The Bughouse Affair (13 page)

Sabina put these thoughts aside and turned her attention to the valuables she had recovered from the pickpocket’s rooms, which were still spread out on her desk. She checked each item against the list of Chutes victims’ losses Lester Sweeney had given her, and the information she’d obtained from Wilds’s victims on the Cocktail Route and at the Market Street bazaar. The items she was able to identify went into manila envelopes with the individual’s name written on each, then into her reticule.

When she was done, several pieces were still unaccounted for. All but one of these bore no identifying marks of any kind, so the only thing she could do was to check reports of stolen mechandise filed with police and insurance companies—a task that, with her busy schedule, would have to be done catch-as-catch-can. The one exception was the hammered silver money clip with the name of the silversmith who had made it etched into the metal.

In the city directory she found a listing for W. Reilly & Sons, Silversmiths—a shop that was large enough and modern enough to be a subscriber to the telephone exchange. Her call was answered by a deep-voiced man who gave his name as Wendell Reilly, the owner. Sabina identified herself and made her request, giving it weight by saying that the money clip had been stolen from its owner and would be returned once she knew to whom it belonged.

“If the clip is one of ours,” Reilly said, “I may be able to identify the customer. Many of our pieces are made to special order and this sounds as if it might be one of them. But I’ll have to see it to be sure.”

“Of course. I should be able to stop by later today. What are your hours?”

“The shop is open until five thirty, but I’m usually here until seven.”

Sabina thanked him and rang off.

There was one more task to be done before she was ready to leave. She removed two hundred dollars from the roll of confiscated greenbacks and added it to the single note remaining in the worn leather billfold. John wouldn’t approve if he knew—his view was that they were entitled to unverifiable cash sums recovered from crooks’ clutches—but she had no intention of telling him. Henry Holbrooke deserved a proper burial marker, and his widow needed whatever was left far more than Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services.

*   *   *

The offices of Mr. Charles Ackerman, owner of the Chutes and attorney for the Southern Pacific Railroad and the Market Street and Sutter Street railway lines, were in the Montgomery Block, a favored location for upper-echelon lawyers, physicians, and businessmen. The building, the first fireproof edifice constructed in the city, was known affectionately as the Monkey Block, but its stern gray masonry belied the nickname.

The suite belonging to Charles Ackerman & Associates was on the top floor, the fourth—an impressively appointed group of rooms that testified to the financial success of his many ventures. Sabina presented her card to a clerk in the outer office, who took it away with him. He returned in short order to usher her into Mr. Ackerman’s private sanctum.

Their client was a tall, broad-shouldered man with an ample corporation, impeccably dressed in black broadcloth. His mane of hair shone silver in the light slanting in through a pair of windows that offered views of the city and the bay. He took Sabina’s hand, bowed in a courtly fashion, then gestured for her to be seated across the polished expanse of his desk.

“Your investigation has produced rapid results, has it, Mrs. Carpenter?” he said without preamble.

“Yes, fortunately.” She withdrew the manila envelopes from her reticule, opened two of them, and placed the contents on the desk blotter for Mr. Ackerman’s brief inspection.

“You’ve recovered all the stolen items?”

“All those on the list Mr. Sweeney provided.”

“Excellent. You’ll return them immediately, I trust?”

“Beginning as soon as our interview is concluded.”

“And what of the person responsible?”

“I can guarantee,” Sabina said, “that the pickpocket will never again menace patrons at the Chutes or elsewhere.”

This satisfied Ackerman—a good thing because she had no intention of elaborating and would have employed evasive measures if he had pressed her. He produced a ledger, wrote out a check for the agreed-upon fee, rose to shake her hand a second time, and congratulated her on a job well done. “If ever I or any of my acquaintances should require your services again, I will not hesitate to recommend the Carpenter and Quincannon agency.”

To John, the best part of any successful transaction such as this was the amount of money collected. To her, the goodwill of a man of Charles Ackerman’s stature was of greater value.

