Quincannon sliced a hand downward to cut off the babble of irrelevant words. “Where does Morgan live?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ve worked for him three years and you don’t know where he hangs his hat?”
“He never said and I never asked. None of my business.” Tucker wiped his sweaty face with his shirtsleeve. His gaze kept shifting from Quincannon to the Peacemaker, and it made him anxious to please. “But wherever, it ain’t likely around here.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Man’s got plenty of money, he don’t live out here on the river unless he’s a local bigwig. Mr. Morgan ain’t one of those. He don’t spend much time here at all.”
“How do you know Morgan has plenty of money?”
“Must have — clothes he wears, fancy rig he drives. Sure didn’t make it with this place. Must have another business somewhere else.”
That he did. Gold thievery.
“Or maybe it’s poker winnings,” Tucker said. “I been told he plays a mean game of stud.”
“Where does he play when he’s in town?”
“Ace High Card Club, over on South Street. Always a poker game going on there.”
“Anyone he plays with regularly?”
“I don’t know, unless maybe Luke Jaeger.”
“Who would Luke Jaeger be?”
“Owns the Ace High.”
“All right,” Quincannon said. He picked up the Peacemaker, hefted it in his hand. “My companion and I will be leaving now. Not that we were ever here.”
Tucker said quickly, “Nobody’s been here this morning, nobody at all.”
“You won’t forget that, will you?”
“No, sir, I sure won’t.”
Quincannon rearranged his expression to one less threatening, holstered the weapon, and went to the door. Flannery followed him out.
On the sidewalk Flannery said, “You handled the fellow rather well, Quincannon.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t? Or that you could have done better?”
“Now, don’t be crusty. We’re lodge brothers, after all.”
“Bah.”
Sabina had exited the brougham and was pacing along beside it. She said as they came up, “So Morgan wasn’t there.”
Quincannon wagged his head. “Nor will he be, evidently.”
“Did you learn where to find him?”
“No, confound it. Not yet.”
Flannery climbed up into the driver’s seat, waited until his passengers were seated inside before saying to Quincannon, “Ace High Card Club?”
“Quick as you can get us there.”
23
Quincannon
The Ace High Card Club occupied the second floor of a South Street firetrap, above a tonsorial parlor and a washhouse. You might have missed it if you weren’t on the lookout, for the only sign was wired to a support post at the foot of an outside staircase. The sign was some two feet square with faded lettering and a painted arrow pointing upward; a reversible card in a metal holder stated that the club was open.
Quincannon climbed the stairs alone, there being no need for Flannery’s presence here. The door at the top opened into a long, wide room bisected lengthwise by a waist-high partition, the room’s plain furnishings and lack of adornments indicating that its clientele was primarily farmhands, fishermen, and other members of the working class. One side was taken up with half a dozen round poker tables covered with green baize, all of which were deserted. On the other side were several smaller tables for those who preferred different card games; two elderly men, the only customers at this early hour, sat at one playing a desultory game of pinochle. At the rear was a short buffet, above which was tacked a placard that read: Beer 10c. No Hard Liquor.
Just inside the entrance stood a kind of three-sided cage presided over by a heavy-set man wearing a green eyeshade and thick galluses over a green and white striped shirt. Strangers in the Ace High were evidently a rarity; he looked Quincannon up and down, taking his measure.
“If poker’s your game, friend,” he said, “you’ve come too early, as you can see. Likely won’t be a game of stud or draw until this afternoon.”
Quincannon showed him an amiable smile. “It’s a man I’m looking for, not a poker game.”
“What man would that be?”
“The assayer, Bart Morgan. I was told he is a regular here when he’s in town.”
“Told by who?”
“Floyd Tucker, his assistant.”
“If you saw Tucker, then he must’ve also told you his boss hasn’t been around for two weeks or more.”
“He did, but it’s important that I talk to Mr. Morgan as soon as possible. Would you be Luke Jaeger?”
“I would.”
“Well, Tucker said you might be able to tell me where Morgan resides.”
“What makes him think I’d know?”
“Just that you and Morgan might be friends, seeing as how you both fancy five-card stud.”
Jaeger tugged at one of his galluses. “What’s so important that you need to talk to him? Assay business?”
“Mining business, yes.”
“You don’t look like a prospector.”
“I’m not. Engineer.” The two pinochle players had their ears cocked, listening to the conversation; Quincannon lowered his voice. “I made a discovery Morgan is sure to be interested in, once he verifies its potential.”
“Rich discovery? Why go to him with it?”
“I have my reasons. Do you know where he lives?”
“Suppose I do,” Jaeger said. “Why should I help feather his nest?”
“And why not, if you’re a friend of his?”
“I wouldn’t call him a friend. He took close to a hundred dollars off me the last stud game at his house.”
“So you’ve been to his house. Located where?”
“What’s in it for me if I tell you?”
“Morgan’s undying gratitude. And mine.”
“Hah. Man can’t eat or drink gratitude.”
Quincannon put a hitch on his impatience, another on his distaste for parting with hard-earned money even in a good cause. He said, “A man can do both with a five-dollar gold piece.”
“Let’s see the color of it.”
Quincannon pinched out one of two Liberty coins in his purse, held it up, then drew it quickly back when Jaeger reached for it. “An honest answer first, Mr. Jaeger.”
“I always give honest answers when I’m paid for them. All right. Bart’s place is over in Sacramento, on F Street.”
“Where on F Street?”
“I don’t recall the number. Off Fourteenth, not far from Washington Park. Red brick house with a crabapple tree in front.”
“He lives there alone, does he?”
“With his wife. I’d watch out for her if I were you.”
“Why is that?”
“Likes brandy, Mrs. Morgan does. Got a mean tongue when she likes too much of it, which is most of the time.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“No charge for the advice,” Jaeger said, and stretched out his hand, palm up. Quincannon dropped the coin into it, not without reluctance.
Morgan’s home was in midtown Sacramento, in a residential neighborhood Flannery identified as Boulevard Park. There was a certain irony in the fact that only a few dozen blocks separated it from the Golden Eagle Hotel. If only some knowledge of its whereabouts had been available yesterday! But Flannery swore that he’d checked the residential listings and property ownership records and there had been none for B. or Bartholomew Morgan. Shrewd cuss that Morgan was, he must have seen to it that the house was put in his wife’s name, married or maiden, or another of his aliases.
On F Street near 14th, red brick, crabapple tree in front... It was easy enough to find. Quincannon gave it a quick study as Flannery drove past on the cobblestone street. Fairly large and well landscaped, testimony to the profits Morgan had obtained through his various criminal ventures. The front windows were draped and there was no activity outside. A driveway led along one side to a carriage barn at the rear.