A voice at his elbow said, “Excuse me, sir.”
He looked up to see a towheaded uniformed bellboy not long out of his teens. “Yes?”
“Mr. Potter would like to speak to you.”
“Mr. Potter?”
“The desk clerk, sir.”
Quincannon ambled over to the desk, removing his cap but leaving his muffler wound up over his chin. The clerk, who could barely lay claim to having a chin, gave him a down-the-nose look and then ran his gaze from the muffler down over the buttoned chesterfield.
“Touch of the grippe,” Quincannon lied.
“Pity,” the clerk lied. “But the lobby of our establishment is hardly a place to nurse an illness.”
The comment pricked Quincannon’s temper. He managed to restrain a sharp retort. “That is not why I’m here,” he said.
“Indeed? Do you wish to engage a room, Mr...?”
“Flint, James Flint. I’m not sure yet.”
“Not sure?”
“Do you know Noah Rideout? Prominent businessman and farmer on Schyler Island in the delta.”
“An unusual name. And not familiar to me.”
Which told Quincannon that the Yosemite was not Rideout’s choice of hotels whenever he had occasion to visit Stockton. What it didn’t tell him was whether or not Pauline Dupree was planning a tryst with Rideout or if she had some other reason for engaging the room.
He said, “I am supposed to meet Mr. Rideout here today on business, but it wasn’t made clear just when the meeting is to take place. Or if we’ll be spending the night or returning to the delta on the night packet. Would you mind if I waited in the lobby for him?”
Tiny frown lines radiated from the corners of the clerk’s eyes. “You don’t know where to reach the gentleman?” he asked.
“No, I don’t.”
“What time will he be arriving?”
“Sometime today, that is all I can tell you. Very sketchy plans, I know, but our arrangement was made in quite a hurry.”
“You wish to remain in the lobby until he arrives?”
“As long as necessary, yes.” Quincannon produced a silver dollar from his purse and, along with it, a pleading look. “You understand my dilemma, I’m sure. It is really quite important that I meet with Mr. Rideout.”
The clerk looked disdainfully at the coin. “Really, sir,” he said, but the tenor of his voice and a hint of avarice in his pale eyes belied the disdain.
Reluctantly, Quincannon added another silver dollar. And then a third, the necessity for which caused his blood pressure to rise — the amount of money he was wasting on tips and bribes offended his thrifty Scot’s nature — before the clerk made the coins disappear and gave his permission.
Quincannon started to turn away, then reversed himself to ask, “Was that Miss Pauline Dupree who checked in earlier? The statuesque young woman in the red-and-gold cape.”
“Yes. It was.”
“I thought I recognized her, being from San Francisco myself. Perhaps she’ll join Mr. Rideout and me for a cocktail this evening. What room is she in?”
“I am not at liberty to give out that information. Hotel policy, which mustn’t be breached. Not for any consideration,” he added meaningfully. “If you like, I can have a message delivered to her.”
“Later, perhaps.”
Quincannon resumed his vigil. Noon came and went. So did various and sundry guests and other individuals, none of them Pauline Dupree. The hotel’s central heating made him uncomfortable in his heavy clothing; he had no choice but to unbutton his coat, lower the muffler, and remove the cap to avoid marinating in sweat. The chinless clerk kept casting disapproving looks in his direction, as if he was thinking of reneging on their bribery pact. That annoyance, along with boredom, restlessness, and frustration, deepened Quincannon’s irascibility. He bought the current issue of the Police Gazette, but the magazine did little to make the creeping passage of time more tolerable. One o’clock came and went. One-thirty—
Buffalo Coat entered the lobby.
Quincannon straightened in his chair, watching the man cross to the front desk without so much as a glance in his direction. At some point Buffalo Coat had acquired another piece of luggage, a black leather satchel. He spoke briefly to the chinless clerk, who then, apparently answering a request, provided him with a sheet of hotel stationery, an envelope, and pen and ink. He transferred the satchel to his left hand, as if he was reluctant to set it down, and proceeded to write. The message was relatively brief: he used only one side of the paper. When he was finished he folded the sheet, sealed it inside the envelope, and handed the envelope and a coin to the clerk. After which he quickly left the hotel.
By Godfrey! That black satchel was similar to the one Titus Wrixton had given to Raymond Sonderberg and, unless Quincannon missed his guess, had similar contents — money extorted, this time from Noah Rideout. The same villainous game worked in the same fashion, with Buffalo Coat assuming the go-between role here as Sonderberg had in San Francisco. But why hadn’t he delivered the payoff to Dupree? Why the writing of the note and a swift exit instead?
Quincannon itched to follow Buffalo Coat, perhaps to eventually confront him and retrieve the swag, but such would have been a mistake. His suppositions were just that, suppositions. Even if the satchel contained a large amount of cash, he had no proof that it had been nefariously obtained and hence no justification for either confiscating it or yaffling Buffalo Coat. Besides which, his primary quarry was still and to the finish Pauline Dupree.
He stayed put, watching the clerk summon the towheaded bellboy and hand him the envelope. The bellboy put it on a silver tray and took it into one of the elevator cars. Assuming the message was for the actress, and a probable assumption it was, Quincannon was eager to find out what she would do once she read it.
Except that as far as he was able to discern she did nothing. The bellboy reappeared shortly, but not Dupree. Not in the next half hour, nor in the next after that.
Quincannon’s disgruntlement increased twofold. While the clerk was busy with a small group of newly arrived guests, he sought out the bellboy. As with most of the lad’s breed, his tongue was easily loosened by yet another coin from Quincannon’s purse.
“Yes, sir,” he said, after a covert glance at the front desk. “It was Miss Dupree I delivered the envelope to.”
“What room does she occupy?”
“Two-seventy-two.”
“Were you present while she read the message in the envelope?”
“On my way out. She seemed kind of upset.”
“Did she, now.”
“She made a funny little noise and I heard her say... well, an unladylike word, sir.”
So the message had upset her, had it? A falling out among thieves? A double cross of some sort, such as Buffalo Coat laying claim to all or part of the loot?
But still, she remained in her room. An array of women passed through the lobby, among them a pink-outfitted matron leading a mastiff on a gold chain leash and a Catholic nun in full habit, but there was no sign of Pauline Dupree. Four o’clock vanished. The bumptious clerk was replaced by another, apparently without anything having been said about the daylong presence of Mr. James Flint; the new clerk paid no attention to him.
Five o’clock. Five-thirty. A quarter of six.
Quincannon was in a lather by then. Lack of food and the enforced sitting had given him a pounding headache, not to mention a sore backside; his body felt as if he’d taken a steam bath with his clothes on, and his brain seethed with impotent fury.