The Plague of Thieves Affair (12 page)

But such injunctions meant nothing to such men as the Grays and Cyrus Drinkwater. The brothers opened another quarry on Douglass Street in Noe Valley, meanwhile making use of their powerful political connections and bribes to various city officials to keep that equally dangerous and damaging enterprise going. And to eventually resume their systematic destruction of Telegraph Hill in spite of the judge's “permanent” injunction.

From the look of the ruptured yellow-brown face of the hill now, the Grays' publicly stated intention to level it entirely and to then open a brick factory on the site seemed a bleak likelihood. Tons of rock already had been crushed and transported to construction sites by teams of men and horse- and mule-drawn wagons, and even though it was Saturday, what appeared to be a full crew was at work in the quarry when Quincannon arrived. The chilly, now sunless afternoon was filled with the ring of singlejack hammers breaking rock, the thunderous grinding clatter of chunks being loaded into and pulverized by the crusher, the rattle of heavily laden dray wagons departing and empty ones arriving, the profane voices of the laborers.

The quarry noise was matched by the passing clatter and rumble of railcars on the city's unique minirailroad, the Belt Line, that ran along the northeastern waterfront, servicing businesses and transporting offloaded freight from ships anchored at the busy piers. The line had begun operations in 1890 and ran for 3.2 miles from the foot of Lombard Street to the Ferry House; rail traffic south of that point was controlled by Southern Pacific. Its small roundhouse was located nearby, at the corner of Sansome and the Embarcadero. If blasting were being done at the quarry today, which at present it wasn't, the din in the area would have been deafening.

The Gray Brothers offices were housed in a plain board-and-batten building farther up Sansome, at a safe distance from the ravaged hillside. Two conveyances were parked in the wagon yard alongside, one a large four-wheeled, four-passenger, two-horse Whitechapel carriage, its liveried driver lounging on the high seat. The carriage was painted a dark maroon color with matching dusters and folding hood, the moldings decorated with a wide cream-colored stripe. It was deliberately distinctive among such equipage, often sighted on the city streets; as soon as Quincannon saw it and the waiting driver, a hulking individual named Bruno who doubled as Cyrus Drinkwater's bodyguard, he knew he'd finally found the elusive businessman.

A tired and grumpy-looking clerk—the Gray brothers, in addition to their other shortcomings, demanded long hours from their employees and paid low wages—informed Quincannon that Mr. Drinkwater had been in conference with Mr. Harry Gray for the past half hour. How long the conference would last he didn't know. Quincannon said he would wait.

His patience had worn thin and his mood was dark when the two conspirators finally emerged from the rear of the building. He had never had the unpleasure of meeting either, but their photographs had often appeared in the newspapers. They were completely different in size and appearance: Harry Gray, a large, graying, clean-shaven man with a substantial corporation over which he wore an immense gold watch chain; and Drinkwater, an inch above six feet, almost cadaverously thin, his bony face adorned with reddish Dundreary whiskers—the flowing sideburns, nearly a foot long in his case, named after those worn by the lead character in the popular British play
Our American Cousin
. Evidently their conference had been a successful one, no doubt involving money, rascality, or both; they continued to share a chuckle as they shook hands and said their good-byes.

Gray went back inside his office and Drinkwater turned toward the door. He carried a maroon-colored umbrella so tightly furled that it also served him as a walking stick. As he passed the desk, the overworked clerk said deferentially, “The gentleman there is waiting to see you, Mr. Drinkwater. He wouldn't give his name, sir.”

Drinkwater's pale eyes widened slightly when his gaze rested on Quincannon, who had risen. Then he donned a falsely sunny smile. “I know his name,” he said, advancing. “Though we've never had the pleasure of making each other's acquaintance. How do you do, Mr. Quincannon?”

“Well enough, considering.” He accepted Drinkwater's extended hand, found it dry and leathery, and released it.

“Good, good. How did you know I was here, may I ask?”

