Sabina said, “You mentioned that he holds his private audiences and conducts his séances in his place of residence. Where is it located?”
“On Turk Street, near Van Ness Avenue. A modest house, number 3106.”
“Bought or rented?”
“I have no idea.”
“Who else resides there? The psychic assistant you mentioned?”
“Evidently. A strange little woman, Annabelle.”
“Strange in what way?”
“In appearance and actions both. She flits about wraithlike in a long black robe cowled like a monk’s.”
“Was anyone else on the premises?”
“Not that I saw.”
“How would you describe Professor Vargas?”
“Dark complexion, curling black mustache, piercing black eyes. Speaks in a deep, powerful voice like that of an actor. Wears a robe similar to Annabelle’s and a large white amulet identical to hers.” Buckley added grudgingly, “An imposing figure.”
“His age?”
“Relatively young. Thirty-five to forty, at a guess.”
“Do you have any idea where he and Annabelle resided before moving here?”
“I asked Vargas that,” Buckley said. “His answer was vague and evasive. ‘The East’ is all he would say.”
“Did he give any indication of why he chose San Francisco?”
“Not to me. Or to Margaret.”
“Who was the other couple at last Saturday’s séance?”
“Dr. and Mrs. Oliver Cobb.”
The name was unfamiliar to Sabina. “Medical doctor?”
“Yes. And like Margaret, both true believers. The doctor seeks to communicate with his mother, who died recently.”
“Did you voice your misgivings to him or Mrs. Cobb?”
“No. Nor to Vargas. Only to my wife.”
There was a discreet knock on the door, after which it opened just far enough for the receptionist to poke her blond head through. “Excuse me for interrupting, Mr. Buckley, but Mr. Archer is here.”
“Yes, all right, tell him I’ll be with him shortly.” When the blond head withdrew and the door closed, Buckley said to Sabina, “Have you any more questions, Mrs. Carpenter?”
“Not at the moment, no.”
“Then I must terminate this meeting — a crucial business matter. You will investigate Vargas and his activities?”
“Yes. I’ll begin immediately.”
“Good, good, thank you.”
Buckley asked the amount of the fee, and when Sabina told him, he quickly wrote a check, blotted it, handed it to her, and rose to accompany her to the door. His handshake and good-bye were perfunctory, his mind already turned to whatever crucial business matter awaited him.
It wasn’t until she was in the hallway outside C. E. Buckley, Securities Investment Brokerage, that Sabina looked at the check. Winthrop Buckley either had great faith in her abilities or had become too preoccupied with his upcoming meeting to realize what he was doing, for the amount was not merely the retainer sum she had named but two-thirds of the full fee, sans expenses, for a successfully completed investigation.
John would be delighted.
Before returning to Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, Sabina made two stops. The first was at the Miner’s Bank on New Montgomery, where she deposited Mr. Buckley’s generous check. The second was the Western Union office on Market Street. There, she wrote and sent three wires — one each to the offices of the Pinkerton Detective Agency in Chicago, New York, and Washington, D.C., requesting information on Professor A. Vargas and the Unified College of the Attuned Impulses. She included the capsule descriptions of Vargas and his assistant Annabelle. If the pair had ever run afoul of the law, the Pinks would have a dossier on them or be able to track down the requisite information.
At the agency, she prepared a file on the investigation and noted Buckley’s payment in the accounts receivable ledger. Then she penned a message to Madame Louella, the Kearney Street fortune-teller who claimed to be a Transylvanian Gypsy (she had in fact been born in Ohio) and whose alternate profession was that of gatherer and seller of information involving the city’s less savory elements. If anyone knew or could find out if A. Vargas was a professional flimflammer, it was a rival “psychic” who was one herself. Finished with the message, Sabina sealed it into an envelope and took it to the messenger delivery service a few doors down the block.
Busywork occupied the rest of the afternoon. She had no visitors and no one rang up through the Telephone Exchange. The office had an empty feel to it. She found herself wishing she had been able to talk Elizabeth Petrie into joining the firm on a regular basis; her company as well as her able assistance would have been welcome. But Elizabeth, the widowed former police matron who did part-time duty for them when needed, had been loath to give up her comfortable independence for full-time work.
The feeling of emptiness — or perhaps loneliness was a better word — was one Sabina had seldom experienced until the past few months. Always before during the five years of her partnership with John, she had missed him only slightly when he was away on business. Their relationship had been strictly professional, though he would have had it otherwise. He was a very good detective and quite capable of taking care of himself, despite a tendency toward rash behavior in certain circumstances; she hadn’t worried about him, or at least very little. Now...
Now she did miss him, worry about his welfare; their connection had become personal as well as professional and he was more or less constantly in her thoughts. He had finally worn down her resistance, succeeded in convincing her that his intentions were honorable; and she in turn had come to realize she could no longer continue to devote herself to Stephen’s memory after five years of widowhood, and to admit to herself that John was more than just partner and friend. The desperate, terrifying events of three months ago, about which she still had nightmares, had drawn them even closer together.
She had vowed to herself that she would not sleep with him unless he proposed marriage, but she was weakening on that point, too. Six years of celibacy was enough, more than enough; the erotic dreams she’d been having about John made that abundantly clear. Whether he proposed or not — and she thought he might be readying himself to do so — she was not sure she would be able to withhold her favors much longer.
Five o’clock finally came. She pinned on her hat, donned her cape, closed the office, and went to board the streetcar that would take her to her flat on Russian Hill. The flat, too, would have a lonely feel tonight, she knew, despite the presence of Adam and Eve. Cats were all well and good as pets, but no substitute for human company.
How long would John’s investigation in the Jamestown area take? He’d thought only a few days, but he could be away as much as a week or more — and that seemed a long time. Sabina chided herself for being silly; she was, after all, an independent, emancipated woman engaged in a sometimes dangerous, male-dominated profession. But the chiding did no good. Tonight she felt needy, oddly vulnerable.
It was a mood that wouldn’t linger, however, because she would not allow it to. Emotion could always be conquered by a strong will, and Sabina Carpenter was nothing if not strong-willed.
2
Quincannon
The four-car Sierra Railway train chuffed and wheezed into Jamestown just past one o’clock, more than an hour behind schedule. Quincannon was in a grumpy mood when he alighted from the forward passenger coach, traveling valise in hand, and stood vibrating slightly from the constant jouncing and swaying. The overnight trip from San Francisco, by way of Stockton and Oakdale, had been fraught with delays, the car had been overheated to ward off the late fall chill in these Mother Lode foothills, his head ached from all the soot and smoke he’d inhaled, and this was not yet his final destination. Another train ride, short and doubtless just as blasted uncomfortable, awaited him before the day was done.