“Hell, damn, and blast!” he muttered angrily to himself. He slid the derringer back into his pocket, hurried to Neal and around the corner before any of Lily’s neighbors came out to investigate.
Grass Valley a tame place now, its streets safe at night? Bah! There was still plenty of hell left in this town. The question was, had this particular hell been directed at him or someone else?
The Holbrooke Hotel, a two-story brick edifice, was Grass Valley’s oldest and finest hostelry. Presidents Grant, Harrison, Cleveland, and Garfield had purportedly stayed there during visits to California; so had Gentleman Jim Corbett. And so had the notorious Mother Lode highwayman, Black Bart — one fact that the management chose not to advertise. If any of the hotel’s distinguished guests had ever wandered uphill to Texas Johnny’s Golden Gate Brothel, a nearby attraction in the old boomtown days, this fact was also held in discreet confidence.
The dimly lit lobby was deserted when Quincannon entered. He climbed the staircase to the second floor, went around the corner past number 8, his room, and stopped before number 11 at the rear. Light showed in a thin strip beneath the door. He knocked softly. It was no more than five seconds before the latch clicked and the door opened.
He said, “Ah, the lovely Saint Louis Rose.”
“Hello, dearie,” Sabina said.
3
Sabina
She caught hold of his coat sleeve, tugged him inside, and quickly shut the door. She still wore her outlandish Saint Louis Rose costume, all except for the red wig which caused her head to itch, but she had scrubbed off the hideous rose-colored lip rouge and removed the false eyelashes. Her long black hair, uncoiled and combed out, drew and held John’s admiring gaze. It was the first time he’d seen it that way, she realized, for she always wore it rolled and fastened with a jeweled comb at the agency and on their social outings.
“You’re late, John. I expected you an hour ago.”
“I’ve been to Lily Dumont’s cottage.”
“Have you now. For what purpose?”
“Not the one you’re thinking. She’s still dealing faro. And she has too many admirers already.”
“Jack O’Diamonds as well as Glen Bonnifield. And I’ll warrant Diamond is more than simply an admirer.”
“My thought exactly.”
“Lady One-Eye is also aware of it.”
John nodded and fluffed his beard. Or attempted to, the habitual gesture being stayed somewhat by the fact that it was no longer as thick and bushy as a freebooter’s; he had trimmed it for his role as a mixologist. Sabina rather preferred it this way. It had a softening effect on his features, made his dark eyes less fierce.
“Trouble there, do you think?” he asked.
“Of one kind or another. Lily Dumont is a dish to tempt any man, especially one with a block of ice for a wife.”
“I prefer loud and bawdy redheads, myself.” He gave her a broad wink. “Come over here, Rosie, and give us a kiss.”
“I will not. Stand your distance.”
“The Saint Louis Rose is no more likely than Lily Dumont to refuse a handsome, devoted gent a kiss. Or anything else he might want.”
“Perhaps not. But Sabina Carpenter is and you know it.”
“At least for the nonce.”
“John...”
“I was only having a innocent bit of sport with you, my dear.”
“Innocent, my eye.”
John sighed and went to sit on one of the room’s plush chairs. He gazed wistfully at his partner in Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services. One thing you could say for his tastes, Sabina thought. He was far more attracted to a mature, well-bred woman with more than a dozen years of experience as a detective, half of those with the Pinkerton Agency’s Denver office, than he was to the likes of Lady One-Eye and the Saint Louis Rose. Still...
“What did you mean by loud and bawdy?” she demanded. “Do you think I overplayed my role tonight?”
“Well... perhaps a touch.”
“I thought my performance was rather good.”
“It’s too bad Lotta Crabtree wasn’t here to see it. She might have offered you a new career as a stage actress.”
“Don’t make fun of me, John. I didn’t strike a false note with Lady One-Eye, I’m certain of that.”
“You really enjoy playing the Rose, don’t you?”
Yes, she did. It wasn’t often that she was able to operate undercover, and when she did it was usually in a rather commonplace role — that of a milliner in Silver City, Idaho, for instance, when she’d been with the Pinkerton’s Denver office and had first met John. Portraying a character like the Rose held a certain amount of girlish pleasure, in the same way dressing up in costume had when she was a child growing up in Chicago.
Her smile prompted him to say, “Even though the Lady did succeed in plucking you like a chicken?”
“I wouldn’t say I was plucked, exactly.”
“How much did you lose? The entire fifteen hundred McFinn provided?”
“Yes. Mostly on that last hand.”
“A straight to your three jacks. Luck of the cards, or did she manufacture her own luck?”
“Oh, I’m fairly sure she’s a skin-game artist,” Sabina said. “One of the best I’ve seen or heard of.”
“Were you able to spot her gaff?”
“I think so. But she’s so proficient at it that it took me most of the night. I wouldn’t have seen it at all if I hadn’t spent those weeks with Jim Moon at the Oyster Ocean in Denver a few years ago, learning his bag of tricks. It boils down to manipulating the cards so she knows her opponent’s hole card on at least half the hands she deals.”
In gathering the cards for her deal, Sabina explained, Lady One-Eye dropped her own last hand on top of the deck, the five cards having been arranged so that the lowest was on top and the highest second in line. As she did this she gave the five cards a quick, almost imperceptible squeeze, which produced a slight convex longitudinal bend. During the shuffle, she maneuvered the five-card slug to the top of the deck. Then, just before offering the deck for the cut, she buried the slug in the middle, at the point where her opponent tended to cut each time. The slight crimp in the cards ensured that the slug would be returned to the top. All she had to do then was to deal fairly, flexing the deck once or twice first to take out the slug’s bend. The first card she dealt, which she knew from memory, was therefore the opponent’s hole card. And her hole card, the second in line, was always higher.
“Clever,” John said. “The advantage is small, but for a sharp it’s enough to control almost any game.”
Sabina dipped her chin in agreement. “But I’ll need to play her once more — or rather, the Saint Louis Rose will — to make absolutely sure I’m right about her gaff. An hour or so should do it. If, that is, Mr. McFinn will stake me to another five hundred.”
“He will if you tell him what you suspect.”
“I’m not sure I should until I’m certain. And he was already bemoaning the loss of tonight’s fifteen hundred.”
“He agreed to finance your gambling. Another five hundred won’t matter to him if his star attraction is quietly exposed as a cheat and it saves the Gold Nugget from being shut down.” The broad wink again. “Of course, if he does refuse I could finance the Rose’s game myself in exchange for her favors.”
His boldness had increased since she had allowed him to keep company with her outside the office, and in a weak moment had gone with him to his bachelor flat one evening after dinner, and as always it exasperated her. There was a time and place for such forward banter, and while they were engaged in an undercover investigation was neither of those. She said as much, sternly. He pretended to pout, but had the good sense not to make any further unwelcome comments.