“Are you saying that the icehouse was where the safe was opened?”
“I am. It’s the only place it could have been managed in this region at this time of year.” Quincannon puffed out a cumulus of smoke, shifted his gaze to Teague. “Do you recall my stating yesterday that the how and the why of the crime were linked?”
“I do.”
“And so they are. Once I determined that the Schneiders must be guilty, it was a simple matter of cognitive reasoning to deduce the how.”
“Fancy talk,” Teague said. “Say it in plain English, man. How’d they bust into that safe?”
“Strictly speaking, they didn’t. The safe was opened from the inside, not the outside.”
“From the inside? What the devil are you talking about?”
“The application of a simple law of physics,” Quincannon said. “After the safe had been allowed to chill inside the icehouse, the Schneiders turned it on its back and hammered a wedge into the crack of the door along the bottom edge, the purpose being to widen the crack through to the inside — a procedure similar in nature to their objective with the express-office door. Then, using a bucket and a funnel, they poured water into the safe until it was full. The final steps were to seal the crack with hard-drying putty” — he glanced meaningfully at the constable as he spoke — “and then to pack ice around the safe and cover the whole with straw.”
Newell smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Of course! The object being to freeze the water inside. Water expands as much as one-seventh of its volume when it freezes.”
“Exactly. Once the water in the safe froze, the intense pressure from the ice caused the door’s hinges to rupture. It was a simple matter, then, for the pair to chip out the ice and remove the gold. The residue in the safe melted after they carted it away to the field, hence the cold, damp interior.”
Cromarty, Newell, even Teague were satisfied. And Quincannon was well pleased with himself, for once again he had solved the seemingly insoluable by a combination of observation and deductive reasoning — qualities which made him the most accomplished detective west of the Mississippi River, if not in the entire nation. Anyone who didn’t agree with that assessment — other than Sabina, whose own talents he respected and for whom he made allowances — was a dunderhead.
Marshal Samuel B. Halloran of Jamestown, for instance.
Quincannon chuckled to himself. Halloran, all unwittingly, had provided him with one other minor clue to the solution of this investigation, one he hadn’t seen fit to mention in his summation. He was saving it to use as part of his gloat when he sought out that dunderhead lawman before departing the Queen of the Mines.
“You may be a fancy-pants detective in San Francisco,” Halloran had said in Cromarty’s office, “but you don’t cut no ice up here.” Ah, but he had — figuratively if not literally.
He’d cut more ice in Tuttletown last night, by godfrey, than the Schneiders had from inside that so-called burglarproof safe!
The private car, once more coupled to a Baldwin locomotive, departed Tuttletown a short while later for the return trip to Jamestown. The only passengers were Quincannon and Cromarty, Newell having additional business to attend to at the railroad construction site near the Stanislaus River.
The division superintendent, busy at his desk as they chuffed along the edge of the valley toward Table Mountain, was disinclined to conversation, which suited Quincannon. He’d had no sleep since leaving the Cremer Hotel at three A.M., and his tense skirmish with Jakob Schneider and the night’s and morning’s other events had taken their toll. Settled comfortably in one of the tufted chairs, he was thinking of Sabina in a pleasant near doze when a sudden exclamation from Cromarty roused him.
“I have something here for you, Mr. Quincannon.”
He turned in his chair. “Yes?”
“A wire that came for you in Jamestown and was delivered to me earlier. I completely forgot about it in all the excitement; came upon it just now in my coat pocket.”
Quincannon felt a faint stirring of alarm. The wire must be from Sabina; no one else knew he’d come to the southern Mother Lode. And she wouldn’t have wired him unless some sort of emergency had come up. He snatched the envelope out of Cromarty’s extended hand, tore it open.
No, it wasn’t from Sabina. But his relief was short-lived, consumed by surprise and puzzlement as he read the message.
URGENT I SEE YOU SOONEST STOP
PRINCIPAL IN SEATTLE MATTER TEN YEARS
AGO APPARENTLY NOT DECEASED STOP
BELIEVED IN BUSINESS AGAIN HERE STOP
WIRE REPLY WITH TIME OF EXPECTED
RETURN TO CITY STOP
Crusty old Boggs, his superior during his San Francisco tenure as an operative of the Secret Service. Quincannon retained a soft spot for the man; Boggs had taught him a great deal about investigative work, and been a staunch friend during the darkest period of his life. Press of their now separate careers prevented them from seeing much of each other these days, and this was the first time Boggs had sought his assistance since he’d left the Service.
“The Seattle matter” referred to a case involving a counterfeiter named Long Nick Darrow. Quincannon sat frowning, working his memory. He recalled following a circuitous trail of counterfeit hundred-dollar bills north through Oregon to Washington State and finally to a warehouse near Colman Wharf on the Seattle waterfront where the coney man was manufacturing his queer. During a nocturnal raid by him and agents from the Seattle branch, a lamp had been knocked over and the tinder-dry warehouse set ablaze.
Darrow had managed to escape, with Quincannon in close pursuit. The chase had ended in a fierce hand-to-hand struggle between them on a deserted pier nearby. He had deflected a knife thrust that sent the blade plunging into Darrow’s torso instead of his own. Darrow had staggered away, plunged into the black waters of the harbor. The fact that his body had not been found, nor had there been any word of him in the years since, seemed to bear out the presumption that the blackleg had met his Maker that night.
Yet according to this wire, Darrow might have somehow managed to survive both the knife wound and the icy harbor water, and was now not only back at his old trade but plying it in or near San Francisco. It seemed fantastic. A counterfeiter whose work resembled his must be responsible. If Darrow was alive, where had he been the past ten years? Certainly not somewhere working at his old trade with a new set of plates, the originals having been destroyed in the fire along with the engraver who made them, else his distinctive product would have come to light before now. Counterfeiters, no matter how practiced or clever, had never outwitted the Secret Service for long during Quincannon’s tenure, and hadn’t since, he’d wager.
What was also puzzling about Boggs’s wire was the urgent need to consult with his former operative. The sector chief had a handful of well-trained agents on staff and could call on as many others as might be needed, and the fact that Quincannon had handled the original case was of no real consequence. Nor could it be to rehash the events of that flaming night on the Seattle waterfront; Quincannon had recorded them all in detail in his written and verbal reports. There must be some other reason for Boggs’s request.
Well, there was nothing to be gained by speculating now on what it might be. He would meet with Boggs as soon as he returned to the city and find out then — late tomorrow afternoon, if he could book passage out of Jamestown early enough today and if the trains from there and Stockton ran on time, always a problematical circumstance.