“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, Senor 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.
“Senor 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, Senor 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, Senor 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.”