At ten minutes to six by the Seth Thomas lobby clock, he threw caution to the wind, hoisted himself out of the chair, picked up his valise, and stalked to the elevators. He’d had his fill of this useless game of all cat and no mouse. The time had come to confront Pauline Dupree again, tell her what he knew and suspected about her liaisons with Noah Rideout and Buffalo Coat, and damn the consequences.
On the second floor he found his way to room 272 and rapped on the door, intending to claim bellboy status and the arrival of another message. The ruse went unused, however, for there was no response from within. He rapped again, then a third time. Silence. And the door stayed shut.
The hallway was deserted in both directions. Tight-lipped, he took from his pocket the pouch containing his set of lockpicks. It took no more than a minute to trip the tumblers in the door lock.
The room was empty.
Empty of not only Pauline Dupree but her carpetbag as well.
Quincannon unleashed an inventive string of oaths fiery enough to have melted brimstone — but only in his mind. A quick search of the room and adjoining bath revealed none of the actress’ belongings, nor the note she had received from Buffalo Coat; the only signs of her occupancy were the slightly mussed pillows and counterpane on the four-poster bed and the faint lingering scent of lavender perfume.
The contents of the message must have been responsible for her departure. And she must have left the hotel by way of the back stairs. But why? The obvious answer was that she had spotted him somehow, but he was reluctant to accept that explanation. His mastery of the art of trailing a suspect was second to none; at no point last night or today had he done anything to draw her attention. And she had no reason to suspect she was being followed. Unless Wrixton had decided to make one last effort to convince her not to leave San Francisco and had told her of the conversation at the Reception bar... No, the banker had been too resigned, too mired in gloom, to attempt an exercise in further futility. All of his lovesick blandishments had been expended the previous night.
Whatever her reason for the surreptitious leave-taking, it surely involved Buffalo Coat and that satchel he’d carried. It followed, then, that where she’d gone was where she expected to find him. Elsewhere in Stockton? Kennett’s Crossing?
Quincannon quit the room, leaving the door unlocked, and went downstairs to the front desk. The night clerk was more accommodating and less greedy than the chinless day clerk, making it unnecessary to part with another bribe in order to obtain information.
Quincannon’s first question was “Was Miss Dupree’s bill paid in advance?”
“Why do you ask, sir?”
“She and I are... acquainted. If she hasn’t paid herself... well, I’m sure you understand.”
The clerk was no stranger to the discreet affairs of hotel guests. After consulting her account, he said, “You needn’t be concerned. She paid when she checked in.”
“For one night’s lodging?”
“Yes, sir.”
So she hadn’t skipped out on her bill. And the fact that she had booked her room for only one night and now abandoned it indicated that she had no intention of remaining in Stockton. Chances were she had booked passage on one of this evening’s night packets, all of which would have left by this hour. If she was already on her way to Sacramento, he might never track her down. But if her destination was the San Joaquin Delta and Kennett’s Crossing, where Buffalo Coat had kept his rendezvous with her, there might still be a chance of finding her.
Quincannon asked about other means of transportation to the island backwater. One was by stage, a slow and circuitous route that required a change of equipage in Walnut Grove. The other was by private carriage or horseback on the series of levee roads and ferries that connected the delta islands and sloughs. Bah! There was only one daily stage to Walnut Grove, the clerk told him, and it departed midafternoon. And with dusk already settling, it would be foolishly risky to attempt to traverse unfamiliar levee roads in the dark of night.
Despite all the irritants, Quincannon’s resolve to put an end to Pauline Dupree’s criminal career was stronger than ever. Yes, and he was hungry enough after the day’s privation to eat a chunk of whang leather. He entered the dining room and proceeded to gorge himself on a five-course meal. Afterward, puffing furiously on his briar, he took an elevator to the second floor and locked himself inside Room 272.
If by some miracle Dupree did return tonight, he would be there to welcome her. And if she didn’t, he would salvage what he could from this Stockton debacle by spending the night free of charge in the blasted woman’s room.
18
Sabina
What John would have called woman’s intuition, what he himself referred to as a hunch, and what Sabina considered a flash of insight sent her downtown on Saturday morning.
Cleghorne’s Floral Delights was open, naturally, and doing a healthy business. Ross Cleghorne, outfitted in one of his impeccably tailored if questionably hued suits (this one was the color of plum pudding), noticed her immediately and favored her with one of his charismatic smiles, but it was some minutes before he finished consummating a sale to an elderly matron and made his way to Sabina’s side.
“A pleasure to see you again so soon, dear Mrs. Carpenter. A pleasure indeed. And what may I do for you this fine morning?”
It wasn’t a fine morning, as a matter of fact. Thick, wind-swirled fog once more laid a damp gray pall over the city. More rain was in the offing, too; Sabina sensed it and had brought her umbrella with her. But she remained hopeful that the storm would hold off until after this evening’s benefit in Union Square.
She said in a lowered tone, “Prudence Egan.”
“Ah.” He took Sabina’s arm and ushered her behind a display of one of his larger and fancier floral creations, an arrangement of red and yellow roses enhanced by seashells and small pieces of driftwood tinted different pastel colors. The scent of the roses, combined with that of dozens of other flower arrangements on exhibit, was cloyingly sweet.
“The location of the lady’s pied-à-terre, I surmise?” he said then.
The question and his usual sly look reassured her he had not yet learned that Mrs. Egan had gone missing. “Yes. Were you able to find out?”
“I was indeed. Not an easy task, mind you. Not an easy task at all considering the, ah, sensitive nature of the information. You’ll tell no one where you obtained it, of course?”
“Of course. And you’ll tell no one who asked you for it.”
“Of course. As always, we understand each other perfectly.” Mr. Cleghorne beamed at her. After which he said, not at all irrelevantly, “I have designed a splendid new spring confection that I’m sure you will find appealing. Yes, absolutely sure of it.”
“How much, may I ask?”
“For you, dear lady, half of what I would charge a less favored customer. A paltry sum, really. You won’t be disappointed.”
Not in the floral confection, perhaps, but it remained to be seen if the usefulness of the information justified the cost. She said, “Very well. The location, Mr. Cleghorne?”
“Ah, of the pied-à-terre. Larkin Street. Not the best neighborhood, but then hardly a shabby one.”
“Where on Larkin Street?”
“Number twenty-four forty-two. A small apartment discreetly tucked away behind an establishment called the Lady Bountiful Salon at twenty-four forty.”
“You’re certain of this?”
He pretended to be mildly offended. “My dear lady, have I ever led you astray on any subject?”
“No,” she admitted, “you haven’t.”
“Nor will I, ever.” He smiled his unctuous smile and rubbed his hands together. “I shall prepare the masterful spring confection for you at once, shall I?”