Vernon Purifoy was an embezzler.
And so meticulous in his accountant’s ways, so foolishly cocksure, that he had kept a complete written record of his thefts, as well as receipts that revealed his planned destination once he was ready to quit his job, sell or abandon this cottage, and head to New Orleans.
Well, Sabina? Now that you know Mr. Purifoy’s secret, what are you going to do about it?
Putting the envelopes back where she’d found them was out of the question. She and Charles Horner might not be able to relock both the drawer and the rolltop, and even if she tried she might not have enough time; Goodlove might grow tired of waiting and come looking for her. And once Purifoy found that the desk had been breached, it could spook him enough to destroy the evidence and immediately take himself on the lammas. The same was true if he found the envelopes missing, but the evidence would be intact and secure.
Her bag was just large enough to accommodate both envelopes. She tucked them inside, then slid the rolltop down and left the room.
Goodlove bounced to his feet when she entered the parlor. “All finished with your inspection, Mrs. Fredericks?” he said, baring his teeth again. “You found everything satisfactory?”
“Quite satisfactory, yes.”
“Excellent. Then you’re amenable to paying Mr. Smith’s asking price?”
“I am. Though I must say the amount does not please me.”
“Of course, of course. Shall we leave, then?”
He managed to steer her to the door without seeming to do so, then peered out before allowing her to precede him. A conveyance passed on the street as they stepped out and descended the staircase, but none of the occupants paid any attention to them. Goodlove’s step grew jaunty once they exited the property, a measure of his relief that the illegal trespass had been accomplished without incident.
He said then, “I have taken the liberty of drawing up an agreement which Mr. Smith has already signed. Shall we proceed to my office and complete the transaction? I have a buggy parked just down the block—”
“Not today, no. I am not prepared to make payment just yet. Three thousand five hundred dollars is more than I have in my personal account at present.”
“A post-dated check would be acceptable.”
“I prefer that funds be in the account before writing a check. I will make the necessary arrangements with my husband and our bank.”
“Ah, if you are able to do that today, perhaps we could meet later—”
Sabina said, sharpening her autocratic tone, “You needn’t be so eager, Mr. Goodlove. One would think you lack trust in my wherewithal to consummate the transaction.”
“Oh, no, dear lady, nothing of the sort. I merely assumed you would wish to do so immediately. At your convenience, by all means.”
“Tomorrow, then. No, Wednesday would be better — my husband is quite busy and an extra day might be needed to secure the funds. One o’clock Wednesday at your office, shall we say?”
Goodlove knew better than to argue; he said one o’clock Wednesday would be perfectly acceptable. They had reached the buggy, an equipage as nondescript as the swindler and his office, and he offered her a ride to wherever she wished to go. She declined. She had spent as much time with him as she could stomach.
The last thing he said to her was, “Goodbye for now, Mrs. Fredericks. It has been a great pleasure doing business with you.”
No, you tubby toad, Sabina thought as the buggy rattled away, the pleasure is entirely mine.
19
Sabina
The Hall of Justice, to which she went directly after leaving Potrero Hill, stood opposite Portsmouth Square on Kearney between Washington and Merchant streets — a gloomy pile that was scheduled for an overdue reconstruction. The last time she had come here was several months ago, on a rather brazen mission to the city morgue in the company of Charles Percival Fairchild the Third, the canny crackbrain who fancied himself to be the famous British detective Sherlock Holmes. That had been her last encounter with Charles the Third, who at the time had been unjustly accused of the murder of his Chicago cousin, and who had left the city for parts unknown shortly after she played a significant role in exonerating him. As annoying and intrusive as he’d been on several occasions, she retained a soft spot for him — it was he who had gifted her with her cat Eve, among other courtesies — and wished him well wherever he’d gone and whatever he was up to.
Women other than police matrons and Barbary Coast streetwalkers being taken to the basement city prison were a rarity at the Hall of Justice, especially young, attractive, stylishly dressed women. Sabina was the recipient of several admiring glances and a smattering of leers from uniformed officers and other men when she entered, while she was requesting an audience with Lieutenant Asa Brinkman of the Fraud Division, and as she was being escorted to his office on the second floor. All of which unwanted flattery she ignored.
Brinkman, despite his fifty-some years and position of command, was not averse to giving her a similarly appreciative once-over. His smile turned upside down, however, when she identified herself.
“The notorious lady detective,” he said.
“Notorious?”
“You and your partner both. Numerous instances of interference in police matters — the homicide at the Baldwin Hotel and that Chinatown body-snatching sensation, among others.”
“Cases we were drawn into unwillingly. And which, I might point out, we had a strong hand in resolving.”
“By devious means, according to some reports.”
Meaning newspaper reports, Sabina thought, specifically Homer Keeps’s columns in the muckraking Evening Bulletin. That nasty little troll took perverse delight in denigrating the good works done by Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services. His innuendos as to their honesty and integrity always stopped just short of libel; otherwise he would have faced a defamation suit. Thus far Keeps’s scurrilous attacks were viewed by most for what they were — pure claptrap — and had done no harm to their business.
“Untrue, I assure you,” she said. “Ours is a reputable agency, always ready and willing to cooperate with the police. Which is why I’ve come to see you today.”
Brinkman remained skeptical. He was gray-haired and blue-jowled, his nose and cheeks spider-webbed with broken capillaries that attested to a chronic overindulgence in alcoholic beverages. A fondness for rich food was evidently another of his vices; his broad torso and thick neck strained the buttons on his uniform tunic.
“I have information I think you’ll find pleasing, Lieutenant. It concerns a real estate swindler who operated in the city eight years ago, under the name Harold Newcastle.”
“Newcastle?” The results of a brief memory search altered Brinkman’s expression. “How did you come across that piece of ancient history?”
“It’s no longer ancient history,” Sabina said. “He has come back and is running the same game as before.”
“The devil he has! He wouldn’t dare! You must be mistaken.”
“A tubby little man with white hair and a cheerful smile. Is that the description you had of Harold Newcastle?”
“Yes, but I still can’t believe—”
“Some confidence men are fearless risk-takers, as you well know. Especially when they have succeeded in flaunting the law over a long span of time.”
“True enough,” Brinkman admitted. “He’s running the same swindle here in the city, you’re sure of that?”
“Exactly the same. Selling vacant lots and homes he doesn’t own for whatever down payments his victims are willing to part with.”
“By Christ, it does sound like the same man. He isn’t still calling himself Harold Newcastle?”