*   *   *

Jessie Street seemed even shabbier today than it had on her previous visit. The cobblestones along its length were in serious need of repair. A trash bin had been overturned in the tiny yard of the home next door to the Holbrooke residence, and garbage was strewn across the weedy ground. No one was outdoors in the vicinity except for a pair of young boys playing a game that involved bashing a picket fence with sticks.

A
FOR SALE
sign now stood next to the Holbrookes’ gate. Financial straits, loneliness now that her husband was gone, or a combination of both had evidently convinced the widow to give up the property. This made Sabina even more certain that she was doing the right thing. As did the look of poor Mrs. Holbrooke when the old woman opened the door to Sabina’s knock. Her deeply lined face and sorrowful eyes, the tremors radiating around her mouth, were painful to behold.

“You remember me, Mrs. Holbrooke? Sabina Carpenter.”

“Yes. Have you something else to ask about what happened to my husband?”

“Not this time.” Sabina withdrew the old leather billfold from her reticule. “Is this your husband’s purse?”

The old woman took it, squinting, and ran her fingers over the beaded leather. “Why … why, yes, it is. Where did you find it? And so quickly?”

“A bit of good luck.”

“The woman who stole it … will she be punished?”

“She already has been.”

“I’m glad. I’m not a vengeful woman, but after what she did to Henry…”

“I understand.”

“But I don’t suppose … Henry’s money…”

“Look inside, Mrs. Holbrooke.”

The old woman opened the billfold, and when her eyes beheld the fold of greenbacks she gasped her surprise.

“Two hundred dollars,” Sabina said, “the full amount. I know it can’t begin to make up for your loss, but perhaps it will help.”

“Oh! Oh, yes! Now I can afford the headstone for Henry’s grave. And with what’s left over, I’ll have enough to buy my own train ticket to Antioch. My sister and her family have invited me to live with them now that I’ve decided to sell the house. They’ve been so kind.
You’ve
been so kind.” She took Sabina’s hand, pressed it tightly between hers. “Bless you, Mrs. Carpenter. Bless you!”

Sabina had a warm feeling of satisfaction when she left the widow Holbrooke. The old woman’s gratitude was worth even more than Charles Ackerman’s goodwill.

*   *   *

Her next planned stop was the home of George Davis near Washington Square. The route her hack driver chose to take her there passed near the shop of Wendell Reilly & Sons, Silversmiths, on Battery Street near the U.S. Customs House. This being the case, Sabina made up her mind to stop there first.

The shop was a modest one-story frame building sandwiched between two taller structures, with dark green–shuttered windows on either side of an equally dark green door. A sign on the door bade customers to enter.

Inside Sabina found a large room containing a brick forge that took up one entire wall. The fire in it was banked, but she could feel its residual warmth. Across from the forge were a row of grinding wheels and a long workbench covered with various tools and molds of different sizes and shapes. A man with a fringe of curly gray hair circling a shiny bald pate was placing an ornate silver tea service on one of a series of shelves holding other pieces, among them a display of intricately adorned stacker rings.

At the sound of the door closing the man turned. He had a ruddy face in the center of which was a long blade of a nose. When he smiled at Sabina, his blue eyes twinkled.

“May I help you?”

“Are you Mr. Wendell Reilly?”

“At your service.”

“I’m Sabina Carpenter.” She presented one of her cards to verify the fact. “We spoke on the telephone earlier.”

“Oh, yes. Well, I must say you’ve come at the right time, Mrs. Carpenter. The forge has been banked for the night, so the premises aren’t as heated as they are during the day.”

They still seemed overly warm to Sabina, but she supposed those in the trade were used to working in high-temperature surroundings.

“A money clip, I believe you said. You brought it with you?”

Sabina nodded and produced the article. The silversmith examined it carefully through a jeweler’s loupe. Then he, too, nodded.

“It’s one of my design and manufacture, yes. As I recall—and this, mind you, was three or four years ago—the gent who ordered it was very particular about the detailing. This border, you see”—his finger traced a design of curving lines—“had to be just so far apart and extend and interweave in this exact way. Fussy, he was.”

“Do you recall the man’s name?”

“Not offhand. But we keep careful records. It shouldn’t take me long to find it.” He disappeared through a flowered curtain into a back room.

