“Small world,” Sabina said through her fixed smile. “May I ask what business her husband was in?”

  Wrong question, too personal. Esther Jones’s face closed up.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry,” Sabina said. “I guess I’m just a nosey parker.”

  One thin shoulder lifted, dropped. “No offense. You want to look at the books? I doubt they’re worth much.”

  “They may be, one can never tell.”

  “They’re down in the basement.”

  A flight of stairs led from the ground floor into a musty, gaslit basement dominated by an old coal-burning furnace. At one end was a wire-fenced storage area—four separate units with padlocked doors, one each for Mrs. Jones and her tenants. The largest of them, which she proceeded to unlock, contained a jumble of items, one of which was an old, battered, brassbound trunk set atop a rickety table.

  “Books’re in there,” Mrs. Jones said. “Didn’t see any reason for my son to take ’em out.”

  “Oh, your son lives here with you?”

  A tic fluttered the woman’s left eye. “No, he don’t. Not anymore.”

  Sabina said brightly, “I hope he didn’t move too far away.”

  “Why would you hope that?”

  “Why, for your sake, Mrs. Jones. Mothers always like to have their children close by. Mine certainly did.”

  “He’s got his own life to live,” the woman said with more than a trace of bitterness. “Go on in, miss. Trunk’s not locked.”

  The subject of the son was now closed as well; any more questions would only arouse suspicion. Sabina stepped inside and bent to the trunk.

  A large label on its top confirmed that it had been shipped from Seattle. It provided the name and address of the drayage firm, and was stamped with the date of shipment, slightly more than three months ago. She committed the information to memory as she lifted the trunk’s lid.

  The books were in a haphazard jumble, as if they had been taken out and then tossed back by the handful. Dinger Jones’s doing. No reputable drayage firm would pack in such a careless fashion. Sabina removed them a few at a time, some threescore in total. There was nothing else in the trunk.

  “Worth anything?” Mrs. Jones asked.

  Sabina was hardly an expert, but she knew books well enough to judge that this lot was composed entirely of inexpensive editions of populist fiction and nonfiction. Her feelings about this were mixed. The books’ relative worthlessness made it unnecessary to keep up the pretense of interest in them and relieved her of any further responsibility, but she also felt sorry that Esther Jones would receive no money for them. If they had had value, she would have felt obligated to notify a reputable secondhand book dealer on the woman’s behalf.

  She said truthfully, “I’m afraid not.”

  “Figured as much. Walter said they were just junk.”

  “Walter?”

  The question earned Sabina nothing but a headshake.

  She returned the books to the trunk, stacking them neatly. When she was finished, Mrs. Jones relocked the wire door and led the way upstairs. In the foyer she said, “About the room, miss. Yours if you want it.”

  “I do like it, but … I have to make sure I can afford the rent before I decide.”

  “Don’t take too long. There’s other interest.”

  Which, if true, was a salve on Sabina’s conscience. She said, “Thank you for showing it to me, Mrs. Jones, and for allowing me to look through your books. I really am sorry they’re not valuable.”

  “Don’t be. I didn’t expect any different.”

  * * *

  When Sabina stepped off the trolley on Market Street, she went straight to Western Union where she composed a wire to the Pinkerton office in Seattle. She included the information she’d gleaned from the trunk label, and requested that at the expense of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, an operative be directed to trace the shipper and determine the name of Esther Jones’s deceased sister. She also requested background data on the sister and her family, in particular any known or suspected criminal activity.

  John was at his desk when she entered the agency. What she’d learned from Mrs. Jones satisfied him, though he would have been more pleased if she had managed to uncover a lead to Dinger’s whereabouts. Fortunately for him, he didn’t say so. He praised the cleverness of her book ruse, but he was less enthusiastic when she told him of her request to the Seattle Pinkerton office.

  “An operative on the task full-time will cost us dearly,” he said, “and with no chance of reimbursement from the government.”

  “We can afford it. And it was the only way to find out what you need to know. Of course, I can wire a cancellation if you’d rather turn the matter over to Mr. Boggs.”

