached fondness. If only he weren't such a determined lecher. Well, perhaps “lecher” was too strong a word. Seduction was not all that was on his mind in his constant efforts to woo her affection; she knew his feelings for her went deeper than that. Which was the primary reason she took such pains to hold him at bay. Business and pleasure simply did not mix, particularly with two strong-willed and differently oriented individuals.

She concentrated on the back issues of the
Call
. The first, four days old, carried the announcement of Ruben Blanchford's death by heart failure after a lengthy illness, at the age of sixty-four. The obituary was accompanied by a photograph that matched Sabina's memory of the man at their single meeting: slight of build with iron-gray hair thinning on top, gray muttonchop whiskers, and large ears set at an angle to his head. He had been quite short, too, she recalled, less than five and a half feet tall. The only information the obit supplied that she didn't already know was the family's estimated net worth—ten million, a figure that would put an avaricious gleam in John's eye when he learned of it—and Bertram Blanchford's profession, obliquely stated as “promoter.” He was also described as being “well-known among the sporting set.”

The issue dated two days later carried a story about the Blanchford funeral, which seemed to have been less elaborately staged than the reporter expected. The account provided the identity of the mortuary where it had taken place—Joshua Trilby's Evergreen Chapel, with an address on Mission Street—and the names of the prominent citizens who had attended and those who had acted as pallbearers. Three of the pallbearers were familiar, all wealthy businessmen in Ruben Blanchford's class. One of the unfamiliar names, Thomas Moody, was listed as managing director of the Blanchford Investment Foundation.

The foundation's address was given as 512 Pine Street, which would put it in the heart of the financial district—only a few blocks' walk from the agency offices. Sabina examined herself in her compact mirror, repinned a few stray wisps of hair that had come loose, added a touch of rouge to her cheeks, and decided she looked presentable enough. A brief message for John, in the event he returned before she did, and she was on her way to the center of San Francisco's commerce.

*   *   *

The offices of the Blanchford Investment Foundation were on the ground floor of a two-story brick building ornamented with curvilinear pediments over its windows and cornices supported on decorative brackets. Little enough money had been spent on BIF's décor or furnishings; the anteroom was small and functional, as was the middle-aged woman who presided over it. One of Sabina's business cards and a message that she was in the employ of Mrs. Harriet Blanchford brought her an immediate audience with Thomas Moody in the managing director's equally Spartan private office.

“I can't imagine why Mrs. Blanchford would need the service of a private investigator,” Moody said. His eyes and the prim set of his mouth added the phrase “And a woman, at that.” He was a spare, clean-shaven man in his fifties with thin, pinched features and a priggish air.

“A private matter,” Sabina told him. “If you'd care to telephone Mrs. Blanchford to confirm her engagement of my services…”

“No, no, that won't be necessary. How may I help you?”

“I understand you were one of the pallbearers at Mr. Blanchford's funeral.”

If Moody found the question odd, he didn't show it. His thin face assumed a dolorous expression. “I had that sad honor, yes. He was a friend of long standing as well as my employer.”

“I understand it was quite well attended.”

“The funeral? Oh, yes. Mr. Blanchford had many friends and associates in the city.”

“I'm not familiar with Joshua Trilby's Evergreen Chapel. I assume it's a first-class establishment?”

“Ah, I wouldn't say that, no.”

“Really? Why not?”

“Well…” Moody lowered his voice, after the fashion of a man about to reveal a confidence. “Rather small and … well, somewhat less suitable than one might have hoped for a man of Mr. Blanchford's stature.”

“How so?”

“Well, for one thing, Mr. Blanchford didn't look as … natural as he might have. Rather a slipshod job, in my opinion. The viewing room was small and the floral offerings haphazardly arranged.”

Thus confirming the
Call
reporter's comment. “A shame. Was the procession properly handled?”

“More or less, except for the delay.”

“Delay?”

“After the service. Some sort of difficulty with the hearse that kept us all waiting for ten minutes before the casket could be carried out. Poor Mrs. Blanchford … she wept the entire time.”

“Unconscionable,” Sabina said. “Was it she who chose the Trilby mortuary?”

“I suppose it must have been.” Moody seemed to feel that perhaps he'd been too candid in his remarks. He made haste to change the subject. “Such a great loss to us all, especially those who have benefited and will continue to benefit from Mr. Blanchford's philanthropic endeavors. He was a fine man, generous and caring to a fault.”

“His widow seems to be cut from the same cloth.”

“Oh, yes. A wonderful woman.”

“And his son?”

Moody hesitated before he said, a trifle stiffly, “Yes, of course.”

“Is Bertram Blanchford involved in the foundation's work?”

“No. No, he isn't.”

“By his choice? Or his father's?”

Another hesitation, longer this time. Moody's nose and upper lip quivered in a way that made Sabina think of a disapproving rabbit. “I believe his interests lie elsewhere.”

“Bertram is a promoter and horse racing enthusiast, I understand. What does he promote?”

“I'm sure I have no idea.”

Sabina thought that this was an evasion, judging from the way Moody's gaze shifted. But she didn't press him. “Well, I don't suppose it matters,” she said. “I expect his father left him well provided for, even though they didn't get on well together.”

“I really couldn't say, Mrs. Carpenter. I hardly know the man.”

*   *   *

A modest sign on the rectangle of lawn in front of Joshua Trilby's Evergreen Chapel gave its name and the slogan
HONORING YOUR FAMILY'S MEMORIES.
The mortuary itself, a whitewashed wooden structure with a pair of large yew trees flanking the front entrance, was as unprepossessing as Thomas Moody's description.

On impulse, Sabina followed a cobbled path to the door and stepped into a spacious foyer. A strong floral scent greeted her, but it was more than that that set her nostrils twitching. She had always had a sensitive sense of smell and mingled with the flowery sweetness she detected the odors of dust and, faintly and unpleasantly, formaldehyde. An open doorway to her left led into a viewing room where a rather plain coffin, its lid raised, rested on a bier surrounded by several bouquets of flowers. None of a grouping of chairs facing the coffin was occupied.