Beyond the Grave Read online

  “Hello, hello,” the troll said. Without his hands touching, he managed to convey the impression of briskly rubbing them together. “What is your pleasure, sir? I have bric-a-brac and curios of every type and description, from every culture and every nation. The new, the old, the mild, the exotic. Something for every taste, sir. And what is yours?”

  “I am not a customer,” Quincannon said. He made his voice sound gruff, authoritative. “Are you Luther Duff?”

  “I am. If you aren't a customer, sir, then—?”

  “An operative of the United States Secret Service.” Quincannon produced his old Service badge and extended it across the counter, up close to Duff's somewhat warty features. “Boggs is my name, Evander Boggs.”

  The little troll went pale. He backed off a step, as if the badge were a lethal weapon. “Secret Service?” he said in a different voice. “I don't understand. What do you want with me?”

  Instead of answering, Quincannon fixed him with a malevolent look and returned the badge to the pocket of his vicuna chesterfield. If the real Evander Boggs, who had been his superior in the San Francisco field office, knew that he had taken pains not to relinquish the badge upon his resignation from the Service, Boggs's great bulbous nose (one of his friends had once likened him to a keg of whiskey with the nose as its bung) would have glowed like a blacksmith's forge, as it always did when he was enraged. And if he knew that this was not the first time Quincannon had used his name and the badge under false pretenses, he would no doubt suffer an apoplectic seizure. But Quincannon had no intention of telling him. He was rather fond of Boggs, and by not telling him these things, he reasoned, he was safeguarding the old reprobate's health.

  Duff said nervously, “Please, Mr. Boggs, what is it you want with me? I've done nothing to attract the attention of the United States government…”

  “Haven't you?” Quincannon paused, and then said in sharp tones, “What do you know about the counterfeiting of 1840s eagles and half eagles?”

  “Counterfeiting? Why … why … nothing, Mr. Boggs, nothing at all; I swear it!”

  “Someone in our fair city has been manufacturing planchets—soldering thin sheets of gold around a piece of silver, so that the edges of the gold enclose the cheaper metal.” Such planchets had been manufactured, as a matter of fact, but not recently and not in San Francisco. Quincannon had had a hand in ferreting out the koniakers and putting an end to their cleverness. “The five-dollar pieces bear the dates 1844 and 1845; the half eagle carries an 1843 zero mint-mark. You know nothing about any of this, eh, Mr. Duff?”

  “No, no, nothing!”

  “Both the silver and gold used in the bogus coins appear to have been obtained by melting down stolen valuables,” Quincannon said. “Trinkets, statuary, and the like. Statuary in particular.”

  The troll stared back at him fearfully. “Statuary?”

  “Gold statuary. Stolen round and about by thieves and sold to fencemen such as you.”

  “Fencemen, Mr. Boggs? I don't understand the term.”

  Quincannon laughed. “Come, come,” he said. “The Service knows all about your fencing activities. So do the police. Why deny them?”

  “Lies,” Duff said. “Slanderous lies. Nothing has ever been proven. I have never once been arrested—”

  “Until today, perhaps.”

  Duff's moist face was now the approximate hue of a blanched almond. “I swear upon my poor mother's grave, I know nothing about the counterfeiting of gold coins!”

  “You do purchase gold statuary, don't you?”

  “Yes. Curios of all types, yes, but never from thieves …”

  “Do you melt down gold items for any reason?”

  “Certainly not, Mr. Boggs. Certainly not.”

  “Well, then,” Quincannon said, and made a sweeping gesture with one arm, “among all these impressive goods there should be at least one gold statue. That stands to reason, eh?”

  “It would seem to, but—”

  “But, Mr. Duff?”

  “I… well, I haven't any left, you see …”

  Quincannon said “Ah” and nodded implacably.

  “But I had a gold statue until just yesterday. Had it for months, sir. A fine statue of the Virgin Mary.”

  “Did you, now?”

  “Yes, yes. I sold it to the representatives of a Mr. Velasquez, from the southern part of the state. Respected gentlemen, these representatives. One is an official of the California Commercial Bank.”

