A brisk stroll around the crowded, noisy town aided his digestion and eliminated the last of the muscle kinks from two days of train travel. When he’d had enough of the mountain night’s chill and the constant throbbing of the stamps, he made the rounds of the watering holes to see if he could pick up any useful scuttlebutt.
As he’d anticipated, there were two main topics of conversation: the mine cave-in, and the robbery and mysterious cracking of the burglarproof safe. The consensus of opinion among the rough-garbed locals about the latter event seemed to be that one of the gangs of gold thieves that roamed these foothills was responsible; if anyone knew anything to the contrary, he kept it to himself. These men were naturally suspicious of outsiders, and the fact that Quincannon was a San Francisco detective had as quickly become common knowledge as the Rappahanock mine cave-in. He was recognized as soon as he entered each saloon, and mostly given a wide berth and ignored. None of the few patrons he approached would discuss the robbery with him, not even for the price of a drink.
He was neither dismayed nor disappointed. The effort had been a long shot at best; it was unlikely that he would be given assistance from any quarter in his investigation, voluntary or otherwise. Not that he would need it. His canny brain was busily piecing together the clues already in his possession, and while a pattern had yet to emerge, he was confident that one would.
Weary now, he returned to Cremer House and stretched out on the lumpy bed in his room. One of the temperance tracts he carried with him on trips — the perfect soporific — put him to sleep before he had turned two pages.
4
Sabina
The house at 3601 Turk Street was a modest affair, its slender front yard enclosed by a black iron picket fence. Rented, not purchased, Sabina judged from the TO LET sign on the gate of one of its similar neighbors. No electrical power lines serviced it; Professor A. Vargas, particularly if he were a clever swindler, would have been careful to select a home that had not been wired for electricity. The sometimes spectral trembles produced by gas flame would be much more suited to his purpose.
On the gate here was a discreet bronze sign whose raised letters gleamed faintly in the cold morning sunshine. The wording was the same as that on the card Winthrop Buckley had shown her: UNIFIED COLLEGE OF THE ATTUNED IMPULSES, PROF. A. VARGAS, SPIRIT MEDIUM AND COUNSELOR.
She adjusted her plain black suit jacket, straightened the black lace-trimmed hat perched atop her dark hair which she’d pinned back into a bun — an effective mourning outfit missing only a veil she had decided was unnecessary. Then she climbed the short flight of stairs to the front door, twisted the bell handle.
Several seconds passed before the door opened. The small woman who stood facing her was also a study in black: coal-black eyes, straight ebon hair (dyed?) wound in a coronet above a high forehead, a sleek satin dress that had a sheen like polished onyx. Very pale skin gave her an appropriately ghostly aspect, enhanced by a white amulet embossed with some sort of cabalistic design nestled between ample breasts. For all of that, she was attractive in a severe fashion. Annabelle, surely, minus the cowled robe she apparently wore only at séances. If she did in fact live here with Vargas, she was likely his wife or mistress as well as his assistant. Seeking communion with the Afterworld, Sabina thought cynically, did not preclude indulging in the pleasures of the earthly sphere.
The ebon eyes took her measure. Not quite calculatingly, though the gaze did not miss the fact that her mourning outfit had come from a quality apparel shop. “Yes?”
Sabina had adopted a somewhat nervous, timid expression. She cleared her throat before she said, “I’ve come seeking an audience with Professor Vargas. I understand he has the power to communicate with those who have passed over.”
“There is someone in the spirit world you wish to speak to?” The woman’s voice was low-pitched, almost sepulchral.
“My brother. He died quite suddenly last week, you see, and I... well, I would very much like to communicate with him if at all possible.”
“Your name?”
“Mrs. Dorothy Milford.”
“I am Annabelle, Professor Vargas’s psychic assistant. Enter and follow me, please.”
Sabina trailed her down a murky hallway into a somewhat more brightly lighted parlor. Annabelle relieved her of her wrap, which she hung on a coat tree. “I will see if the professor is finished with his morning meditation,” she said then. The satin dress rustled as she left the room through a wide black curtain at the far end.
Sabina remained standing, looking around the parlor. This was not where the séances were held, evidently. The only mediumistic trapping in the otherwise conventionally furnished room was the black curtain, which bore a larger version of the same “magic” symbol as that on the woman’s amulet. Both curtain and symbol, Sabina noted, were somewhat similar to those that adorned Madame Louella’s fortune-telling parlor.
Her wait was of less than five minutes’ duration. The curtain parted again and Annabelle stepped through. “Professor Vargas has consented to grant you an audience, Mrs. Milford. A donation of ten dollars to the Unified College of the Attuned Impulses is customary for each private sitting.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Shall I pay now?”
“After your consultation. Follow me, please.”
Annabelle conducted her through the curtain, down another gloomy hallway, and through yet another curtain into a semidarkened room strongly scented with incense. Sabina, who hated the stuff, immediately began to breathe through her mouth. The only light came from two sources: a pair of white candles in pewter holders on the mantelpiece above a small fireplace — wisps of smoke emanated from the incense burner set between them — and a circular, glass-topped table in the middle of the room. The glass was opaque, and it was lighted within in some sort of phosphorescent manner; its glow and that of the flickering candles had the intended eerie effect in the shadowed surroundings. A high-backed, thronelike chair was placed on one side of the table, a pair of smaller armchairs arranged opposite. Cabalistically imprinted black drapes covered two walls; the other two, papered above dark wainscoting, were bare.
Annabelle announced to the man standing next to the chair, “Mrs. Dorothy Milford,” and took her leave in a satiny whisper.
The man stepped forward, his hand extended. He, too, was dressed all in black except for a dark blue shirt and a twin of Annabelle’s white amulet. Winthrop Buckley had referred to him as imposing, a description that Sabina, who was seldom impressed by physical stature, had to admit was apt. Tall, well built, with a mane of black hair and a vaguely Mephistophelean countenance. The only false note was his curled black mustache. It was no doubt meant to enhance his image, but it reminded her of the sort villains in stage melodramas wore. She hoped he wouldn’t twirl the ends of his; she would be hard-pressed not to laugh if he did.
“Good morning, Mrs. Milford,” he said in rich stentorian tones. The touch of his hand was light, almost feathery. It seemed to Sabina that he maintained the contact somewhat longer than necessary.
“Thank you for seeing me, Professor Vargas.”
“I am always happy to serve one who believes in the spirit world. You are a sincere believer, I trust?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Splendid. New friends are always welcome at the Unified College of the Attuned Impulses. How did you learn of us?”