20
Quincannon
The city directory provided a listing for a tailor named Funderburke, but the address was something of a surprise. His shop was on Sutter Street, downtown, which meant that he was at least moderately successful and catered to a much better class of customer than mugs from the Barbary Coast. Why would Dinger go to him for a new suit, if in fact he had, when one that would cost considerably less was available elsewhere? A whim? A flaunting of newfound wealth? Quincannon set off to find out.
The tailor’s shop occupied a modest amount of space on a block west of Union Square. The plate-glass front window bore a sign that read: S. FUNDERBURKE, CLOTHING FOR THE DISCERNING GENTLEMAN. The usual bell above the door, more melodious than most, announced Quincannon’s entrance. He had just enough time to glance around at a small, tasteful display of men’s day and evening apparel and accessories, and to note that there were no racks of ready-to-wear suits for sale, before a curtain behind a half-counter at the rear parted and a man carrying a measuring tape appeared.
They appraised each other. What Quincannon saw was a large, imposing fellow of some fifty summers, stylishly dressed, with a leonine mane of sandy brown hair and enormous flowing mustaches curled up at the ends. What the other saw was an equally well dressed and evidently well financed potential customer. The welcoming smile he bestowed on Quincannon revealed two sparkling gold teeth.
“Ah, good morning, sir, good morning,” he said in a booming voice. “Samuel Funderburke, at your service.”
“Good morning. I’m—”
“I can tell that you’re a gentleman of discerning taste. A fine suit you’re wearing, sir, but Funderburke makes finer, the ultimate, the pinnacle. Perfectly fitted, perfectly tailored from the highest quality cloth.”
“No, I—”
“Lamb’s wool? Sable-brushed cotton? Tweed for the winter months? Or perhaps it’s evening dress that you seek, an elegant tuxedo or tailcoat suit. You’ll find no finer craftsmanship anywhere in the city.”
“I have no doubt of it, but a new suit isn’t the reason I’m here—”
“Casual trousers? Putnam vest? Silk puff tie? Funderburke can supply those as well.”
“I’m afraid not. I’m looking for a customer of yours—”
“Not interested in the finest men’s wear in San Francisco, sir? Allow me to show you some samples of my work, and I guarantee you’ll change your mind.”
“—a man for whom you tailored a suit two weeks ago.”
“Ah, then surely he recommended me. A Funderburke customer is a satisfied customer.”
Quincannon managed to keep a leash on his patience. “I don’t know the man personally. I’m trying to locate him.”
“Locate him? Why? For what reason?”
“An important business matter.”
“All business matters are important,” Funderburke said. “The gentleman’s name?”
“He’s called Dinger.”
“Dinger!” The name had a galvanizing effect on the tailor. His eyes popped wide, his mustaches bristled, he seemed to swell up like a toad. “That louse! That crook! That scum of the earth!”
Quincannon said dryly, “You know him, then.”
“Know him? He should show his face here again, Funderburke will strangle him with this measuring tape!”
“What did he do, stiff you for your fee?”
“Stiff me? No one stiffs Funderburke, never! But that louse, that crook, that scum of the earth tried, oh, he tried. Payment with counterfeit money! The gall, the mendacity!”
Ah. It seemed the lead had panned out after all. “A counterfeit hundred-dollar note, mayhap?”
“How did you know? Did that louse, that crook try the same trick on you? Is that why you’re looking for him?”
“You could say that. Do you know where I can find him?”
“In jail, if Funderburke had his way.”
“But he’s not in jail... yet.”
“I don’t know where he is. Where do louses live? Funderburke has no idea.”
Quincannon asked, “Did you identify the counterfeit hundred immediately for what it was?”
“A shame and a pity that I didn’t, no. It was the teller at my bank.” Funderburke’s mustaches bristled again. “Seventy dollars in genuine American money I gave that crook in change!”
“But you said no one has ever stiffed you.”
“No one has. Funderburke soon got his seventy dollars back, plus thirty for the suit!”
“How, if you don’t know where to find Dinger?”
“From his mother.”
Quincannon blinked. “His mother?”
“A decent widow lady, not scum like her offspring. I told her I’d have him arrested and sent to prison if he didn’t pay me in genuine American currency, and she procured it from him and I from her. A mistake, he told her, he didn’t know the bill was counterfeit. Tommyrot!”
“How do you know his mother?”
“The woman who manages my apartment building happens to be a friend of hers. She recommended Funderburke to Esther Jones, Mrs. Jones recommended Funderburke to her louse of a son — more’s the pity.”
So that was why Dinger had come here for his new suit. “Dinger’s last name is Jones, then?”
“Walter Jones.” Funderburke barked a humorless laugh. “Dinger! Phooey! Only a crook would have such a stupid nickname!”
“Where does Mrs. Jones reside?”
“On Clay Street. But it won’t pay you to talk to her. She wouldn’t tell Funderburke where he is, she won’t tell you, a stranger.”
“I don’t suppose your building manager would have any idea of where I can find him.”
“If she did, she would have told me.”
“I’d like to speak to her, if you have no objection.”
Funderburke’s eyes slitted briefly, then popped open again. “What do you plan to do to that crook if you find him? Beat him within an inch of his life?”
“Have him arrested.”
“Good enough. Talk to Vera Malone, then. Twelve-ninety Powell Street. Talk to his mother. Seventeen-ten Clay. You won’t learn anything from them, but I can see you’re a persistent gentleman, the same as Funderburke. You’ll keep looking until you find that louse, eh?”
“Yes, I will.”
“Come back and tell me when you do,” the tailor said, “and Funderburke will reward you with a ten percent discount on one of his fine new suits.”
Quincannon swung off the Powell Street cable car half a block from number 1290. The three-story residential building sported an ornate façade and an awning-covered entryway, and housed half a dozen flats — a fact confirmed by the row of mailboxes in the foyer. Cards inserted in slots above the boxes identified the tenants. S. Funderburke was one, V. Malone, Mgr., another, so the tailor’s word was true.
The building had been fitted with an intercommunication security system that required the pressing of a button in order to gain admittance. Quincannon thumbed the one for V. Malone. Several seconds passed before the buzzer sounded to unlock the entrance door.
The manager’s flat was on the first floor, right. A woman was standing in its open doorway when Quincannon entered the inner foyer; he turned in her direction, removing his hat on the way. Middle-aged, plump, and evidently uncorseted, she had graying hair pulled into a bun and a pleasant face marred by a thin growth of black whiskers on her upper lip.
“Mrs. Malone?”
“Miss Malone, if you please.”
“Excuse me. My name is Quincannon. I’ve just come from Samuel Funderburke’s tailor shop. He was good enough to let me have his address and your name.”