  “Have you a record of this transaction?”

  “Oh, yes, of course.”

  “Show it to me.”

  “Right away. I have it in my office. If you'll wait right here—”

  “I will not. I prefer to keep you in sight.” Quincannon patted the distinctive bulge under the right side of his coat—his Remington double-action Navy revolver. “Or my sights, if necessary,” he added meaningfully.

  The little troll swallowed, after the fashion of a cow swallowing its cud, and said, “You'll have no trouble from me, sir. I swear it on my poor mother's—”

  “Lead on, Mr. Duff.”

  Duff turned toward the drapery at the rear. There was no break in the wall-to-wall counter that Quincannon could see; he swung himself over it with such quietness and agility that Duff gasped, startled to find him at his heels as he pushed through the drapery. On the other side was an impossibly cluttered office lighted by an electric lamp. Papers spilled off a battered rolltop desk; boxes and wrappings carpeted the floor; two-score different curios were piled in haphazard tiers on a pair of clawfoot tables. But as with many men who kept untidy premises, Duff seemed to know just where everything was. He produced a receipt book from under a mass of paper miscellany on the desk, licked his fingertips, flipped the pages rapidly, and then handed the book to Quincannon.

  “There, sir,” he said. “One gold statue of the Virgin Mary. Dated yesterday, as you see, and signed by Mr. Adams of the California Commercial Bank.”

  Quincannon pretended to study the carboned slip. At length he said, “Two thousand dollars is a handsome price.”

  “Very handsome. The largest single sale I have made this year. The statue was, or I should say is, of pure gold.”

  “Indeed? And you had this statue in your possession for months, you said?”

  “Months, yes. I obtained it late last fall.”

  “Locally?”

  “No. From a gentleman down south.”

  “Where down south?”

  Duff hesitated, then said with some reluctance, “Santa Barbara.”

  Damn! Quincannon thought. “The gentleman's name?”

  Another hesitation, longer this time. Quincannon gave him a steely-eyed look and patted his Remington again. Duff nibbled his lower lip like a rat nibbling cheese, coughed, nibbled some more, sighed, and said with even greater reluctance, “James Evans.”

  “A curio dealer like yourself?”

  “Ah, no, not exactly.”

  “His business is what, then?”

  “He is a … well, a procurer of goods for resale.”

  Quincannon smiled mirthlessly. “A thief, Mr. Duff?”

  “No, no, an honest businessman. I do not buy from thieves…”

  “So you've told me. Did this man Evans supply you with more than one such statue?”

  “No. Only the one.”

  “He had no others?”

  “None. I would have purchased them if he had.”

  “Where did he obtain the Virgin Mary?”

  “He didn't reveal his source to me.”

  “And you have no idea what it was?”

  “No, sir, no idea at all.”

  “Evans resides where in Santa Barbara?”

  “On Anacapa Street. Number twelve hundred and six.” Duff nibbled again at his lower lip. “Will you be going there to see him?”

  “More than likely. The koniakers have a source for gold statuary somewhere in California. It may be that James Evans is not such an honest businessman
after all.”

  “Oh, I'm certain he is,” Duff said unconvincingly. “I've dealt with him for years. He is no more a counterfeiter than I am.”

  Quincannon smiled his mirthless smile and said nothing.

  “You do believe me, don't you, Mr. Boggs? Counterfeiting is a fool's game. No, no, I would never cheat the government of our glorious country.”

  Quincannon maintained his silence a few seconds longer. Then he poked Duff in the chest with his forefinger, so suddenly that the little troll jumped, and said, “For your sake, you had best have told me the whole truth. If I find out you haven't…”

  “I have, I swear I have. You're not going to arrest me?”

  “Not today. But I will if I discover any discrepancy in what you've told me. Or if you make the mistake of sending a wire to James Evans.”

  “Wire?”

  “Warning him about me.”

  “Oh, I wouldn't do that. No, no, I swear it on my poor—”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Duff. For now.”

