“Not nearly that long, with my agency’s resources.”
“Suppose the right one can’t be found. What then?”
Quincannon hedged by saying, “There are other methods of tracking down a fugitive.”
“Such as?”
“None that need be shared. A detective of my caliber has certain trade secrets he reveals to no one.”
The sound O’Hearn made was half growl, half snort. “Swatting yourself on the back again. Bah!”
“And with just cause. I exposed the high-graders and put an end to their game as promised, did I not? And in only ten days. So you needn’t worry, Mr. O’Hearn. Yost won’t get away with his ill-gotten gains.”
“I’ll stop worrying and admit you’re as slick as you think you are when he’s behind bars and restitution has been made. And it had better be soon.”
Quincannon said, “Oh, it will be,” with more conviction than he felt.
18
Sabina
Elmer J. Goodlove was waiting for her when she arrived at the Purifoy cottage on Monday afternoon. She was ten minutes early for their one o’clock appointment; Goodlove must have come quite a bit earlier than that, no doubt to make sure Vernon Purifoy was away at his job and the cottage empty, for he had already let himself inside. He popped out through the front door like a cuckoo bird out of a clock as she started up the cinder path. He wore his fat smile and an air of smug satisfaction. Bold as brass, Elizabeth Petrie had said he was. Indeed. As brazen a confidence trickster as Sabina had ever encountered.
“A very good day to you, Mrs. Fredericks,” he said when she joined him at the top of the staircase. “I have excellent news. Excellent.”
“So I surmised from your sudden appearance.”
“I took the liberty of entering and having a brief look around. You don’t mind, I trust?” His voice was as bubbly as champagne. “The owner refused to sell at first, but I finally managed to convince him. Not an easy task, but Elmer Goodlove is never discouraged when acting on behalf of a determined client. No, never.”
“For what price did he settle?”
“Ah, that was the sticking point, the price. We haggled for quite some time, but he wouldn’t budge until I took it upon myself to make a final offer, one I felt he couldn’t possibly refuse. And I was right — he didn’t.”
“A final offer of how much?”
The fat smile did not waver in the slightest. “A bit more than your expressed maximum, I’m afraid. Just a bit. But if you should object—”
“How much, Mr. Goodlove?”
“Three thousand five hundred. I sincerely hope I did not overstep in offering that much, but he really gave me no alternative.”
Sabina was not in the least surprised. She said truthfully, “I detest a gouger. Who is he?”
“His name is, ah, Smith. Adam Smith. A bachelor of no consequence, a manufacturing company clerk, but stubborn and, yes, greedy.” A pot calling a nonexistent kettle black, Sabina thought sardonically. “Is the price satisfactory, Mrs. Fredericks?”
“I will give you my answer after I’ve seen the interior.”
“Of course. By all means. Shall we step inside?”
The front door opened into a narrow parlor. Goodlove shut the door quickly after they entered; Sabina sensed that he was relieved to be back inside, out of public view, even though there had been no one in the vicinity to observe their brief conversation.
You could tell quite a lot about a person by his home environment. Vernon Purifoy’s parlor verified her perception of him. The furnishings were few, old, and obviously inherited; no priggish martinet in his right mind would have picked out and bought the plum-colored velour sofa, for instance. The room was fussily neat, nothing at all out of place, but not so fussily clean. Speckles of dust marked the furniture, the fireplace mantel, the somewhat threadbare carpet. Gretchen Kantor’s statement that he lived frugally was accurate.
One extended look around the parlor was sufficient, but she took a slow turn through it on the pretense of examining walls, ceiling, the bricks in the tiny fireplace. “Satisfactory thus far,” she said to Goodlove. “Please wait here while I inspect the other rooms.”
“Wait here? But...”
“I do not wish to be watched over or hurried. You have no objection, I trust?”
The only one Goodlove was likely to have concerned the length of time they remained in the cottage, but she had counted on greed outweighing caution, and so it did. “No objection, no indeed,” he said. He took his fat body and fat smile to the velour sofa. “I’ll just wait right here.”
The remaining three rooms, not counting a closet-sized bathroom, were a small kitchen and two adjoining bedrooms. The first Sabina looked into contained a four-poster bed, a dresser, and a wardrobe, all of it as old and doubtless inherited as the parlor furniture. It was the second, converted into a spartan study, that contained the desk Miss Kantor had referred to — a well-used, factory-built Montgomery Ward rolltop.
Sabina shut the door quietly behind her, stood looking at the desk. None of the drawers on either side of the kneehole was locked; a glance through the contents of each revealed nothing of value or interest. The rolltop was locked down in place, but the lock appeared to be flimsy; an upward tug affirmed that the bolt was loose in its frame.
She hesitated, but only for a few moments. She had gone this far; she might as well go all the way.
John was an expert at picking locks; he often carried a set of burglar’s picks and had no qualms about using them for illegal entry when he deemed it necessary. Normally she viewed the practice with a jaundiced eye, and she had never indulged in it herself, but as the saying went, there was a first time for everything. He had demonstrated his prowess to her on more than one occasion, so she knew the rudiments. And she did not need a set of picks for this particular task. Her Charles Horner hatpin, with its thin, needle-sharp point, would no doubt suffice.
It did, and after only a few series of jiggles and wiggles. She replaced the hatpin and slid the rolltop up as noiselessly as she could. The interior was in apple-pie order. Cubbyholes containing plain envelopes and notepaper, receipts for various services, Bank of California checking account receipts for small deposits and withdrawals. One of two drawers was filled with pencils, pens, erasers, postage stamps, a jar of India ink. The second, a keyhole drawer, was locked.
Charles Horner made short work of opening it. Inside were two manila envelopes with looped-string clasps. And inside the first envelope was a sheaf of bank draft deposit receipts bound with a rubber band. Not from the Bank of California or any other local institution, but from the Citizens Bank of New Orleans. Sabina shuffled through them. All were made out to the Jackson Investment Company of San Francisco, S. Jackson, president, each for monthly deposits over the past two years in amounts ranging from $250 to $1,000 — an aggregate, at a quick estimate, of nearly $20,000.
Where had Purifoy, with his frugal ways and doubtless modest accountant’s salary, come into possession of such a sum of money? And why was he putting it into a bank in far-off New Orleans under the name S. Jackson?
The contents of the second envelope supplied the answers. More receipts, and a small ledger book neatly filled with names, dates, and dollar figures. The figures correlated exactly to those deposited to the Jackson Investment Company, the origins of which were monthly payments by the Hollowell Manufacturing Company to Western Pacific Supply and Cosgrove Ironworks. The receipts showed regular withdrawals of those monthly payments from the accounts of the two firms, each at a different bank, by their owners and proprietors, Aurelius D. Jones and George Cosgrove. All of which added up to one indisputable fact.