“The Bellevue,” Velasquez said, “but I have already checked out. Tonight I will be reluming to Santa Barbara. As much as I would prefer to remain here until your investigation is completed, there is business that demands my attention at home.”
“Will you be traveling by train?”
“Of course.”
“Departing when?”
“Seven o'clock.”
“I will meet you on the platform at six-thirty,” Quincannon promised, “with a report of my talk with Luther Duff and an outline of how I will proceed.”
“Bueno.”
Contractual matters and the exchange of fifty dollars in greenbacks were quickly consummated. It was while Velasquez was resacking the gold statue of the Virgin Mary that Sabina returned from an errand that had taken her to the Wells Fargo office on Sutter Street.
She appeared pleased to find a new client on the premises and the crisp sheaf of greenbacks on Quincannon's desk. But her pleasure lasted only until Quincannon introduced her as his partner, the Carpenter of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, and she observed the expression of incredulity on Velasquez's walnut-brown face, heard him say in scornful tones, “Partner? A woman?”
Sabina said stiffly, “And why not, Senor Velasquez?”
“Women should not be detectives.” He spoke to Quincannon rather than to her, and there was censure in his voice; it was plain he thought less of Quincannon's judgment than he had before Sabina's arrival. “Their place is in the home-”
“Faugh!” Sabina said. “What old-fashioned nonsense! I'll have you know that before Mr. Quincannon and I opened this agency, I was an operative of the Pinkerton Agency in Denver …”
“And a fine one she was,” Quincannon said. “Progress, Senor Velasquez. Changing times. The new century is only six years hence.” He had taken Velasquez's arm and was gently steering him and his carpetbag away from Sabina, toward the door. “There are tasks a woman can perform that a man cannot, even in the detective business. Many such tasks. Surely you understand, a man of your intellect and insight.”
“Women have no place in the affairs of men-”
“Thank you so much for placing your trust in me. A decision you won't regret, I assure you. Until six-thirty this evening, then? Good-bye, Senor Velasquez, have a pleasant afternoon.” And Quincannon, smiling, nudged him through the door and shut it quickly before Velasquez could offer another comment.
When he looked at Sabina, he saw that there were spots of color on her cheeks the size of silver dollars. She said between her teeth, “What an insufferable, smug, pompous-”
“Now, now. Progressive ideas are foreign to gentlemen of the Mexican aristocracy. Senor Velasquez is a victim of his lineage.”
“Senor Velasquez,” Sabina said, “is an ass.”
Quincannon moved to his desk and gestured at the sheaf of greenbacks. “Fifty dollars, my dear, and the promise of considerably more. He may be an ass, but he isn't a poor one.”
“Mm. Just what is it he hired you to do?”
Quincannon explained. Sabina continued to look ruffled and annoyed, but he was not displeased by this. He thought that she was radiant when she was aroused. She was not a beautiful woman, or even a pretty one in any conventional sense; but at thirty-one she possessed a mature attractiveness. There was strength in the shape of her face and mouth, intelligence in eyes the dark color of the sea at dusk. Her hair, layered high on her head and fastened with a jeweled comb (a fashion he found exotic and appealing), shone a sleek blue-black in the sunlight slanting in through the windows at her back. And her figure was a fine, slim one, handsomely draped today in a lacy white shirtwaist and a Balmoral skirt. Looking at her as he spoke, he found his thoughts stirring, shifting again toward those mildly indecent speculations he had indulged in earlier.
“Do you really suppose the statue can be traced to its previous owner?” she asked.
“Perhaps. That depends on what can be learned from Luther Duff.”
“You're going to see him now?”
“I am. I should be back by three.” He hesitated. “Sabina, have you plans for this evening?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, I had in mind dinner at the Old Poodle Dog, opera bouffe at the Tivoli, coffee and cordials at the Hoffman Cafe-”
“-and a private carriage ride in the moonlight?”
He pretended to be stung. “I had no such intention.”
“Didn't you? John, will you never give up?”
“Never. And will you never give in?”
A smile played at the corners of her mouth. The smile encouraged him. He said, “A fine spring evening should not be spent alone in one's rooms.”
“What makes you think I plan to spend it alone in my rooms?”
Now he was stung. “Who is he?”
“Whom?”
“Your gentleman friend.”
She laughed. “His name is John Quincannon and his persistence can be exasperating at times.”
“Ah,” he said, and smiled. “Ah, but he means well. You'll join me for dinner, then?”
“Yes, but not at the Old Poodle Dog. Such extravagance.”
“Nothing is too extravagant for you, my dear.”
“John's Grill will be fine.”
“And the opera bouffe, the coffee and cordials?”
“Yes. But not the moonlight carriage ride.”
“I had no such intention …”
“Oh, bosh,” she said, but she was still smiling. She turned toward her desk across the room from his. “Go about your business, John, and let me go about mine.”
Quincannon plucked his derby off the hat tree by the door, placed it on his head at a jaunty angle, winked at her boldly when he saw that she wasn't looking, and went out to the elevators. He felt fine. There was no longer any doubt in his mind; he was absolutely certain that spring had worked its magic on Sabina just as it had on him.
She was weakening. It was only a matter of time.
TWO
Quincannon rode the streetcar up Market to Van Ness, paused after disembarking to light his pipe, and walked to McAllister Street. There was considerable traffic today, as a result of the fine weather. The broad expanse of Van Ness Avenue was clogged with buggies, surreys, hansom cabs. Men and women in their spring finery strolled the tree-shaded sidewalks. Lovers, some of them, Quincannon noted slyly. He smiled at them, tipped his hat to the ladies. He wished he had thought to bring his stick with him this morning; young blades always carried a stick, and he felt like a young blade again, one with the promise of a clandestine evening just ahead.
No carriage ride in the moonlight, Sabina had said. Ah, but had she meant it?
Luther Duff's Curio Shop, as it was unimaginatively called, was in the second block of McAllister west of Van Ness, crowded among similar establishments. A small bell announced his entrance into a gloomy, cluttered interior that smelled of dust, mildew, and slow decay. Only one window was visible, and that so begrimed its glass was opaque; four strategically placed electric lights provided nearly all of the dim illumination. As far as Quincannon could tell, the premises were deserted.
He moved toward the rear, making his way between and around clusters of furniture. He recognized a French cabinet made of ebony panels inlaid with brass, a Spanish refectory table, a Dutch East Indies chest, a Tyrolean pine coffer, a black-lacquered Chinese wardrobe festooned with fire-breathing dragons. Other items caught his attention briefly in passing: a damascened suit of armor, shelves of dust-laden books, several clocks large and small, a trio of odd Aztec fetishes, a stuffed and molting peacock, a set of brightly enameled Japanese dishes, a wavy-bladed Malay kris, a collection of Florentine bronzes, an artillery bugle, a Georgian brass ship's compass, a case of tarnished silverware, a paint-splotched English saddle, an unmarked marble tombstone, and a yellow-varnished portrait of a fat nude woman who would have looked far more aesthetic, he thought, with her clothes on.