Teague had spotted it before their arrival. He said, “One of ’em must’ve gashed hisself when they busted into the express office. And again when they got her open. There’s blood on the floor inside, too.”
Again Quincannon said nothing. Something else had drawn his attention, a piece of straw caught on one of the skewed bolts. He plucked it loose. Ordinary straw, clean and damp.
He leaned forward to peer inside the safe. Completely empty — not a gram of gold dust or speck of the other variety remained. He ran fingertips over the smooth walls and floor, found them to be cold and faintly moist. The dampness of metal and straw could have been the result of the safe having lain here in the open since last night, assuming that was when it had been dumped; but if that were the case, it should have dried by now, the day, though overcast, holding no indication of moisture.
When he straightened, Cromarty asked him, “Have you any idea how it was done?”
“Not as yet.”
“If I weren’t seeing it for myself, I wouldn’t believe it. A guaranteed burglarproof safe... it just doesn’t seem possible.”
Quincannon suppressed a darkly pleased smile. Actions and events that didn’t seem possible were his meat. There was nothing he liked better than the challenge of feasting on crimes that baffled and flummoxed average men and average detectives.
“Leave the safe here, Mr. Cromarty, or take it back to town?” Teague asked.
“Leave it for now. We’ll send some men out for it later. Unless you’d rather have it brought in for further study, Mr. Quincannon?”
“Not necessary. I’ve seen enough of it.”
Higgins had no useful information to impart. He had spied the safe as he was driving past in his wagon, he said, and stopped to investigate; no one else had been in the vicinity. A search of the area where the safe had been dumped provided no additional clues. The ground was too hard beneath the trampled grass here and in the section of meadow between the oak and the road to retain identifiable footprints.
The men rode back into Tuttletown. At the depot, Quincannon asked to have a look at the scene of the robbery both inside and out. Teague and Booker accompanied him to the rear of the old wood-frame building that housed the baggage and express office.
A small grove of poplars grew close together near the door on that side; under the cloak of late-night darkness, a wagon could easily have been drawn up under them and be well hidden in their shadows while the safe was removed. The jumbled tracks of men, wagons, and horses told Quincannon nothing illuminating, however.
He stepped up on the platform to look at the door. Its bolt lock had been forced with a pinch bar or similar instrument. As old and rusty as it was, it wouldn’t have taken more than a few seconds for such to have been done.
Booker said, “There’s a wood crossbar on the door inside, but they got it free somehow. It was on the floor when I come in yesterday morning.”
There was no mystery as to how that had been accomplished. Once the bolt had been snapped, the thieves had pried a gap between the door edge and jamb just wide enough to slip a thin length of metal through and lift the crossbar free. Whoever they were, they were resourceful and determined.
Quincannon tried the door, found it secure; naturally Booker had replaced the crossbar. He asked the agent to go inside and remove it. While Booker was obliging, Quincannon studied the broken lock, the gouged wood, the crusted brown stains on the door edge. A fair amount of blood had been lost during the robbery; there were spatters on the platform as well. And more on the rough wood floor inside, he saw when Booker let him inside.
That much was clear. What was puzzling was the blood inside the safe. How had it come to be there after the alleged burglarproof box had been breached?
A dusty square in one corner outlined where the safe had stood. It had been bolted to the floor, the rust-flecked bolts pried loose with the same instrument that had been used on the rear door. Still more dried blood stained the boards here.
Teague stood watching in his stiff-necked fashion. “You know, I looked the place over pretty good myself,” he said. His patience seemed to be wearing thin. “Damn thieves didn’t leave nothing of theirselves behind, else I’d’ve found it.”
Nothing except for the blood, Quincannon thought but didn’t say.
“If you ask me,” Booker said, “the ones that done it are long gone by now. And the gold with ’em.”
“Possibly. And possibly not.”
“Well, they dumped the empty safe, didn’t they? What reason would they have for sticking around?”
“Strong ties to the community, mayhap.”
“Here, now,” Teague said. “You saying you think they’re locals?”
“Just speculating at this point, Constable. If they are locals, it stands to reason the gold is still in the vicinity as well.”
“Even if you’re right, that don’t put us any closer to finding out who they are.”
“Or how they got that safe open,” Booker said. “Dynamite wasn’t used and they couldn’t of done it with hammers and chisels.”
“Nor a pile driver,” Quincannon said wryly, echoing Newell’s words in Jamestown.
“Then how in bloody hell did they manage it?”
“The how and the why may well be linked. The answer to one question will provide the answer to the other.”
“Well now, mister,” Teague said, “that sounds like double-talk to me. Ain’t no shame in admitting you’re as fuddled as the rest of us.”
No shame in it if it were true, but it wasn’t. Quincannon prided himself that he was never fuddled, at least not for very long.
Teague mistook his silence for tacit agreement. “So then how’re you gonna go about finding the answers?”
“A detective never reveals his methods until his investigation is complete,” Quincannon said. And sometimes, he added silently, not even then.
Dusk had begun to settle when he left the express office. Cromarty had issued an invitation to dine with him and Newell and to spend the night in his private car, but Quincannon preferred a solitary environment and his own company when he was in the midst of a case. He went first to Tuttletown’s only hostelry, the Cremer House — the best room the hotel had to offer, which turned out to be cramped, spartanly furnished, and stuffy. He stayed in it just long enough to deposit his valise and open the single window partway.
Downstairs again, he asked the elderly desk clerk, “Does Tuttletown have a doctor?”
“Why? You feeling poorly?”
Quincannon ignored the question. “Is there a doctor here?”
“There is. Doc Goodfellow.”
“Where does he reside?”
“Home and office above the dry-goods store, one block east. But you won’t find him there.”
“No? Why not?”
“Cave-in up at the Rappahanock mine a couple hours ago. They were still digging out the injured when one of the men come for the doc. Likely he’ll be up there most of the night.”
Quincannon didn’t bother asking the clerk how he knew about the accident; word traveled swiftly in small towns such as this, especially word of a sudden tragedy. Nor did he answer a second query about the state of his health. His business with Dr. Goodfellow was none of the clerk’s.
Just down the street from the hotel he spied a place labeled the Miners Rest Café. He made it his next stop — and wasted half an hour on an unsatisfactory dinner. A bowl of mulligan stew was watery and oversalted, and a pie made with vinegar and raisins — a Mother Lode country favorite, the waitress informed him — was about as appetizing as its name, fly pie. You would think an eatery that catered to miners would have better fare, but then most of the town’s business establishments were saloons and dance halls — testimony to the fact that liquor, beer, and the usual free lunches claimed most of the hardrock business.