Undercover work. Quincannon had no objection to that; he had done a fair and varied amount of it over the years, most recently as a mixologist in a Grass Valley saloon and gaming parlor. “I have no doubt that I could,” he said. “For what purpose?”
“To identify the individuals responsible for an insidious high-grading operation in a mine owned by Hoxley and Associates, and to put a satisfactory end to their activities. You know what high-grading is, of course.”
Quincannon acknowledged that he knew high-grading was the surreptitious theft of ore or dust from inside a gold mine by one or more members of its mining crews. He said then, “Large amounts of gold are being stolen, I assume?”
“Very large amounts, by our reckoning. We don’t know how much, of course, but the production of high-quality ore in this mine has dropped noticeably in the past few months.”
“An organized gang of thieves, then.”
“Has to be,” O’Hearn said. “As many as half a dozen men working on each of three shifts.”
“Have you any idea who they are?”
“No. There have been rumors of the high-grading, but special company men posted in the crews failed to come up with any definite information. If anyone knows or suspects who the thieves are, they’re keeping it to themselves.”
“Special company men” was a euphemism for informant miners paid extra to keep an eye on their fellows and to report any slacking or other rule breaks. It was no surprise that the ones posted by O’Hearn had failed to learn anything. Such spies were often known or suspected by their fellows, and untrained in the art of detection in any case; the high-graders would be careful to neither act nor converse in the presence of anyone other than one of their own.
“We do have our eye on one man,” O’Hearn went on, “but he isn’t directly connected with the mine.”
“A local resident?”
“No. Newcomer and hanger-on.”
“Who is he? What makes you suspicious of him?”
O’Hearn glanced at his employer, who gave a small headshake. “We’re not ready to discuss that just yet,” he said to Quincannon.
“How do you suppose the gold is being taken out of the mine?”
“Damned cleverly, however it’s being done. All we know for certain is that it’s not in any of the usual ways.”
Of which there were many, Quincannon knew. The most common was for mine workers to conceal chunks of gold-bearing ore in lunch pails, double or false-crowned hats, inside long socks or cloth tubes hung inside trouser legs, in pockets sewn into canvas corset covers worn beneath the shirt. As much as five pounds of high-grade ore could be carried out in those ways. But the amount of pure gold to be obtained by smuggling in such fashion was relatively small, and the functionaries whose job it was to inspect miners and their clothing at the end of each shift would have soon caught thieves using any of those ploys. The methods used by an organized group pilfering large amounts had to be much more sophisticated.
O’Hearn added in his bear’s growl, “If my men and I haven’t been able to get to the bottom of it, I don’t see how an outsider can. No matter how smart a detective he thinks he is.”
“Knows he is,” Quincannon corrected. “You’re the superintendent of this mine, Mr. O’Hearn?”
“That’s right.”
“Located in California, is it?”
O’Hearn glanced at Hoxley again before answering in the affirmative.
“The location?”
Hoxley said, “We will divulge that and provide you with all other pertinent data if you consent to undertake the commission. Do you consent?”
Quincannon would have liked to buy more time before responding by packing and lighting his Dublin briar, but for all he knew the Olympic Club frowned on the use of tobacco in its public rooms. Even if they didn’t, Hoxley surely would. He started to finger his ear again, caught himself, and fluffed his beard instead.
At length he said, “It promises to be a task that can’t be done quickly or easily.”
“That it does,” Hoxley agreed. “I am prepared to financially underwrite your investigation for one month, longer if absolutely necessary. Your standard per diem fee plus all travel and other expenses. And a bonus if you succeed in exposing the responsible individuals and their methods. I am a generous man when circumstances warrant it, as Mr. O’Hearn can attest. That is how vitally important this matter is to Hoxley and Associates.”
Now Quincannon was in an even deeper quandary. As many as four weeks at what would be the highest per diem fees charged by Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services. All expenses paid. Generous bonus. And the sort of challenge he thrived on. There was only one problem. And it wasn’t a small one.
Hoxley misinterpreted his silence. “Do you have some other pressing business that might prevent you from accepting?”
Yes, as a matter of fact, he did. But he couldn’t very well say, “My partner, Sabina Carpenter, and I are planning to be married soon.” It would make him sound like a dolt. The date had been set for the last Saturday of the month, a little less than three weeks from now. Then again, preparations had only just begun; it was not too late to table them temporarily. Sabina would understand, and agree to a brief postponement. Wouldn’t she?
“Well, Mr. Quincannon?”
He hedged a bit longer by saying, “You would want me to begin immediately, I trust?”
“Tomorrow at the latest.”
“Will you wait until later today for my decision?” After he had had a chance to speak with Sabina, he was thinking.
Hoxley’s headshake was as vigorous as his nods. “I must have it now. Time is of the essence. Mr. O’Hearn will be departing this afternoon to return to his duties at the mine. If you decline, I will be forced to seek another suitable candidate, no small task on short notice as I am sure you realize.”
And he would not be pleased about having to do so, perhaps to the point of taking the good name of John Frederick Quincannon in vain to peers who might also one day be in the need of investigative services. That was evident in Hoxley’s expression and tone.
Accept the lucrative assignment or turn it down? Plainly he was the man Hoxley preferred, the best man for such daunting undercover work. And as always his blood simmered at the prospect of a new and adventurous test of his skills. He chafed at the thought of postponing the wedding, of disappointing Sabina, of spending as many as four weeks away from her, yet it might not come to that; he might well complete the assignment quickly enough to keep the delay to a minimum. After all, confound it, business was business. They were not in the detective game for their health...
He said, “My answer, Mr. Hoxley, is yes.”
And hoped he wouldn’t regret it.
2
Sabina
Sabina Carpenter Quincannon.
Seated at her desk in the agency’s Market Street office, she wrote the name in flowing script on a scrap of notepaper, not for the first time, then blotted the ink and once more examined the signature. It was long, and certainly a mouthful when spoken, but it read well and it had a nice, euphonious ring to it. How would it look on one of her business cards? She extracted one from the supply in her desk and carefully printed the new name above her present one. The result made her smile. It would look just fine on the fresh set of embossed cards she would order before the wedding.
She started to write the name another time, abruptly changed her mind, and put the pen back in its onyx holder. This was silly behavior, really. Schoolgirl stuff. She hadn’t even indulged in it when she fell in love with Stephen at twenty-two and accepted his marriage proposal. Now she was past thirty, a widow and ardent suffragist, an emancipated woman functioning successfully in a virtually all-male profession. And it wasn’t as if her relationship with John was brand new; she’d known and worked closely with him for seven years. It had taken a long time for her feelings for him, and his for her, to build to the kind of intimacy that had led him, a lifelong bachelor, to ask for her hand and for her to give her consent.