“You son of a bitch!” she cried. Her hand had snaked inside her habit and it reappeared now clutching a small-caliber pistol. Before she could bring it to bear, Quincannon, who had never before struck a woman, nor ever would except in dire circumstances such as these, essayed a swift right-hand jab to Dupree’s jaw. Down she went in a black-and-gold heap, to lie unmoving with her eyes rolled up. He bent to retrieve the pistol, slipped it into his coat pocket.
Kennett’s mouth hung open in disbelief. Foster had come running in from the kitchen and he, too, stood gawping.
After a few seconds the innkeeper managed to ask, “Who... who the devil are you, Flint?”
“His name isn’t Flint,” Foster said. “It’s Quincannon and he’s a fly cop from San Francisco. I heard him tell that to Mr. Rideout.”
“A fly cop.” Kennett shook his head in a dazed fashion. “And you claim this woman murdered two men on the Island Star tonight?”
“Gus Burgade and his deckhand. You’ll find them both in Burgade’s cabin.”
“But... why?”
“It’s a long story,” Quincannon said. “Suffice it to say for now that it boils down to a combination of ruthlessness and greed.”
Foster asked, “How did you know she wasn’t what she pretended to be? Did you recognize her?”
Quincannon had known it from the moment he first saw her, known for several reasons that it was Dupree in another of her theatrical disguises. But this was not the time for lengthy explanations. He said only, “Detective work, gentlemen, of the most accomplished sort.” Then, “Fetch a length or two of rope, Mr. Kennett. If we don’t truss her up before she comes to, I guarantee we’ll have a tigress on our hands.”
Kennett fetched the rope and Quincannon did the tying. His handkerchief served as an effective gag. In a pocket of her habit he found and removed her room key; it was unmarked, but the innkeeper provided the number. He directed Kennett and Foster to put the bound woman into one of the cane-bottom chairs, and while this was being done he hurried down the central corridor and let himself into her lamplit room.
The first thing he spied, hung on a wall hook, was the red-and-gold hooded cape she’d worn on the Captain Weber. The fabric was dripping wet — further proof, if he’d needed any, that she had gone from the inn to the Island Star earlier, no doubt having left unseen by a rear entrance. Her carpetbag lay on the foot on the bed; he opened it, rummaged quickly through the contents without finding what he sought.
In the small wardrobe against one wall? No. Under the bed? Yes.
He dragged out the still damp leather satchel, the same one Burgade had carried into the Yosemite Hotel yesterday, and snapped the catch. Packets of greenbacks filled it to the brim — a larger amount of cash, Quincannon guessed, than the ten thousand dollars Dupree had extorted from Titus Wrixton.
He closed the satchel, took it with him into the common room. Until tomorrow, when the sheriff of Walnut Grove could be summoned, it would remain in Quincannon’s possession.
Pauline Dupree had regained her senses and was squirming mightily, and futilely, in the cane-bottom chair. Her face was congested with fury. She glared pure hate at Quincannon when she saw him and the satchel; a lengthy series of strangled sounds erupted from her, trapped by her gag. Few could give vent to a longer, more colorful burst of invective than John Quincannon, but he would have wagered those strangled sounds represented scorch-ear cussing that would have outclassed his by a considerable margin.
24
Sabina
“And so,” John said, “you decided not to turn the Japanese girl over to the police.”
It was Wednesday morning, John having returned to the city late the previous day, and Sabina had just finished telling him of her investigation and its outcome.
“I felt it was the best choice for all concerned,” she said. “Kamiko acted only out of love and loyalty to Amity, and in self-defense at Prudence Egan’s hideaway. Justice would not have been served by sending her to prison. In fact, it would have been an act of cruelty. You know as well as I how viciously Orientals can be treated by those on both sides of the law.”
“I do. But are you certain the girl won’t commit another such crime if her guardian is threatened again?”
“She swore a solemn oath she wouldn’t. I believe that, too. Amity has forgiven her and she’ll see to it there are no more incidents.” Sabina paused and then asked, “Do you approve of my decision?”
“Yes. I have implicit trust in your judgment.”
She had been sure that he would approve. He shared her belief that in cases such as this justice tempered by compassion was preferable to following the strict letter of the law.
He finger-fluffed his whiskers in that habitual way of his before asking, “Fenton Egan has no idea you wrote the anonymous note that sent him to Larkin Street, I take it?”
“Evidently not, since neither he nor the police have contacted me. According to the newspapers, his wife was the victim of a burglar caught in the act or of an attempted criminal assault. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he considers one of her lovers responsible.”
“A disreputable fellow, from your description of him.”
“As was she. Both adulterers, both mean-spirited.”
“And Mrs. Egan having slipped a buckle, to plan to murder her perceived rival in cold blood.”
“Yes. And she would have shot Kamiko if the girl hadn’t been able to defend herself.”
“What would you have done if Mrs. Egan hadn’t been killed? Made your suspicions known to her?”
Sabina had asked herself that question more than once the past few days. “I suppose I would have,” she said, “barring any other alternative. I had no real evidence against her, but the knowledge I did possess and a vow to make it public might have been enough to frighten her into never trying it again. The ploy might have worked, depending on how determined she was, and how unbalanced. Fortunately, it’s a moot point. Amity’s only concern now is that her husband will find out about the affair.”
“Do you think Egan is still vindictive enough to inform him?”
“It’s possible, but I doubt it. His wife’s death and the discovery of her infidelities is all the scandal he’s equipped to deal with.”
John had flicked a lucifer alight and was applying the flame to the bowl of his briar, puffing out billows of gray-white smoke. Sabina made a mental note to try once again to convince him to change his brand of tobacco to one less odious.
“Kamiko,” he said. “Did you suspect her all along?”
“Not exactly. I had an inkling that she might have alerted Prudence Egan, but it wasn’t until I discovered the woman’s body and the broken kaiken tip that I knew for certain.”
“Would you have accused the girl if it weren’t for that?”
“Yes. Faced with the fact that I knew the truth, she would have confessed as she did on Sunday morning. And Amity was entitled to know.”
He nodded, still puffing. “Never withhold vital information from a client unless absolutely necessary.”
“Particularly not if the client is also a friend.”
“Mrs. Wellman must be an estimable person, despite her temporary lapse in judgment, to have forgiven her ward so readily.”
“She is.”
“You’ll have to introduce me to her one day.”
“I intend to. You’ll like her and I think she’ll like you.” Then, with a twinkle in her eye, “You’ll have to come bicycling with us some Sunday.”
“Faugh! Bicycling with members of a women’s riding club? That day will never dawn in this lad’s life.”