  Quincannon went out to the counter, swung himself over it, and quickly left the shop. Fifteen minutes in Luther Duff's company was more than sufficient for any upholder of the law; the stench of the little troll's moral decay was worse than that of his moldering curios. A breath of the fresh spring air was no longer a luxury—it was a necessity.

  Quincannon was in somewhat dampened spirits when he returned to the agency offices. The fact that Duff had obtained the Velasquez statue in Santa Barbara—and Quincannon thought he could be believed on that account; Duff had been too frightened to lie—meant that he himself would have to travel south, and soon. And that in turn meant putting his campaign to seduce Sabina in abeyance. Well, no, it wasn't really a campaign of seduction; his intentions were honorable, after all. It was not as if marriage was out of the question, or even undesirable. They shared a partnership already; it was merely a matter of broadening that partnership to include the sharing of a bed. Or an entire household, if necessary. He had nothing against marriage, he truly didn't. He did not even regard it as a final alternative, a last resort. But to be away from Sabina for days, perhaps even weeks, when he was convinced that she was weakening … well, it made him feel somewhat subdued, not to say frustrated.

  He said none of this to her, of course. He merely rendered an account of how he had maneuvered James Evans's name out of Luther Duff—“Sometimes,” she said half-reprovingly, “you're too clever for your own good, John,” a comment that he ignored—and then he said that he supposed he would have to take tomorrow night's train to Santa Barbara.

  Sabina said, “Why tomorrow night's train? Why not tonight's?”

  “Tonight's? Have you forgotten our engagement?”

  “John, we can dine and have an evening's entertainment when you return. Velasquez is taking tonight's train, isn't he?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Well, then? Traveling with him is a good idea. There may be other things he can tell you that will help with your investigation. And when you arrive he can help you find accommodations.”

  “I have been to Santa Barbara before. I do not need help finding accommodations.”

  “And,” Sabina said, as if he hadn't spoken, “it will prove to him how conscientious you are, increase his confidence in you. This may well be a lengthy investigation; I needn't remind you how important a substantial fee would be to us.”

  Quincannon said stubbornly, “I do not believe my leaving one day later will make any difference in how Velasquez views me or in the size of our fee. Tomorrow night is soon enough.”

  “Well, the decision is yours. But you'll dine alone tonight.”

  “Sabina …”

  “Business first. Pleasure second.”

  “Or not at all,” he grumbled.

  “You'd best go pack a grip,” Sabina said. “You'll have enough time to do that and get to the depot on schedule if you leave now.”

  Quincannon took a cable car up Sutter Street to his rooms, not happily. The sun was shining, the air was like wine, the hot blood of youth flowed through his veins—and he would soon be on his way to Santa Barbara in the company of the gringo-hating son of a Mexican don.

  Bah. Humbug.

  THREE

  IT WAS TWENTY minutes shy of six-thirty when Quincannon, carrying his old warbag, alighted from a hansom cab in front of the Southern Pacific depot at Third and Townsend streets. The area was teeming with hansoms, private carriages, baggage drays, trolleys, and citizens on their way into or out of the depot. It had been seven years since rail service opened between San Francisco and the southland, yet it seemed that more and more people jammed the daily evening train. The Southern Pacific would soon have to provide a second, morning train to accommodate the number of travelers.

  He pushed his way inside the depot, waited in line at the ticket window, refused to hear the ticket seller's insistence that no first-class compartments; were available, showed his Service badge, showed it again to the stationmaster, said that he was embarking on a special mission at the behest of the governor, and was eventually given the deluxe compartment the line kept available for dignitaries. Free of charge, of course. Ticket in one hand, warbag in the other, he hurried out to the southbound platform and commenced a search for his employer.

  The search was neither a long nor a difficult one. He found Felipe Antonio Abregon y Velasquez standing near the boarding plate to one of the first-class cars, in the company of a red-haired, moonfaced young man dressed somewhat foppishly in a plug hat and a double-breasted Prince Albert. Velasquez wore a dour expression that changed not at all when his restless gaze settled on Quincannon. He seemed not to be feeling well.

  “Ah, there you are,” Quincannon said cheerfully. “Buenas noches, Señor Velasquez.”

