A few moments of silence ensued. Wrixton stood glaring at Quincannon, disbelief still plainly written on the lovesick dolt’s round features. Pauline Dupree’s expression was stoic, but in her eyes was a sparkle that might have been secret amusement.
“Utter bunkum,” the banker said with furious indignation. “Miss Dupree is no more capable of such nefarious trickery than I am.”
“Even if I were,” she said, “Mr. Quincannon has absolutely no proof of his claims.”
“When I find the ten thousand dollars and Mr. Wrixton’s letters, which of course were never stolen, I’ll have all the proof necessary. Hidden here, are they, or in your rooms?”
Again her response was not the one he’d anticipated. “You’re welcome to search both,” she said. Nor did the sparkle in her smoky eyes diminish; if anything, it brightened. Telling him, he realized, as plainly as if she had spoken the words, that such searches would prove futile and that he would never discover where the greenbacks were hidden no matter how long and hard he searched.
Sharp and bitter frustration goaded Quincannon now. There was no question that his deductions were correct, and he had been sure he could wring a confession from Pauline Dupree or at the very least convince Titus Wrixton of her duplicity. But he had succeeded in doing neither. They were a united front against him.
So much so that the banker had moved over to stand protectively in front of her, as if to shield her from further accusations. He said angrily, “Whatever your purpose in attempting to persecute this innocent young woman, Quincannon, I won’t stand for any more of it. Consider your services terminated. If you ever dare to bother Miss Dupree or me again, you’ll answer to the police and my attorneys.”
Behind Wrixton as he spoke, Pauline Dupree smiled and closed one eye in an exaggerated wink.
“Winked at me!” Quincannon ranted as he stalked back and forth across the office. “Stood there bold as brass and winked at me! The gall of the woman! The sheer mendacity! The—”
Unflappable as usual, Sabina said, “Calm yourself, John. Remember your blood pressure.”
“The devil with my blood pressure. As matters stand now she’s in a position to get away with murder!”
“Of a mean no-account as mendacious as she.”
“Murder nonetheless. Cold-blooded murder and blackmail, and with her idiot victim’s complicity.”
“Unfortunately, yes. But what can you do about it? She was right that you have no proof of her guilt.”
There was no gainsaying that last statement. He muttered a frustrated oath.
“John, you know as well as I do that justice isn’t always served. At least not immediately. Women like Pauline Dupree seldom go unpunished for long. Ruthlessness, greed, amorality, arrogance... all traits that sooner or later combine to bring about a harsh reckoning.”
“Not always. And the likelihood is not enough to satisfy me. Blast Titus Wrixton, too. I don’t understand the likes of him. What kind of man goes blithely on making a confounded fool of himself over a woman?”
Sabina cast a look at him, the significance of which he failed to notice. “All kinds, John. Oh, yes, all kinds.”
“Bah. I earned our fee, by Godfrey, but we’ll never collect it now.”
“Well, we do have his retainer.”
“It’s not enough. I ought to take the balance out of his hide.”
“But you won’t. You’ll consider the case closed, and take solace in the fact that once again you solved a baffling mystery. Your prowess in that regard remains unblemished.”
As true as this statement was, it didn’t serve to mollify Quincannon. The image of the actress’s sly wink still burned in his memory. “Consider the case closed?” he said darkly. “No. Absolutely not. Mark my words, Sabina. One way or another, John Quincannon will be the one to make Pauline Dupree pay for her crimes.”
12
Sabina
The doorbell at her Russian Hill flat ground out an unexpected summons early Wednesday morning, just as she finished fixing her two cats a shared plate of raw cod, their favorite meal. The animals were her pride and joy, companions that helped to combat the loneliness she sometimes felt. Adam, an Abyssinian mix, had been a stray she’d adopted, or rather who had adopted her, a little over a year ago. Eve, an all-black shorthair, had been a gift from Charles Percival Fairchild III — the strange, mysterious crackbrain who fancied himself to be the famous British detective Sherlock Holmes. The cats had taken to each other immediately and were fond of playing all sorts of endlessly entertaining feline games.
Looking down at Eve, Sabina thought of Charles the Third, who had helped, hindered, and exasperated her and John on several of their recent investigations. Charles had disappeared some three months ago, the Lord only knew where to, after the revelation of his true identity involved him and Sabina in the Plague of Thieves Affair. Like John, she was relieved that the surprisingly adept faux Sherlock was no longer around to suddenly pop up out of nowhere, often enough in outlandish disguises and with amazing bits of information and deductions, and to insinuate himself into their professional and personal lives. Yet she had to admit that she’d grown almost fond of him, now and then missing his stimulating if perplexing presence. After all, he had given her Eve and his final act before vanishing had been to literally save her life...
The doorbell put an end to these thoughts. Sabina hurried downstairs. Callers at 8:00 A.M. were rare; not even John had had occasion to stop by at such an early hour. The last person who had was the nasty muckraking journalist Homer Keeps, during the Spook Lights Affair. There had been no recent case sufficiently sensational for Keeps or any of his ink-stained brethren to be bothering her, but then members of the Fourth Estate were notoriously unpredictable.
It was Amity Wellman and Elizabeth Petrie, not a reporter, who stood outside her door.
Surprised, Sabina admitted them. If their presence here hadn’t been enough to tell her something unpleasant had taken place, their expressions would have. Amity appeared nervous, tense. Elizabeth’s usual deceptively grandmother-like air had been replaced this morning by a stern, tight-lipped demeanor.
Elizabeth said, “I’m glad we caught you home, Sabina. I tried to call earlier, but as usual the Exchange is having problems with the telephone lines. And I wasn’t sure you’d be going to the agency this morning.”
“What’s happened?”
“There’s been another note,” Amity said. “Slipped through the mail slot last night, the same as the others. Kamiko found it.”
Elizabeth produced the message from the large plaid bag she carried. Although it was a knitting bag, it would also contain a small-caliber pistol that had belonged to her husband, Sabina knew.
Both the envelope and note were identical to the others in Sabina’s possession, written in blue ink in a ruler-neat hand on heavy vellum paper. The words on this one read:
Fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul, but rather fear him which is able to destroy both soul and body in hell. The wages of false prophecy is the same as the wages of sin: DEATH AND DAMNATION AWAIT YOU!
Elizabeth said, “I don’t mind saying it gave me the shivers. Whoever is doing this to Mrs. Wellman is surely insane.”