“Do you? Perhaps not. I will tell you the details of my father's death and the destruction of his property. They are important to my reason for coming here.”
“By all means, Senor Velasquez.”
Velasquez told his story in short, clipped sentences drenched in bitterness. Quincannon was a careful listener, and he thought that the account of the Americans' attack on Rancho Rinconada de los Robles was highly colored and possibly lacking facts as well as perspective. Nevertheless, he found it interesting-particularly so when Velasquez explained about his father's collection of religious artifacts. He took copious notes, as he always did on any investigation, from beginning to end, the easier to order all the facts for the report he would later write.
“The artifacts were hidden somewhere on the rancho,” Velasquez said, “either at the hacienda or at the pueblo nearby. If Don Esteban did not hide them himself, he would have entrusted the task to the padre of San Anselmo de las Lomas, the pueblo church. Padre Urbano was also murdered during the siege. There were no survivors, other than the women and children who were evacuated before Fremont's butchers came.”
“Were the artifacts later recovered?”
“No, they were not. At least not by members of my family. Their hiding place has never been found.”
“But surely your father or the padre provided some sort of written record …”
“The day before the attack Don Esteban wrote a letter to my mother in Mexico City. She had taken me there ten months earlier, before the outbreak of war. I have always believed the location of the artifacts was included in this letter. But it never reached my mother. The woman to whom it was entrusted, a mestiza servant, gave it to the captain of a loyalist schooner at Refugio Beach; we later learned the schooner was sunk by an American gunboat before it reached Mexico. The letter was lost with the captain.”
“And there was no other record?” Quincannon asked.
“If there was, it was destroyed or confiscated by the revolutionists.” Velasquez made an angry slashing gesture with his cigarillo, as if it were a sword aimed downward at John Fremont's neck. “Part of the hacienda and most of the pueblo were blown apart by cannon or damaged by fire.”
“Is it possible Fremont's soldiers found the artifacts?”
“Possible, yes. There was much looting done. But my family and our emissaries were unable to locate any of the artifacts, or word of any of them, in nearly fifty years.”
“Gold and silver can easily be melted down,” Quincannon pointed out.
“Of course. But only half of the artifacts were made of gold and silver. The rest are holy books, devotional paintings, icons. At least some of those should have come to our attention.”
“Then, you believe they are still hidden?”
“That has always been my belief, yes. And my mother's, to the day of her death five years ago. Many searches were mounted after the war ended and we returned from Mexico. Our debts were great; we had little money, and the sale of the artifacts would have prevented much of our land from being sold at auction.”
“So it would seem they were hidden too well.”
“So it would seem.”
“Perhaps not, though,” Quincannon said. “Or am I wrong in assuming one or more of the artifacts have now surfaced? That one, in fact, is in that carpetbag alongside your chair?”
Surprise stiffened Velasquez, bent him forward. “Diablos! How do you know this?”
Quincannon said sagely, “An elementary deduction.” Not so long ago he had read a volume of detective stories by a British physician named Conan Doyle; Doyle's detective used phrases such as that, and Quincannon liked the sound of them. “You wouldn't have explained about the artifacts if they weren't all or part of your reason for consulting me. Nor would you have brought a carpetbag here unless it contains something you wish to show me. And you could hardly want a private detective to mount a blind search for treasure buried since 1846. The logical conclusion, then, is that one or more of the artifacts have been located and you wish me to investigate the circumstances surrounding the recovery. And to determine if other of the artifacts can also be recovered. Correct?”
Velasquez seemed reluctantly impressed. “That is it exactly,” he said. “You must be a detective of uncommon skill, senor.”
“Others have been kind enough to say so.” Quincannon was enjoying himself. Perhaps it was the winy air, the sounds and smells of spring; he felt very self-confident today, in a whimsical sort of way. “Now then, about the recovered artifacts. How many were there?”
“Only one. A statue of the Virgin Mary.”
Velasquez lifted the carpetbag, opened it, and took out a large cloth sack closed at the top by a drawstring. The content of the sack was clearly heavy, and Quincannon saw why when it was revealed: the statue was some fourteen inches in height, several inches wide, and made of what appeared to be pure gold, dulled now by age and showing the gouges and scratches of careless handling. Almost reverently Velasquez passed it across the desk. Quincannon turned it over and around in his hands. It was of the Holy Virgin standing in an attitude of prayer, hands below her chin, eyes closed. On the flat bottom of the base, etched into the gold, were the words FRANCISCO PORTOLA POR DON ESTEBAN VELASQUEZ, and the date 1843.
At length Quincannon set the statue down on his desk, equidistant between Velasquez and himself. His whimsical feeling had vanished; something about the statue had turned his thoughts serious. Still looking at it, he said, “Where was it found?”
“Here in San Francisco. In a curio shop on McAllister Street owned by a man named Duff.”
“Luther Duff?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“Only by reputation.”
“He is not honest?”
“Occasionally he is,” Quincannon said. “Did he contact you about the statue?”
“No, no, it was found in his shop by a man named Barnaby O'Hare.”
“And Barnaby O'Hare is-?”
“A historian. He is writing a history of los ranchos grandest.”
“A friend of yours?”
“Hardly,” Velasquez said, as if the very idea of friendship with a gringo offended him. “I permitted him a short stay at Rancho Rinconada de los Robles three months ago and provided him with information for his book.”
“Does he reside in San Francisco?”
“No. In Los Angeles. He has been here for two weeks, examining documents and photographs in your Bancroft Library.”
“He came upon the statue by accident, then?”
“Yes.”
“And notified you immediately?”
“By telegram.”
“You'd told him the story of the hidden artifacts?”
Velasquez shrugged. “He knew it when he came to me. It is not common knowledge, but neither is it a secret. My family has spent too much money, and employed too many men, in the search for the artifacts.”
“What were your actions when you received Mr. O'Hare's wire?”
“I made immediate arrangements for the statue's purchase.”
“With O'Hare?”
“Yes. And with an official of the California Commercial Bank. That was three days ago. I arrived myself only yesterday.”
“What was Duff's asking price?”
“Two thousand dollars.”
“A pretty sum,” Quincannon observed.
“I would have paid twice that amount.”
“You are satisfied the statue is authentic?”
“Completely satisfied. The inscription on the base could not have been forged.”
“Where did Duff obtain it? Would he say?”
“He claimed it was included in a lot he purchased at auction two years ago in San Jose. He does not know who owned it or from where it came, he said.” Velasquez scowled as he rubbed out the remains of his cigairillo in Quincannon's abalone-shell ashtray. “But from what you have told me about him, he might have lied.”
“He might well have. Luther Duff would lie to God Himself for a twenty-dollar gold piece. There are ways of dealing with the likes of Mr. Duff, however-ways of finding out the truth of a matter.” Quincannon smiled his capable, reassuring smile. “At which hotel are you stopping, sir?”