The answer to what Dinger Jones had found in the trunk seemed clear to Sabina now. The plates made by Thomas Cooley had not been destroyed in the fire; John was wrong about that. For some reason, Cooley must have liberated the plates shortly before the incursion. There were at least two possible explanations: Darrow had gotten wind that government agents were close on his trail and made plans to move his counterfeiting operation elsewhere; or Cooley had had a falling-out with Darrow, and decided to skip out with the plates and establish a new coney game of his own. That part of the truth might never be known.
In any event, Cooley must have taken the plates home and hidden them in the trunk containing his wife’s family possessions. He hadn’t informed her of the fact, and when both he and Darrow were killed — there seemed little doubt now that Long Nick had failed to survive his plunge into the harbor — the plates had languished undiscovered for a decade. And representatives of the law firm had not seen fit to take inventory of the trunk’s contents before arranging for shipment to Esther Jones.
What had her son done after finding them? Taken the plates to Paddy Lasher, who had in turn passed them on to a local printer/engraver who then used them as prototypes for the new, photoengraved plates? Or had Dinger himself known of such an individual? In any event, it seemed probable that that unknown, whoever he might be, was “boss” of the present operation.
The proper procedure, even more so now with this information, was to turn the investigation over to Mr. Boggs and his operatives; it was their job to round up Lasher and Jones, identify the ringleader and the place where the bogus notes were being manufactured. But would John agree, or stubbornly insist on continuing to pursue his own course of action? Briefly, very briefly, Sabina considered contacting Mr. Boggs herself. But that would be a breach of their partnership trust and John might never forgive her. No, she would have to rely on her powers of persuasion, if not his good judgment.
And where was John? He had not presented himself at the office this morning, as he had told her last night he intended to do, nor did it seem that he’d put in an appearance during her noon-hour absence. Off somewhere chasing a lead that had come his way or on one of his hunches. He could be irresponsibly secretive when he was on the scent. And too often inclined to rush in where fools feared to tread...
Oh, stop acting like a mother hen, she told herself. What happened to Stephen is not going to happen to John. He has survived twentysome years of adventures far more dangerous than the present undertaking, and he’ll go right on surviving. Why must you worry so about him? You didn’t for most of the previous six years of the relationship.
I didn’t love him then. Now I do.
The self-admission was not a little jarring. She had carefully avoided the word “love” in her thoughts about John; never quite been willing to admit that her feelings for him had deepened to an emotional level akin to that she’d had for Stephen. Stephen was the only man to whom she’d said, “I love you,” out loud or to herself. But now...
There was no denying it any longer. She was in love with John Frederick Quincannon, despite or perhaps in part because of his shortcomings and his less than endearing traits.
24
Quincannon
72 Folsom 2 turned out to be a surprise.
An address, yes, but not a lodging house, hotel, or other type of residence as he’d expected.
A harness and saddlery shop, or rather what was left of one.
Part of one half of the old building had been charred by a fire that had spread to and damaged its roof, as well as the side wall of an ironworks firm next door. The fire hadn’t been recent; there was no odor of burned wood, and the plywood square nailed across what had presumably been a side window had a weather-warped appearance. A handmade sign on the locked front entrance read: CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. T. HOOPER, PROP.
A narrow areaway separated the harness shop from its fire-scorched neighbor, but it was impassably choked with blackened debris. There was no such passage on the opposite side, merely a tall board fence separating it from the business next door. The lot was deep — deep enough so that a second structure existed behind the shop? That might well be the meaning of the numeral 2 in the scrawled street address.
Quincannon half circled the block. A carriageway bisected it, giving access to the buildings that fronted on Folsom and Howard. The harness shop had been fifth from the corner; when he reached that point in the presently empty carriageway, he could see the backside of an outbuilding above another tall board fence.
The fence had no access door. He jumped to catch hold of its top, lifted himself up, held there long enough to determine that the outbuilding was squat and gray-shingled — a storage shed, likely — and that there was enough room to pass between its near wall and the boundary fence, and then swung over and down.
He made his way around to the front of the shed. Its wide single door was secured by a heavy brass padlock, the staples hooked through an iron hasp. He tested the padlock, squinting at the keyhole. Stout, fairly new, and of quality manufacture. He ought to be able to pick it, but doing so would take time. There might be an easier way of gaining entrance — a window in the side wall he had just passed by.
He went back to it. Locked, but neither shuttered nor barred. He cleared off a section of outside grime with his palm, laid an eye close to the glass. The inside of the pane was also dirty and flyspecked, but he could make out enough of the interior to identify the various shapes that crowded it.
Much of the contents appeared to be business storage: saddles and saddlemaker’s forms; various types of harness hung on wall hooks; a stack of leather skins; buckles, rings, and other hardware on a bench beneath the window. But there was also a cot covered by a heavy blanket, a table with a lantern on it, a small oil stove, what appeared to be an old steamer trunk. Crude living quarters. Dinger’s, no doubt. Not as a squatter, but with the permission of T. Hooper.
Was Hooper the ringleader? Unlikely, given his profession. Probably an old acquaintance of Dinger’s talked into providing temporary lodgings. Was Jones still occupying the premises, or had he made enough from passing queer to have moved to more agreeable accommodations? A good look around inside might provide the answer.
The window’s sash had been tightly latched into its frame, but not so tightly as to avoid a small amount of play when Quincannon pushed upward. He took out his pocket knife, opened and slid the largest blade into the crack at the bottom, and tried maneuvering it inside to get at the latch. But the opening was too narrow, the sash too well embedded. Blast! The only way he could enter through the window was to break the glass, and he was not about to do that. He would have to try picking the padlock—
Sounds, shuffling footsteps.
He was no longer alone on the property.
He stood motionless, ears straining. Whoever it was crossed the weedy patch of open space between the shop and the shed, the single set of steps neither slow nor rapid. The rattling and scraping sounds that followed could only be the opening of the padlock. Then came the creaking of wood as the door was opened, then closed again seconds later.
Quincannon crouched for another squint through the window glass. The man inside was an indistinct shape until a match flared and the table lantern bloomed with light. Medium height, red face, crooked nose that had once been broken and improperly set, and when he removed his hat and tossed it onto the cot, a head speckled-egg bald, a face as red as Mollie’s hair and a rooster’s comb.