At the rear of the shop, a counter ran the full width like a barrier. Behind it was a massive, gilt-trimmed cash register on an oak stand, and behind that was a set of musty damask drapes that curtained off a back alcove. The draperies parted as Quincannon approached the counter and a short, round balding man of about fifty popped out. Even at first glance he was as unappetizing as a tainted oyster. He wore slyness and venality as openly as the garters on his sleeves and the moneylender's eyeshade across his forehead. The suddenness of his appearance made Quincannon think of a troll jumping out in front of an unwary traveler.
“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…”