  A curt nod. “You are ten minutes late. I do not like to be kept waiting.”

  “My apologies, sir.”

  Velasquez grunted, and the grunt evolved into a spasm of coughing that reddened his face.

  “Señor Velasquez suffers from travel sickness,” the moon-faced young man said. “The fumes from the locomotive affect his lungs.”

  “Indeed? I'm sorry to hear it.”

  “It isn't anything serious. Once he is settled in his compartment, he—”

  “I do not need you to make my explanations, Señor O'Hare,” Velasquez interrupted in irritable tones. “Be good enough to let me speak for myself.”

  “Oh, of course. I meant no offense.”

  Quincannon asked the redhead, “You are Barnaby O'Hare?”

  “I am.” O'Hare wore eyeglasses reminiscent of those favored by Theodore Roosevelt; behind them, overlarge blue eyes studied Quincannon with scholarly intensity, as if he were an object of minor historical interest. “And you are Mr. Quincannon. I must say, I've never met a detective before.”

  “Nor I a historian.”

  Velasquez had no patience for polite conversation. He asked Quincannon, “What did you learn from Luther Duff?”

  “Your compartment, Señor Velasquez, would be a more private place to discuss such matters.”

  “Yes, but there is no time. The train will be leaving in a few minutes.”

  “No matter,” Quincannon said. “I'll be accompanying you to Santa Barbara.”

  Velasquez was surprised; if he had noticed Quincannon's warbag, he had attached no significance to it. He said something in response, but at that moment the locomotive's whistle sounded, and the words were lost in its bleating cry. Great puffs of steam hissed out from under the car, mingling with the black, cinder-laced coal smoke from the stack to form a noxious haze along the platform. Velasquez again began to cough. O'Hare took his arm and assisted him onto the train, Quincannon following.

  They made their way along the corridor to a center compartment. A frosted-glass lamp, mounted in a bronze sconce, had already been lighted; its glow reflected in sharp little gleams off the handsome rosewood paneling. Velasquez shook free of O'Hare's grip and sat down near the window. The cou
ghing spell had subsided, but it was plain that his chest continued to bother him.

  O'Hare asked solicitously, “Would you like some water? A brandy, perhaps?”

  “No, nothing. Be so good as to leave Señor Quincannon and me alone. We have business to discuss.”

  “Oh, yes, certainly.” O'Hare glanced at Quincannon, murmured, “A pleasure,” and immediately left the compartment.

  “A puppy, that one,” Velasquez said. “His tail wags as often as his tongue.”

  “Puppies can sometimes bite,” Quincannon observed.

  The rancher made no response to that; the subject of Barnaby O'Hare was of little importance to him. He said, “Well, señor? What of Luther Duff?”

  Quincannon told him what he had learned, without explaining how he had learned it. Then he asked, “Is the name James Evans familiar to you?”

  “No. I know of no hombre named Evans.”

  “You're certain?”

  “Am I an old man with a poor memory? Yes, I'm certain.” Velasquez frowned. “How could the statue have been in Santa Barbara all those years with no word of it reaching my ears?”

  “Perhaps the statue wasn't in Santa Barbara all those years. Evans might have obtained it elsewhere.”

  “You say ‘obtained.’ You mean stolen.”

  “Probably. I'll be a better judge of Evans and his profession after I've met him.”

  Outside on the platform, the conductor's voice rose in a shout: “All aboard! Last call for embarking passengers! All aboard!” The whistle sounded again, several more times. After less than a minute the car jerked, couplings rattled, and the train began its clattering movement. The smell of coal smoke was thick even in the closed compartment.

  “Trains,” Velasquez said. “Bah. A man was made to ride live horses, not poisonous iron ones.”

  Quincannon spent another ten minutes with him, to no benefit whatsoever. Velasquez's travel sickness and dislike of trains had put him in an irascible, contentious mood; and the fact that Quincannon was not Mexican only added to it. When the train neared the sleepy community of San Mateo, he left Velasquez to suffer his own company and sought out his accommodations.