I started to apologize for not calling first, but he waved the words away and asked if I'd brought Quincannon's report. I gave him the papers I'd found at Mrs. Manuela's and explained about the others being locked up at the museum, where I'd promised myself I wouldn't go today. Sam didn't seem to care that the report wasn't complete; he took the papers in his hands eagerly and motioned for me to come in.
The desk under the front window was messier than it had been on Sunday, and there were file cards strewn all over the floor. Sam had a big smudge of black ink on his chin, and there was a pencil stuck into the tuft of curly red hair above his right ear. He looked up from the report, wrinkled his nose at the room, and took me into the kitchen.
“It's not going well today?” I asked.
“No. I just don't care what the Russians and French did to the Oregonians. Ever since you were here on Sunday I've been haunted by visions of Don Esteban Velasquez and his artifacts.” He patted the report and set it down on the chopping block with obvious reluctance.
I said, “Me, too. That's why I'm here. I need some professional advice.”
He motioned toward the director's chair I'd occupied on my previous visit. “Glad to help. You want a beer?”
“If you're having one. But I don't want to keep you from your work.”
He got out two Budweisers and held up a glass, looking at me questioningly. When I shook my head, he popped the tabs on both cans and handed me one. “The work will keep. It's fourteen to zip in favor of the Russo-French team, and frankly I'm bored with the game.” He sat down in the other chair, propping his feet against the chopping block, and added, “Thanks for not insisting on elegance. I hate to wash glasses.”
I said, “I should have stayed to help you with the dishes the other night.”
“That's okay. I can always count on Arturo for the washing up.”
“Speaking of him, one of the things I wanted to ask you is where he lives.”
“Diagonally across the square, three doors down from Dora. It's the little log cabin with moss growing all over the roof.”
The idea of one of my people living in a log cabin struck me as amusing, and I smiled.
Sam raised an eyebrow.
“Ethnic incongruity,” I said.
“Yeah, I know what you mean-he'd look funny in a coonskin cap. What else did you want to see me about? This report?” He motioned at the chopping block.
I summarized what was in the report for him and told him that I hoped there might be more pages in existence. “Is there anyplace that you know of where the files of that detective agency might have ended up?” I asked. “Or is there any organization that could tell me what happened to Carpenter and Quincannon?”
Sam ran a hand over his chin, smudging the ink streak even more, and finally said, “This was a San Francisco agency, right?”
“Yes.”
“Offhand, I can think of three places you could try: the California Historical Society branch in San Francisco, the California History Room of the public library there, and the Bancroft Library in Berkeley. But I'd say you're more likely to find the files of a defunct San Francisco business at one of the first two. I know the librarians at both; if you use my name and identify yourself as director of your museum, they'll be more than willing to help you.”
He got the names and numbers and told me to use the phone on his desk. I cleared off a space where I could set my notepad in case I needed to write anything down and then called the California History Room at the public library, billing the charges to my home number. As Sam had said, the librarian was very cooperative and took down what information I had; she said she'd call back within the hour. Next I tried the Historical Society; they had a computerized filing system, and after only a few minutes, their librarian told me there was no information on Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services.
I decided to wait for the reply from the public library before investing in a call to Berkeley, and Sam and I spent the time drinking another beer and speculating on John Quincannon: what he had been like, how long he had lived, whether he had ever found the Velasquez artifacts. When the phone finally rang, it was my call from San Francisco. The librarian told me she had been able to locate the materials I'd requested. There was a great deal of material from the files of Carpenter and Quincannon, including rough notes for the specific report I was looking for.
What other kinds of materials were there? I asked her. Was there anything of a personal nature, about the detectives themselves?
There were some diaries and private correspondence, she replied, and there might be a photograph or two. Of course I'd be welcome to look at anything they had. Did I plan to come to San Francisco to study the documents?
I hesitated. The trip would take a couple of days, and I didn't feel right about leaving town while Mama was in the hospital-especially since I would have to spend time cosseting her in order to make up for my earlier harsh words. “Is it possible for you to copy the documents and send them to me?” I finally asked.
Now the librarian hesitated. “This is for the Santa Barbara Museum of Mexican Arts?”
“Yes. I'm director there.”
Apparently she didn't see anything odd in an art museum requesting that type of historical information, because she said, “Normally we only perform such services for cardholders, and we'd need prepayment, but I think we can make an exception in your case-especially since you were referred by Sam Ryder.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate it.” Then, even though it was overstepping the bounds of courtesy, I added, “Do you think you could send them Express Mail?”
Again she didn't balk at my request, but merely agreed, saying I'd have the copies tomorrow morning and that an invoice would be enclosed.
I went back to the kitchen and flopped down in the director's chair, toasting Sam with my beer bottle. “Success. She'll put copies of the reports in the mail tonight, express.”
“That means that by tomorrow we'll know the end of the saga. Will you bring the papers up here-all of them, including the first ones you found?”
“Right away. We can read the new ones together.” I looked at my watch. It was nearly three. Suddenly a flat feeling stole over me, the kind you get when you're anticipating something exciting and then realize how long it's going to be before it happens. Sam must have felt the same way, because he sighed and stood up, looking gloomy.
“Time for the Russian and French aggressions,” he said.
“And I think I'll go up to the ruins of the pueblo and commune with the spirits-if any are left there.”
He followed me to the front door. “Were you planning to ask Arturo to go along?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“He told me you had mentioned doing that. He seemed to be looking forward to it.” Sam's eyes held a gleam-the same gleam my mother's get when she thinks some man might be interested in me.
I decided to ignore the insinuation and only said, “I'm looking forward to it, too.”
After promising a second time to bring the documents up to Las Lomas as soon as they arrived, I said good-bye to Sam and started across the square toward Arturo's log cabin. The day was warm and sunny, the air redolent of spring blossoms and new-mown grass. In the far corner of the weedy, overgrown area, a woman and two small girls squatted on the ground; they had cleared a patch and turned the earth, and the woman was showing the children how to plant seeds. I watched for a moment as they carefully measured out the contents of the little paper packets and placed them in the furrows, patting the dirt over them with chubby hands. I'd done the same thing as a child, and the wait until the first green shoots poked up into view had seemed unbearably long-much as the wait for Carpenter and Quincannon's files did now.