  “No, no. I don’t want to burden him with what may turn out to be a false lead.”

  “But you don’t think it will be. Nor do I. The fact that Seattle was the trunk’s origin indicates it contained more than just old books and family mementos.”

  He admitted that it was likely. His stubborn determination to be the one to track down Dinger Jones and Paddy Lasher remained undaunted. Like a bloodhound on the scent, he refused to give up the chase until his quarry was tracked down—an admirable quality in a detective when it wasn’t carried to extremes.

  “Was Long Nick Darrow married?” Sabina asked.

  “No. At least, not that I was able to determine during my investigation. Were you thinking that Esther Jones’s sister was Darrow’s widow?”

  “The possibility occurred to me. Assuming, of course, that Darrow did in fact die that night ten years ago.”

  “Even if he didn’t, what possible connection could he have had with the married sister?”

  “An illicit affair?”

  “Unlikely,” John said. “He was a loner as well as a villainous cuss, and evidently confined his interest in women to prostitutes. I find it hard to believe he would have entrusted anything to any woman, much less material related to his coney racket.”

  “If the sister did have such material in her possession, she may not have known she had it.”

  “Hidden in her belongings without her knowledge? Possibly. But not by Darrow, I’ll warrant.”

  “A confederate of his, then? He did have confederates?”

  “Yes, several. All now either dead or in prison.”

  “One could have filched some of the counterfeit bills,” Sabina pointed out, “and a cache of them what Dinger found.”

  “True enough, but as I told you earlier, the queer being passed now is not the same as the ones manufactured by Darrow’s gang.”

  “Could the new bogus notes have been made using his old ones as a prototype?”

  “It’s possible to copy Darrow’s method of bill-splitting,” John said, “but in order to produce such certificates as the one Mr. Boggs showed me, a new set of plates would be needed.”

  “Could duplicates be made from the plates Darrow used?”

  “Yes, if the engraver was skilled enough. But as I also told you, those plates were destroyed in the fire.”

  “Are you absolutely sure of that?”

  “The printing press and a stack of counterfeit notes were in plain sight in the warehouse when the other agents and I entered. So was Thomas Cooley, the engraver who made the plates, so they must have been there, too. Darrow wouldn’t have let them out of his sight.”

  “What happened to Cooley?”

  “Killed in the raid, by one of the other agents’ bullets.”

  Sabina spread her hands, palms up. “Well, then, what could have been tucked away in the trunk that Dinger found and that led to the current counterfeiting operation?”

  Rhetorical question. John wagged his head, fluffed his beard.

  “The Pinkerton report may provide a clue,” she said. “But if it doesn’t?”

  “Then I’ll pry the answer from Dinger. Or Paddy Lasher.”

  “If you can find them.”

  “I’ll find them,” he vowed. “One way or another.”

  22

  QUINCANNON

  There was no word from the Seattle Pinkerton office on Wednesday. Nor word from Ezra Bluefield or any of Quincannon’s other contacts on the whereabouts of Dinger Jones and Paddy Lasher. But on Thursday morning—

  It was Slewfoot who provided the first lead to Lasher, when Quincannon stopped at the vendor’s newsstand for a copy of the Argonaut. Slewfoot, who had the miraculous ability to see clearly from behind his dark glasses when the need arose, glanced around to make sure no one was in earshot before he said in an undertone, “I’ve a bit of information for you, Mr. Q., might help you find one of the lads you’re looking for.”

  “Dinger?”

  “No, Paddy Lasher. The name of a lad what knows him. Ben Baxter.”

  “I don’t know the name. Who is he?”

  “Used to be in the shanghaiing trade, worked with Lasher back then.”

  “And doing what now?”

  “Nothing much. Retired on account of his health, what’s left of it. Word is Lasher supplies him with foot juice for old times’ sake.”

  “Foot juice” was cheap red wine, of the sort sold at wine dumps such as Jack Foyle’s on Stockton Street. “Where can I find Baxter?”

