Gentry called him a name and tried once again to mount a charge. The lieutenant shoved him back, nonetoo gently.
“And if all that isn’t sufficient validation of his duplicity,” Quincannon concluded, “there is Mrs. Scarlett. She had a good look at the man who followed her yesterday and can easily identify him.” A bald lie, this, but an effective capper nonetheless. “Gentry had no official reason to be following the woman, did he, Lieutenant?”
“No,” Price said darkly, “he didn’t.”
The chief stalked around his desk and fixed Gentry with a gimlet eye. “A damned highbinder no better than Little Pete or Mock Quan — is that what you are, Gentry?”
“No! No, I swear—”
“Because if so I’ll see your mangy hide strung from the highest flagpole in the city.”
Gentry shook his head, his eyes rolling, sweat shining on his forehead and cheeks. He was still wagging his head as Quincannon judiciously slipped out and went to find a quiet corner where he could smoke his pipe and enjoy his vindication.
“Gentry’s shell was no harder to crack than a Dungeness crab’s,” he told Sabina a while later. “It took Crowley and Price less than fifteen minutes to break him wide open.”
“No doubt with the aid of some gentle persuasion.”
“Have you ever known the blue shadows to use another kind?”
She laughed. “What was his motive? Power and greed, the same as Mock Quan’s?”
“Those, and severe gambling losses. Which was why he sold himself to the Hip Sing in the first place. It seems the sergeant has a fondness for roulette and fan-tan, and little skill at any game of chance.”
“Well, I must say you’ve plenty of skill at your particular game.”
“I have, haven’t I?”
“Exceeded only by your modesty,” Sabina said. “Still, it’s thanks to you that the crisis in Chinatown has been averted.”
“For the time being. Until another, smarter Mock Quan emerges or something or someone else lights the fuse. Mark my words — one of these days, the whole Quarter will go up in flames.”
“You may be right. In any event, this is one case it will be a relief, if not a pleasure, to mark closed. We’ll waive Mrs. Scarlett’s fee, of course. I’ll post a letter to her tomorrow — Why are you looking at me that way?”
Quincannon was aghast. He said, “Waive her fee?”
“It’s the least we can do for the poor woman.”
“Sabina, have you forgotten that I was shot at twice and almost killed? As well as made to trek through low Chinatown alleys, prowl opium dens, and invade an undertaking parlor in search of a snatched corpse?”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
“Well, then? All of that, not to mention a near tarnish on our fine reputation as detectives, for not so much as a copper cent?”
“I’m afraid so, my erstwhile Scot. It’s the proper thing to do and you know it.”
“Bah. I know nothing of the kind.”
Her expression softened. After a silence during which she seemed to be doing a bit of weighing and balancing, she said, “I suppose you should have one small reward, at least.”
“Yes? And what would that be?”
“An evening out with me, if you like. Dinner at the Palace, then a performance of Gilbert and Sullivan’s new opera at the Tivoli Theater. I’ve been wanting to see Patience since it opened.”
Quincannon’s momentary gloom evaporated as swiftly as an ice cube in a furnace. Smiling jauntily, he said, “And after the performance?”
“You may escort me to my flat.”
“And after that?”
Sabina sighed. “You never give up, do you, John Quincannon?”
“Never. For my intentions are honorable, my passions sweet and pure. No, never, as long as a breath remains in my body.”
The word Sabina uttered in response to that was heartfelt and decidedly unladylike.
Wishful Thinking
When I got home from work, a little after six as usual, Jerry Macklin was sitting slumped on his front porch. Head down, long arms hanging loose between his knees. Uh-oh, I thought. I put the car in the garage and walked back down the driveway and across the lawn strip onto the Macklins’ property.
“Hi there, Jerry.”
He looked up. “Oh, hello, Frank.”
“Hot enough for you?”
“Hot,” he said. “Yes, it’s hot.”
“Only June and already in the nineties every day. Looks like we’re in for another blistering summer.”
“I guess we are.”
“How about coming over for a beer before supper?”
He waggled his head. He’s long and loose, Jerry, with about twice as much neck as anybody else. When he shakes his big head, it’s like watching a bulbous flower bob at the end of a stalk. As always these days, his expression was morose. He used to smile a lot, but not much since his accident. About a year ago he fell off a roof while on his job as a building inspector, damaged some nerves and vertebrae in his back, and was now on permanent disability.
“I killed Verna a little while ago,” he said.
“Is that right?”
“She’s in the kitchen. Dead on the kitchen floor.”
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“We had another big fight and I went and got my old service pistol out of the attic. She didn’t even notice when I came back down with it, just started in ragging on me again. I shot her right after she called me a useless bum for about the thousandth time.”
“Well,” I said. Then I said, “A gun’s a good way to do it, I guess.”
“The best way,” Jerry said. “All the other ways, they’re too uncertain or too bloody. A pistol really is the best.”
“Well, I ought to be getting on home.”
“I wonder if I should call the police.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Jerry.”
“No?”
“Wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“Hot day like this, maybe I—”
“Jerry!” Verna’s voice, from inside the house. Loud and demanding, but with a whiny note underneath. “How many times do I have to ask you to come in here and help me with supper? The potatoes need peeling.”
“Damn,” Jerry said.
Sweat had begun to run on me; I mopped my face with my handkerchief. “If you feel like it,” I said, “we can have that beer later on.”
“Sure, okay.”
“I’ll be in the yard after supper. Come over anytime.”
His head wobbled again, up and down this time. Then he stood, wincing on account of his back, and shuffled into his house, and I walked back across and into mine. Mary Ellen was in the kitchen, cutting up something small and green by the sink. Cilantro, from the smell of it.
“I saw you through the window,” she said. “What were you talking to Jerry about?”
“Three guesses.”
“Oh, Lord. I suppose he killed Verna again.”
“Yep.”
“Where and how this time?”
“In the kitchen. With his service pistol.”
“That man. Three times now, or is it four?”
“Four.”
“Other people have nice normal neighbors. We have to have a crazy person living next door.”
“Jerry’s harmless, you know that. He was as normal as anybody before he fell off that roof.”