While she waited, Sabina moved about the room studying the displays of the smith’s wares. Cutlery and utensils, candleholders, intricately designed belt buckles, an antique-style coffee urn. A glass-topped case containing an array of women’s and men’s jewelry held her attention briefly, though she seldom wore any herself except for her plain gold wedding ring and a string of pearls Stephen had given her upon the occasion of their first wedding anniversary. Her collection of hatpins, beautiful and carefully chosen as they were, she considered a necessity because the winds often blew hard in this city by the bay and hats of the type she preferred were too expensive to risk losing.

Mr. Reilly returned carrying a slip of paper. “I remember the gent now,” he said as he handed it to her. “He bought this and other pieces from us several years ago, though he hasn’t been back in recent memory. I’ve noted his address as well.”

Sabina’s eyes widened when she read the name of the man who owned the stolen money clip.

Andrew Costain.

16

QUINCANNON

In his drinking days, Quincannon’s favorite watering hole was Hoolihan’s Saloon on Second Street. It was there that he had sought for two long years to drown his conscience after the incident in Virginia City, Nevada, when a woman named Katherine Bennett, eight months pregnant, had perished with a bullet from his pistol in her breast.

The shooting had been a tragic accident. It had happened during a gunfight that erupted when he and a team of local law enforcement officers had attempted the arrest of a pair of brothers who were counterfeiting United States government currency. In the skirmish behind their print shop, one of the brothers had wounded a deputy and then attempted to flee through the backyards of a row of houses. Quincannon had shot him, to avoid being shot himself; but one of his bullets had gone wild and found Katherine Bennett, who was outside hanging up her washing.

He had not been able to bear the burden of responsibility for the loss of two innocent lives. Guilt and remorse had eaten away at him; he had taken so heavily to drink over the next two years that he’d been in danger of losing his position with the Secret Service, perhaps even ending his days as another lost and sodden patron of Jack Foyles’ wine dump. Two things had saved him: the first was another counterfeiting case, in the Owyhee Mountains of Idaho; the second was meeting Sabina there and eventually entering into his partnership with her. Not a drop of alcohol had passed his lips since his return from Silver City, and never would again. He had made peace with himself. Demon rum was no longer even a minor temptation, despite the occasional nightmares that still plagued his sleep.

Nevertheless, he continued to frequent Hoolihan’s because he felt comfortable among its clientele of small merchants, office workers, tradesmen, drummers, and a somewhat rougher element up from the waterfront. No city leaders came there on their nightly rounds, as they did to the Palace Hotel bar, Pop Sullivan’s Hoffman Café, and the other first-class saloons along the Cocktail Route; no judges, politicians, bankers—Samuel Truesdale had likely never set foot through its swinging doors—or gay young blades in their striped trousers, fine cravats, and brocaded waistcoats.

Hoolihan’s had no crystal chandeliers, fancy mirrors, expensive oil paintings, white-coated barmen, or elaborate free lunch. It was dark and bare by comparison, sawdust thickly scattered on the floor and a back room containing pool and billiard tables on which Quincannon often played. The only glitter and sparkle came from the shine of its old-style gaslights on the ranks of bottles along the backbar, and its hungry drinkers dined not on crab legs and oysters on the half shell but on corned beef, strong cheese, rye bread, and tubs of briny pickles.

Quincannon had first grativated there because the saloon was a short cable-car ride from his rooms and because staff and clientele both respected the solitary drinker’s desire for privacy. Even after taking the pledge, it remained his refuge—an honest place, made for those who sought neither bombast nor trouble. Far fewer lies were told in Hoolihan’s than in the rarefied atmosphere of the Palace bar, he suspected, and far fewer dark deeds were hatched.

It was a few minutes shy of seven o’clock when he arrived at Hoolihan’s and claimed a place at the bar near the entrance. Ben Joyce, the head barman, greeted him in his mildly profane fashion. “What’ll it be tonight, you bloody Scotsman? Coffee or fresh clam juice?”

“Clam juice, and leave out the arsenic this time.”

“Hah. As if I’d waste good ratsbane on the likes of you.”