If he wasn’t responsible, then the murder might well go unsolved and unpunished. The prospect didn’t set well with Sabina. She disliked loose ends, and offenses, especially violent offenses after what had happened to Stephen, that had no resolution. But what could she do about it? Mounting an investigation of her own without benefit of a client wasn’t justifiable, and there was little prospect of anyone hiring her on Clara Wilds’s behalf. Certainly not the woman’s uncle; even if Tony the Fish Monger had cared for his niece, it was unlikely that he could afford the agency’s fees. The only person Sabina had met who might have cared enough was Dippin’ Sal, and she too lacked the necessary funds.…
Sabina put these thoughts aside and turned her attention to the valuables she had recovered from the pickpocket’s rooms, which were still spread out on her desk. She checked each item against the list of Chutes victims’ losses Lester Sweeney had given her, and the information she’d obtained from Wilds’s victims on the Cocktail Route and at the Market Street bazaar. The items she was able to identify went into manila envelopes with the individual’s name written on each, then into her reticule.
When she was done, several pieces were still unaccounted for. All but one of these bore no identifying marks of any kind, so the only thing she could do was to check reports of stolen mechandise filed with police and insurance companies-a task that, with her busy schedule, would have to be done catch-as-catch-can. The one exception was the hammered silver money clip with the name of the silversmith who had made it etched into the metal.
In the city directory she found a listing for W. Reilly amp; Sons, Silversmiths-a shop that was large enough and modern enough to be a subscriber to the telephone exchange. Her call was answered by a deep-voiced man who gave his name as Wendell Reilly, the owner. Sabina identified herself and made her request, giving it weight by saying that the money clip had been stolen from its owner and would be returned once she knew to whom it belonged.
“If the clip is one of ours,” Reilly said, “I may be able to identify the customer. Many of our pieces are made to special order and this sounds as if it might be one of them. But I’ll have to see it to be sure.”
“Of course. I should be able to stop by later today. What are your hours?”
“The shop is open until five thirty, but I’m usually here until seven.”
Sabina thanked him and rang off.
There was one more task to be done before she was ready to leave. She removed two hundred dollars from the roll of confiscated greenbacks and added it to the single note remaining in the worn leather billfold. John wouldn’t approve if he knew-his view was that they were entitled to unverifiable cash sums recovered from crooks’ clutches-but she had no intention of telling him. Henry Holbrooke deserved a proper burial marker, and his widow needed whatever was left far more than Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services.
The offices of Mr. Charles Ackerman, owner of the Chutes and attorney for the Southern Pacific Railroad and the Market Street and Sutter Street railway lines, were in the Montgomery Block, a favored location for upper-echelon lawyers, physicians, and businessmen. The building, the first fireproof edifice constructed in the city, was known affectionately as the Monkey Block, but its stern gray masonry belied the nickname.
The suite belonging to Charles Ackerman amp; Associates was on the top floor, the fourth-an impressively appointed group of rooms that testified to the financial success of his many ventures. Sabina presented her card to a clerk in the outer office, who took it away with him. He returned in short order to usher her into Mr. Ackerman’s private sanctum.
Their client was a tall, broad-shouldered man with an ample corporation, impeccably dressed in black broadcloth. His mane of hair shone silver in the light slanting in through a pair of windows that offered views of the city and the bay. He took Sabina’s hand, bowed in a courtly fashion, then gestured for her to be seated across the polished expanse of his desk.
“Your investigation has produced rapid results, has it, Mrs. Carpenter?” he said without preamble.
“Yes, fortunately.” She withdrew the manila envelopes from her reticule, opened two of them, and placed the contents on the desk blotter for Mr. Ackerman’s brief inspection.
“You’ve recovered all the stolen items?”
“All those on the list Mr. Sweeney provided.”
“Excellent. You’ll return them immediately, I trust?”
“Beginning as soon as our interview is concluded.”
“And what of the person responsible?”
“I can guarantee,” Sabina said, “that the pickpocket will never again menace patrons at the Chutes or elsewhere.”
This satisfied Ackerman-a good thing because she had no intention of elaborating and would have employed evasive measures if he had pressed her. He produced a ledger, wrote out a check for the agreed-upon fee, rose to shake her hand a second time, and congratulated her on a job well done. “If ever I or any of my acquaintances should require your services again, I will not hesitate to recommend the Carpenter and Quincannon agency.”
To John, the best part of any successful transaction such as this was the amount of money collected. To her, the goodwill of a man of Charles Ackerman’s stature was of greater value.
Jessie Street seemed even shabbier today than it had on her previous visit. The cobblestones along its length were in serious need of repair. A trash bin had been overturned in the tiny yard of the home next door to the Holbrooke residence, and garbage was strewn across the weedy ground. No one was outdoors in the vicinity except for a pair of young boys playing a game that involved bashing a picket fence with sticks.
A FOR SALE sign now stood next to the Holbrookes’ gate. Financial straits, loneliness now that her husband was gone, or a combination of both had evidently convinced the widow to give up the property. This made Sabina even more certain that she was doing the right thing. As did the look of poor Mrs. Holbrooke when the old woman opened the door to Sabina’s knock. Her deeply lined face and sorrowful eyes, the tremors radiating around her mouth, were painful to behold.
“You remember me, Mrs. Holbrooke? Sabina Carpenter.”
“Yes. Have you something else to ask about what happened to my husband?”
“Not this time.” Sabina withdrew the old leather billfold from her reticule. “Is this your husband’s purse?”
The old woman took it, squinting, and ran her fingers over the beaded leather. “Why … why, yes, it is. Where did you find it? And so quickly?”
“A bit of good luck.”
“The woman who stole it … will she be punished?”
“She already has been.”
“I’m glad. I’m not a vengeful woman, but after what she did to Henry…”
“I understand.”
“But I don’t suppose … Henry’s money…”
“Look inside, Mrs. Holbrooke.”
The old woman opened the billfold, and when her eyes beheld the fold of greenbacks she gasped her surprise.
“Two hundred dollars,” Sabina said, “the full amount. I know it can’t begin to make up for your loss, but perhaps it will help.”
“Oh! Oh, yes! Now I can afford the headstone for Henry’s grave. And with what’s left over, I’ll have enough to buy my own train ticket to Antioch. My sister and her family have invited me to live with them now that I’ve decided to sell the house. They’ve been so kind. You’ve been so kind.” She took Sabina’s hand, pressed it tightly between hers. “Bless you, Mrs. Carpenter. Bless you!”
Sabina had a warm feeling of satisfaction when she left the widow Holbrooke. The old woman’s gratitude was worth even more than Charles Ackerman’s goodwill.
Her next planned stop was the home of George Davis near Washington Square. The route her hack driver chose to take her there passed near the shop of Wendell Reilly amp; Sons, Silversmiths, on Battery Street near the U.S. Customs House. This being the case, Sabina made up her mind to stop there first.