11
Quincannon
They found Pauline Dupree at the Gaiety Theater, a gaudily painted structure on Jackson near Kearny on the fringe of the Barbary Coast. A large billboard next to the entrance bore a photograph of a buxom young blond woman and an announcement in large black and gold letters that Miss Pauline Dupree was currently starring in matinee and evening performances of that “thrilling, titillating stage play” The Wages of Sin.
The guard on the stage door passed Wrixton and Quincannon without question, no doubt because the banker slipped him a coin when he confirmed the actress’s presence. She was in her dressing room preparing for her afternoon performance. More attractive in the flesh than in her photograph, she had dark gold tresses that may or may not have been a wig and bold, smoke-hued eyes wise beyond her years. She wore a long red dress for her stage role, its bodice cut so low that the swell of her ample bosom was alluringly revealed. Rouge the same hue as the dress brightened her cheeks.
As surprised as she was to see Wrixton at this hour, it was Quincannon’s entrance that caused her high color to pale a bit. But she recovered quickly, showing no other sign of recognition. “And who is this gentleman, Titus?” she asked the banker in a voice as smoky as her eyes.
“John Quincannon, the detective I told you about.” The smile Wrixton bestowed upon her was fatuous as well as apologetic. “I’m sorry to trouble you, my dear, but he insisted on seeing you.”
“Did he? And for what reason?”
“He wouldn’t say, precisely. But he seems to have a notion that you are, ah, somehow involved in the blackmail scheme.”
There was no longer any need to hold back. Quincannon said, “Not involved in it, the originator of it.”
Pauline Dupree’s only reaction was an arched eyebrow and a little moue of dismay. A talented actress, to be sure. But then, he’d already had ample evidence of her skills last night.
“I?” she said. “But that’s ridiculous.”
Quincannon’s gaze had roamed the small dressing room. Revealing costumes hung on racks and an array of paints and powders and various theatrical accessories was arranged on tables. He walked over to one of the tables, picked up and brandished a long-haired white wig.
“Is this the wig you wore last night, Mrs. Carver?” he asked her.
There was no slippage of her composure this time, either. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Your portrayal of Letitia Carver was quite good, I admit. The wig, the shawl and black dress and cane, the stooped posture and elderly quavering voice... all very accomplished playacting. And of course the darkness and the candlelight concealed the fact that the old-age wrinkles were a product of cleverly applied theatrical makeup.”
“And where was I supposed to have given this performance?” Pauline Dupree’s eyes were cold and hard now, but her voice remained even.
“The abandoned house next to Raymond Sonderberg’s cigar store in Gunpowder Alley. Before and after you murdered Sonderberg in his quarters behind the store.”
“What’s that?” Wrixton exclaimed in shocked tones. “See here, Quincannon! An accusation of blackmail is egregious enough, but to suggest that Miss Dupree is a murderess is—”
The actress said, “Outrageous nonsense, of course. I have no idea where Gunpowder Alley is, nor do I know anyone named Raymond Sonderberg.”
“Ah, but you do,” Quincannon said. “Or rather did. Like Mr. Wrixton, Sonderberg was drawn to variety houses such as this one. My guess is you made his acquaintance in much the same way as you did my client, and used your no doubt considerable charms to lure him into your blackmail scheme.”
“Preposterous!” Wrixton cried. “Utter rot!”
“But you never intended to share the spoils with him, did you, Miss Dupree? You wanted the entire ten thousand dollars. To finance your ambition to become a serious actress, mayhap? A trip east to New York?”
An eye flick was his only response. But it was enough to tell him that he’d guessed correctly.
“I give you credit,” he went on. “You planned it all well enough in advance. You had time to make your arrangements after learning from Mr. Wrixton that I would be at the Hotel Grant last evening. You found out from Sonderberg about the abandoned house next to his cigar store; he may even have helped you gain access. Sometime yesterday evening you went there and made final preparations for your performance — applied makeup, arranged a rocking chair near the window, created the illusion of an old woman seated there during the time you were disposing of your accomplice.”
“Yes? How did I do that?”
“By placing a dressmaker’s dummy in the chair, covering the head with the white wig, and draping the rest with the large shawl. This morning I found the dummy where you placed it, in the foyer closet.”
Wrixton made disbelieving, spluttering sounds.
The actress said, “And why would I have set such an elaborate stage?”
“To flummox me, of course. You knew from Mr. Wrixton that I would follow Sonderberg from the hotel and that I would be nearby after he arrived home with the money satchel. Your plan all along was to eliminate him once he had outlived his usefulness, and to do so by making cold-blooded murder appear to be suicide and staging an apparent vanishing act must have seemed the height of creative challenge.”
The banker should have been swayed by this time, but he wasn’t. His feelings for Pauline Dupree were evidently stronger than Quincannon had realized.
“My dear,” he said to his paramour, “you don’t have to listen to any more of this slanderous nonsense—”
“Let him finish this fiction of his, Titus. I’d like to know how he thinks I accomplished such a creative challenge.”
“It wasn’t difficult,” Quincannon said. “So devilishly simple, in fact, it had me buffaloed for a time — something that seldom happens.”
“Indeed?” she said.
“Indeed.” He paused to fluff his whiskers. “Your actions from the time you set the scene in the house were these: You left the same way you’d entered, by the rear door, crossed along the walkway, and were admitted to Sonderberg’s quarters through his rear door. Thus no passerby could possibly have seen you from the alley. How you explained the old crone’s makeup to Sonderberg is of no real import. By then I suspect he would have believed anything you told him.”
Quincannon paused, but she had nothing to say.
“You waited there, warm and dry,” he went on, “for his return from the Hotel Grant with the satchel. He locked both the entrance to the cigar store and the inside door leading to his quarters. You made haste to convince him by one means or another to let you have the satchel. Then you left him, again through the rear door, no doubt with instructions to lock and bar it behind you.”
“Oh? Then how am I supposed to have killed him inside his locked quarters?”
“By slipping around into the side passage and tapping on the window, as if you’d forgotten something. When Sonderberg opened it, raising it high on its hinge, you reached through the bars, shot him twice — the first shot must not have been a fatal one, an error on your part — and then immediately dropped the pistol to the floor. Naturally he released his grip on the window as he staggered backward, and it dropped and clattered shut — the loudish thump I heard before I ran into the passage. The force of impact flipped up the loose swivel catch at the bottom of the sash. Of its own momentum the catch then flipped back down and around the stud fastener, locking the window and adding to the illusion.
“It took you no more than a few seconds, then, to run to the rear walkway and reenter the house, locking that door behind you. While the patrolman and I were responding to the gunshots, you drew the parlor drapes, removed the dressmaker’s dummy from the rocking chair, donned the wig, and assumed the role of Letitia Carver. When I came knocking at the door a short while later, you could have simply ignored the summons; but you were so confident in your acting ability you decided instead to have sport with me, holding the candle you’d lit in such a position that your made-up face remained in shadow the entire time.”