“I didn't. I came on the chance.”

“Ah. Well, sir. What is it you want of me?”

“A few minutes of your time. Private conversation on a matter of mutual interest.”

The sunny smile dipped a little, sardonically. “At your service. Shall we go outside?”

They went outside and over into the side yard. The quarry sounds, dominated by the thudding grind of the rock crusher, made Drinkwater raise his voice when he said, “Rather noisy here. Tell me, do you have equipage or did you come by public transportation?”

“Hansom.”

“Ah. Will you accept a ride to wherever your next destination might be? We can speak freely in the comfort of my carriage.”

Quincannon saw no reason to refuse. “I will.”

The Whitechapel's seat cushions were covered in tufted velvet of the same dark maroon as its exterior, and cloud soft compared to those in the hansom cabs. Quincannon had to admit that the carriage was a pleasure to sit in. And to ride in; extra strong springs kept the jarring and swaying as the wheels clattered over cobblestones to a minimum.

Once they were under way, Drinkwater asked him where he was bound and he said Market at Second Street would do. His growlingly empty stomach dictated the destination; Hoolihan's Saloon, his favorite haunt since his Secret Service days, was on Second and its free lunch second to none in his estimation.

“Now then,” Drinkwater said. “What is it you wish to discuss with me, Mr. Quincannon?”

“Elias Corby, to begin with.”

“Corby? I don't believe I know the man.”

“And Caleb Lansing.”

Drinkwater pretended to consider the name. “Lansing, Lansing. Isn't he the poor soul who committed suicide at the Golden State brewery? I seem to recall reading about that in yesterday newspapers.”

“He didn't commit suicide, he was murdered.”

“Murdered, you say? By whom?”

“His partner in the killing of Golden State's brewmaster, Otto Ackermann, and the theft of Ackermann's steam beer formula. Elias Corby.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I'm an expert detective, as you're well aware.”

“Yes, I've heard of you and your accomplishments. But this man Corby. Just who is he and why come to me about him?”

“He is or was Golden State's bookkeeper, a fact of which I believe you're also well aware.”

“But I'm not. I told you, I've never heard of the man.”

“Xavier Jones had dealings with him. Lansing, too.”

“Jones? You mean my brewmaster at West Star? Are you suggesting he was involved in what happened at Golden State?”

“Directly involved. He's the one who hired Corby and Lansing to steal the formula.”

The carriage slowed for a turn onto Market Street. Drinkwater tugged at one of his long Dundreary sideburns, sat frowning out the window for a few seconds before shifting his gaze, narrow-eyed now, back to Quincannon. “Hogwash. Why, Xavier Jones is a solid citizen, above reproach. He would never collude in such a crime.”

“He would if he was ordered to.”

“Who would issue such an order?”

“His employer, of course.”

Drinkwater stiffened perceptibly. The muscles in his bony face worked up an expression of indignation that was patently false. He said, making an obvious effort to retain his composure, “Are you accusing me of wanton theft and suborning murder?”

“Theft, if nothing else.”

“That is an outrageous falsehood. Outrageous, I say.”

“James Willard doesn't think so. Neither do I.”

“I don't care what Willard believes. Or what you believe, Quincannon. If you dare to make such a ridiculous accusation to the authorities or anywhere in public, I will have my lawyers sue you for slander, defamation, and grievous mental anguish.”

“I won't. Not until I can prove it.”

“You'll never prove it. Never.”

“Won't I? I wouldn't wager against it if I were you.”

Drinkwater glared at him for several seconds, his eyes glinting with the sharpness of knife points. Abruptly, then, he reached up to slide open the roof panel that allowed him to communicate with the driver. “Bruno, stop the carriage immediately. Immediately, I say!”

Bruno obeyed. The Whitechapel swerved to the curbing, came to a jolting halt. Drinkwater then pointed the ferruled tip of his umbrella at Quincannon as he would have pointed a pistol or long gun. “Get out,” he said angrily. “I'll have no more of your company.”

