But Santa Barbara seemed terribly distant at the moment. I didn't want to wait until I got back there to read these reports. And I didn't have to visit Mama tonight anyway; she'd said this morning-ungraciously, I'd thought at the time-that one visit a day would suffice.
I considered what to do for a few moments longer and then made up my mind. First I would take polite leave of Mrs. Manuela, promising her a return visit when I'd looked further into the story of the search for the Velasquez artifacts. Then I'd find a drugstore and buy a toothbrush, toothpaste, and other necessities. And then I'd find a reasonably-priced motel with a coffee shop, get carryout food, and curl up in my room with this second installment of John Quincannon's investigation.
PART IV
1894
ONE
The Chief of police of Santa Barbara was a robust, bullnecked man with enormous bristling mustaches. His name was Vandermeer. He wore his blue uniform as if it were a West Point dress outfit, stood and sat with such erectness that Quincannon wondered idly if he had a deformed spine, spoke between tight-pursed lips, possessed a fondness for the word “mister,” and managed to convey a curious mixture of deference and suspicion in his speech and actions. He studied Quincannon's Secret Service credentials for a full three minutes, scowling all the while and at the last with such ferocity that Quincannon was certain he was about to pronounce them forgeries and hurl their bearer into the nearest cell; then he said in a deferential voice dripping with suspicion, “My office is at the government's disposal, mister. What can I do for you?”
Relieved, Quincannon said, “I'm looking for a man named James Evans, in connection with a counterfeiting case under investigation. The last address I have for him is number twelve hundred-and-six Anacapa Street, this city, but he no longer resides there.”
“Evans, eh? Evans.” Vandermeer shook his head as if to jog his memory but with such violence that his mustaches cracked like whips-or so Quincannon fancied. “Only one James Evans I know. Burglar and cracksman, among other things. I expect he's your man.”
“No doubt,” Quincannon said, “if he resided at number twelve hundred-and-six Anacapa Street.”
“We'll soon find out, mister. We'll soon find out.”
Vandermeer summoned one of his constables, who in turn brought in a thick file on James Evans. The constable's name was Ogilvy, and it developed that he had twice arrested Evans, once on suspicion of breaking-and-entering and once for public drunkenness and lewd and lascivious behavior at the Arroyo Burro hot springs. “Exposed himself to an old lady and two girls of sixteen,” Ogilvy explained. “Waved his pizzle about like it was Old Glory on a parade day. Drew quite a crowd.” He paused thoughtfully. “Most of 'em women, as I recall.”
Vandermeer was looking through the file. “Last known address, number twelve hundred-and-six Anacapa Street,” he said, and then fixed Ogilvy with a suspicious glance. “What happened to Evans? Any idea?”
The constable shook his head. “He seems to have vanished.”
“Dropped out of sight, eh?”
“Yes, sir. Not a whisper of him for some time now. Higgins and me went to question him about a robbery two months ago; he'd been gone awhile then.”
“Rumors as to where?”
“A passel. Los Angeles, Santa Maria, Los Alamos Valley, half a dozen more. None of 'em confirmed.”
Quincannon asked, “Has Evans dropped out of sight before this?”
“A time or two,” Ogilvy said. “Gone elsewhere on a job or to hide out from one he pulled here, I'll warrant. But he's always come back sooner or later.”
“Good riddance, if he's gone for good this time,” Vandermeer said. “Bad apple, that one. Spoiled enough barrels in this town.”
Quincannon asked if he could examine the file; Vandermeer, scowling his ferocious scowl, turned it over to him with suspicious deference. Reading through it at the chiefs desk, he learned that James Evans had served one three-year sentence at San Quentin for burglary and four shorter sentences at the county jail (one of those for exposing his pizzle at the Arroyo Burro hot springs). Evans had no particular specialities when it came to his choice of victims or the type of goods he stole; he was believed to have robbed the very poor as well as the very rich, and to have pilfered as much as eight thousand dollars and as little as twenty-seven pennies from a child's piggy bank. He had been born in Ohio, had come to California fifteen years ago, and had no known relatives living here. He had never married, or at least had not as far as the police knew. He had only two known acquaintances, Charles Tompkins and Oliver Witherspoon, with each of whom he had been arrested on suspicion of burglary. Quincannon asked about these two men.
“Tompkins is no longer a threat to society,” Vandermeer said with tight-lipped satisfaction. “San Quentin is where you'll find him these days. I put him there myself, eight months ago.”
“And Witherspoon?”
“Still active, mister. But he won't be for long, by God.”
“He lives in Santa Barbara, then?”
“He does,” Ogilvy said, “but if you're thinking he'll give you a lead to Evans's whereabouts, Mr. Boggs, I'm afraid you're in for a disappointment. I talked to Witherspoon myself after Evans disappeared. He claims to know nothing and couldn't be budged.” The constable tapped his knuckles meaningfully. “Nor persuaded.”
“I'll want to see him anyway,” Quincannon said. “That is, if you will be so good as to give me his address.”
“Certainly, sir.” Ogilvy started out.
“One other matter before you go. The reason I'm hunting Evans is that we of the Secret Service believe he is supplying stolen gold statuary to a vicious gang of koniakers, who then melt them down and use the raw metal to mint their counterfeit coins. We-”
“Diabolical scheme,” Vandermeer interrupted. He sounded impressed. “Clever swine, eh?”
“Very clever.” Quincannon paused to light the second of the two Cuban panatelas he had bought at the Arlington Hotel. “Naturally,” he said, “we are anxious to find the source of this stolen statuary. There may be more of it, and if we can prevent any further loss, the Service is of course bound to do so. Confidentially, gentlemen-and it pains me to say it-it may take a while to put the coney gang out of business.”
“Expect you're doing your best, mister,” Vandermeer said. “The statuary was stolen here, you say?”
“Or the environs. We know for a fact that one of the statues was of the Virgin Mary-approximately fourteen inches in height, sculpted by an artist named Francisco Portola, and made of pure gold. Was such a statue reported stolen within the past six to eight months?”
“Not to my recollection. Constable?”
“No, sir,” Ogilvy said. “But I'll have a look at the theft reports.”
Quincannon sat back in the chiefs chair and patiently smoked his cigar while Vandermeer stood in a stiff military posture and glowered at nothing in particular. It was no more than ten minutes until Constable Ogilvy returned.
“Well, mister?” Vandermeer asked him.
“Nothing, sir. If a gold statue was pilfered here within the past year, the theft weren't reported to us.”
Quincannon sighed. More work for him; and the more difficult his task, the longer it would be before his return to San Francisco. He asked Ogilvy for Oliver Witherspoon's address. The constable gave him two: a boarding house on Arrellaga Street where Witherspoon resided, and a produce warehouse at Gaviota Beach where he was employed on an irregular basis.
“Try the boarding house first, Mr. Boggs,” Ogilvy advised. “Ollie Witherspoon only does honest work when he's forced to, and then you can be sure it ain't as honest as it might be.”