  Slewfoot paused to sell another newspaper. Then, when they were alone again, “Clayton Hotel, Vallejo Street. He lives there, watches over the desk.”

  “Is it alcohol that ruined his health?”

  “That and bad arthritis, so I been told.”

  The information was worth a silver dollar. Slewfoot, as was his habit, bit into the coin to make sure it was genuine before slipping it into his pocket. No one ever had or was ever likely to pass off a counterfeit coin or bill on the wily news vendor.

  Quincannon had been on his way to the agency. Now he reversed direction and climbed Stockton Street to Jack Foyle’s, where he paid a nickel for a quart of foot juice drawn from one of the barrels behind the long bar. The Mason jar into which it went was cracked and dirty—the hodgepodge of containers used in Foyle’s were all unsanitary—but the warped lid fit well enough to keep any of the foul stuff from slopping out. The bartender provided a paper sack for which he had the audacity to charge an extra penny.

  The two-story Clayton Hotel was one of several run-down hotels and lodging houses beyond Broadway at the edge of the Barbary Coast. Its sign was so small and weather-faded that Quincannon almost walked by without spying it. The odors of dry rot, stale tobacco smoke, stale wine, and even less pleasant substances assailed him when he entered. There was nothing in the tiny lobby except a none-too-stable-looking staircase to the upper floor, and next to it, a cubbyhole desk fronted by a waist-high board partition.

  From the doorway, it looked as though no one was inside the cubbyhole. But as Quincannon crossed to it, the warped and unswept floor creaking underfoot, a grizzled head appeared above the countertop. The man had been slouched down in an ancient morris chair, its stuffing bleeding through several rips and tears in the fabric. Asleep, evidently, for he rubbed at his eyes as he struggled to sit up.

  He was a wreck of an individual who might have lived anywhere between forty and sixty years. Rheumy, blood-flecked eyes under which purplish pouches hung. Sunken cheeks coated with gray whiskers, greasy hair straggling from under a cracked leather cap, a bulbous nose disfigured by broken blood vessels. His hands, clawlike, the wrist joints and knuckles bulging with arthritic knots, trembled slightly when he moved them.

  “Ben Baxter?”

  The rheumy eyes peered up at Quincannon. “Who wants to know?” he said in a voice as raspy as a file on wood. The words were clear enough, not slurred but quivery. The shakiness and the bloodshot eyes indicated he was suffering from alcohol deprivation.

  “A pal of Paddy Lasher.”

  “Yeah? I know Paddy’s pals and you ain’t one of ’em.”

  “I am now. Flynn’s the name. He didn’t mention me?”

  “No. Why should he?”

  “We’re in the game together.”

  “What game?”

  “He didn’t tell you that, either? Just as well. It’s not smart to talk about it the way Dinger does, even to pals.”

  “Who’s Dinger?”

  “I thought you said you knew all of Paddy’s pals.”

  “I don’t know you,” Baxter said. “What you want with me?”

  “I don’t want anything from you. Just doing a favor for Paddy.”

  “What favor?”

  “He asked me to bring you this.” Quincannon produced the paper sack, set it on the countertop, and removed the jar of foot juice from inside.

  Baxter stared at the jar, a tongue more gray than pink flicking out to lick cracked lips. The bloodshot gaze was avid.

  “Well, now,” he said. “Well, now.”

  Gambling that Lasher had been kept too busy passing counterfeit bills to pay social visits, Quincannon said, “It’s been a while since Paddy’s been to see you and he knew I had business up this way today.”

  Baxter leaned forward, reached up with both deformed hands. His arthritic fingers locked around the jar, pulled it down to him, then he managed to twist the cap off, lift the jar, and drink deeply—all without spilling a drop. He smacked his lips, wiped his mouth with the back of a not very clean hand.

  “Good old Paddy. He don’t never forget his pals, even if he don’t come around much anymore.”

  “There’ll be plenty more where this came from,” Quincannon said, “and of better quality, too, now that he’s in the chips.”

