Quincannon climbed to the weather deck and entered the purser’s cubicle. “What time do we reach Kennett’s Crossing?” he asked.
“Shortly before midnight, sir.”
“Is a stop scheduled there tonight?”
The thin, bewhiskered purser consulted his passenger manifest. “Yes,” he said, “a request has been made.” That was all he’d say, but Quincannon thought it was enough to confirm his suspicions.
In the lamplit deckhouse tunnel, Negro and Chinese waiters were busily setting up long, linen-covered tables. Dinner was served here, as on all the river packets, since none had space for separate dining rooms. Quincannon had no intention of eating with the other passengers, lest Pauline Dupree put in an appearance while he was doing so. But neither did he intend to skip the meal; he’d had no lunch and already his innards were complaining. He tipped the dining steward a silver dollar for the privilege of having his meal — a dozen raw oysters on the half shell, venison stew, fresh vegetables — delivered to his stateroom.
The food was delivered shortly after the mealtime hubbub began. He ate slowly, then sat planning strategy through a pipeful of Navy Cut. Given the late hour of their arrival at Kennett’s Crossing, and if Dupree was in fact bound for Noah Rideout’s Schyler Island farm, it seemed probable that she would be met at the landing by Rideout or one of his minions. There was an inn there, but it was as primitive as the rest of the little backwater hamlet — not the sort of place a woman like her would find comfortable even for part of a night if it could be avoided.
What he would do then, Quincannon thought, was follow her off the Captain Weber at a distance, taking care to avoid being seen, and put up at Kennett’s Inn himself. In the morning he would get directions to Rideout’s property, rent a horse, and ride there. The element of surprise and whatever cunning was necessary should have the desired results. Assuming, of course, that Noah Rideout was not the same sort of obdurate, lovesick ignoramus as his Titus Wrixton. And judging by the landowner’s reputation, he was susceptible to but not blinded by feminine charms.
Once the dining period ended, silence, broken only by the rhythmic chunking of the stern buckets, descended on the packet. Quincannon read for a while in the book he’d brought along, Ralph Waldo Emerson’s splendid May Day and Other Poems, then dozed until his trained mind brought him alert at eleven. Twenty-five minutes later by his stem-winder, he donned chesterfield, scarf, and cap and then, carrying his valise, went out to the forward deckhouse observation area.
He stood in the shadows along the rail, loaded and fired his pipe. The packet was on her winding course among the San Joaquin Delta islands now, the weather here mostly clear except for patches of ground mist, the wind light and not as cold.
His wait lasted some fifteen minutes. During that time he expected Pauline Dupree to emerge from the deckhouse with her carpetbag in hand, but when they traversed a bight in the river and Kennett’s Crossing’s lantern-lit landing appeared ahead, she had yet to put in an appearance. Nor did she emerge as the Captain Weber slowed and the pilot began whistling their arrival. Or when the packet nosed up to the rickety dock. Or when deckhands swiftly lowered the gangplank.
No one disembarked.
But someone boarded — a lone male. After which the gangplank was quickly raised and the Captain Weber swung out again into the channel.
Nonplussed, Quincannon watched the new passenger climb the stairs to the deckhouse, a small possibles bag looped over his shoulder. There was enough lantern light and pale moonlight to make out the features of a man no older than thirty-five dressed in a long buffalo-skin coat. The man passed him without a glance, went into the deckhouse.
On impulse Quincannon followed, peering around the corner in time to see the newcomer knock on the door of Pauline Dupree’s stateroom. It opened immediately and the man disappeared inside.
Hell, damn, and blast!
Who was he? Not Noah Rideout, who was twenty years older and sufficiently wealthy to encase himself in clothing of a much better quality. Another of Pauline Dupree’s paramours or pawns? If so, it seemed probable that he had some connection with her plans and that those plans concerned Rideout; the late-night boarding at Kennett’s Crossing augered against any other explanation.
Grumbling and glowering, Quincannon returned to the observation area to fetch his valise. He took it into his stateroom, then almost but not quite closed the door, leaving a crack through which he could look out into the tunnel. He stood watch there for the better part of half an hour. Buffalo Coat had evidently been invited to spend the rest of the night with the promiscuous, duplicitous Miss Dupree.
It now appeared that she intended to travel all the way to Stockton. To meet Noah Rideout there or for some other purpose? And just who the devil was the fellow who’d boarded at Kennett’s Crossing?
16
Sabina
Her Friday began with a telephone call from Cornelius Sutton, the head of Sutton Securities Incorporated and the man who had hired John to investigate the suspected embezzlement by Robert Featherstone, the financial management firm’s chief accountant. The crotchety old gentleman (John’s description) was indeed crotchety this morning; he had been promised a report by close of business yesterday and had not received it. He became even more irate when Sabina informed him that John was not in the office and she had no idea where he was or when he would make himself available. The poor connection, another problem the Telephone Exchange was plagued with lately, saved her from having to listen and respond to a series of additional grumbles. She said, or rather shouted, that Mr. Quincannon would be in touch as soon as possible and then broke the connection.
John had been to the office sometime yesterday, evidently with the intention of preparing his report on Featherstone for delivery to Mr. Sutton. Sabina discovered this by checking his desk. The ink-stained blotter had been empty when she left for the bank and Voting Rights for Women; the Featherstone file now sat in the middle of it. She opened it and read through the contents. The evidence it contained, as his note had indicated, seemed mostly complete, but whether or not it was damning enough to satisfy their client she couldn’t be certain.
Why hadn’t John delivered it? Or at least contacted Mr. Sutton? It wasn’t like him to shirk his duties, especially when a substantial compensation was to be had. Something must have happened to deter him. The thought that it might be something perilous was disturbing and she quickly banished it.
She debated delivering the file to Mr. Sutton herself. No, not unless it was absolutely necessary. All she knew of his investigation was what was in the file, John having considered it routine and not worth discussing in detail. If it wasn’t complete enough to satisfy the crotchety old gentleman, there was little she could do to appease him. Better to wait and hope that John would finally put in an appearance this morning and ease her mind on all counts.
But he didn’t.
Eleven o’clock came and went. Nothing disturbed the empty silence in the office except for the arrival of the day’s mail, which consisted of circulars and the latest issue of the Police Gazette. Where was he, for heaven’s sake?