  “Wish I could’ve got into the dodge with him,” Baxter said. He drank again. “But these goddamn hands … I can’t hardly do nothing no more. Hurt like hell day and night. This here medicine’s all that helps.”

  “So he did tell you about the game, eh, Ben? About him and Dinger shoving the queer.”

  “Never said nothing about nobody named Dinger. Hinted about the game. Always did like to brag when he’s into something good, and he knows I ain’t one to flap my gums.” Baxter added bitterly, “Knows I can’t never go out no more on account of the goddamn arthur-itis, neither.”

  “His hints include how he got into the game? Or who’s running it?”

  “Nah. And I didn’t ask.”

  “Good. Do you happen to know where he hangs his hat?”

  Baxter took another long pull from the jar. “Sure. Ain’t you seen him there?”

  “No. Only at the place where the queer’s being made.”

  “Where you hang your hat, Flynn?”

  “Down near the Embarcadero.”

  “Yeah? Which end?”

  “North. The warehouse district.”

  “Paddy’s up that way, too.” Baxter drank again. The jar was more than half empty now. As Quincannon had hoped, the foot juice had loosened the old mug’s tongue and was making him flap his gums in spite of his claim to the contrary. “Got the waterfront in his blood. Me and him used to be in business together, he tell you that?”

  “Mentioned it. The crimping dodge.”

  “Man, them was the days. Made plenty of scratch, spent it all on liquor and whores.” He cackled reminiscently. “Not cheap whores, neither. Young and fancy, all sizes and colors.”

  “Whereabouts is Paddy’s crib?” Quincannon said. “Maybe I’ll go look him up there.”

  “Icehouse Alley.”

  “What number?”

  Baxter frowned and said muzzily, “Can’t rightly recollect. Oughtn’t to say anyways, even to a pal of his. He wouldn’t like it.”

  “He won’t know because I won’t tell him. Try to remember the address, Ben, would you?”

  Baxter tried, scrunch-faced, but the foot juice had taken its toll on his memory. Finally he shook his head. “Icehouse Alley ain’t big,” he said, “you’ll find him easy enough.” He took another swig from the jar, swiped a hand across his mouth, and treated Quincannon to a slobbery grin. “You’re a pal, Flynn. You and Paddy, real pals.”

  Quincannon turned away. Behind him Baxter said, “Come back any time, I’m always here. And bring some more medicine for my goddamn arthur-itis when you do.”

  * * *

  Icehouse Alley.

  A one-block, dead-end lane close to the Embarcadero, obviously named for a vanished icehouse. This seemed to be his time for dealing with icehouses present and past, Quincannon thought wryly, though there was no evidence of the one that had once operated here. Now the narrow street was lined with nondescript lodging houses, vacant lots, and on the Green Street corner, a saloon called Mulrooney’s Rest.

  Quincannon ventured along the alley’s short length, looking at the dwelling places in passing. There was nothing to be gained by stopping at each one to examine mailboxes; even if Paddy Lasher was using his own name, which was problematic given his evident passion for privacy, it was highly doubtful that he would advertise the location of his lair.

  In total there were six lodging houses, ranging in size from two-story structures containing several units to single-story structures of two and three rooms each. It wouldn’t take long to canvass them all, but in waterfront neighborhoods such as this, those tenants who were in residence at midday would be wary of strangers knocking on their doors and closemouthed as a result.

  He returned to the corner and entered Mulrooney’s Rest. Saloons were often the best place to gather information, barmen being more inclined to view a stranger asking casual questions with a less jaundiced eye than the average citizen. This one was a typical workingman’s neighborhood tavern, its only distinctive feature a large oil painting suspended on the wall above the bar of a buxom, seminude woman reclining on a couch. The artist was either myopic or poorly versed in anatomical reconstruction; the nude’s bulging collarbone made it seem as if she had three breasts.

  The dozen or so patrons, most of whom were drinking beer and partaking of the free lunch, gave Quincannon the usual once-over as he bellied up to the long plank anchored atop a row of barrels. The bartender, a thin, fox-faced fellow wearing bright pink sleeve garters, came over to ask, “What’ll it be?”