“With pleasure, sir. My thanks for the ride and the illuminating conversation.”

“Get out!”

Quincannon took his time stepping down. With the door still open, he grinned in at the cadaverous rogue. “You'll be hearing from me again.”

“If I do, you'll hear from my lawyers.”

Drinkwater reached over to yank the door closed, then shouted up to Bruno to proceed. The carriage clattered off into the Market Street traffic.

Quincannon stood on the sidewalk looking after it, feeling well pleased with himself. He'd stirred the pot for fair and with the desired results. Satisfied himself beyond the slightest doubt that Cyrus Drinkwater was behind the theft of Otto Ackermann's steam beer recipe. And served notice that he was not about to get away unscathed.

 

13

SABINA

Saturday evening's attendance at Reticules Through the Ages was somewhat smaller than Friday's, despite the better weather. Still the ebb and flow of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen was substantial enough to please both Marcel Carreaux and Andrew Rayburn. Sabina, dressed in her second-best gown, a silk taffeta of pale gold, saw several familiar faces, including a few who had been present at the exhibit's gala opening. The corpulent art connoisseur from Sacramento, Thaddeus Bakker, was one; the man with the pince-nez who had seemed offended by the French Brie was another.

The one person she didn't see was Charles the Third.

She'd heard nothing from or about him after her unsatisfactory meeting with Roland Fairchild and his bitch (yes, bitch) of a wife. The small hope that he might attempt to contact her at the agency, or that word of him might come from one of her informers, had kept her there all afternoon. That hope was even smaller tonight.

But her main concern now that she was at the gallery again was the allegedly planned theft of the Marie Antoinette handbag. Was Charles the Third's suspicion valid or not? There seemed to be no way a thief, no matter how cleverly professional, could manage to steal the bag in front of the watchful eyes of herself, Carreaux, Rayburn, his two clerks, and dozens of guests. The reticules were prominently arranged on tables set behind standards of red velvet rope, the display tables well lighted; no one could get close enough to them to snatch the Marie Antoinette and hope to get away with it. To even step over the ropes, much less touch any of the bags, was forbidden and cause for immediate expulsion.

Still, no matter how addlepated Charles the Third might be, the information he had gathered and imparted in the past invariably proved to be factual. And so she was extra vigilant tonight, carefully scrutinizing each new arrival, continually circulating among the guests with one eye always on the exhibition.

“Ah, Mrs. Carpenter. A pleasure to see you again.”

She turned to find Thaddeus Bakker at her elbow. His bow was rather clumsy, a product of his bulging midsection. “Good evening, Mr. Bakker. Back for another view of the treasures?”

“Indeed. San Francisco has many attractions for the visitor, but a marvelous exhibit such as this comes along but once in a lifetime. I felt I must see it at least one more time. It drew you again for the same reason, I trust?”

“Yes.”

He patted his corporation. “I must admit,” he said with a chuckle, “I also find the buffets to be splendid as well. A superb selection of food and drink, wouldn't you say?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Sabina lied, remembering the dreadful anchovy and olive canapé she'd tasted the previous evening.

“I believe I'll partake now. Will you join me?”

“Thank you, no. I've already eaten.”

Bakker bowed again and moved away to the food buffet. No sooner had he done so than Andrew Rayburn approached her. He gestured toward the fat man, who was circling the buffet with an empty plate, taking his time about making a selection from the trays. “Who is that man you were talking to?” he asked. “He was at the opening and now he's back again. You seem to know him, but I don't.”

“Only since last evening. His name is Thaddeus Bakker. Of the Sacramento Bakkers. An art connoisseur.”

“Ah. Well, that's all right then.” Rayburn smoothed his shoelace mustache. Then he frowned twitchily and gestured again. “I don't know that fellow, either—the one in front of the display. He seems to be taking an inordinate interest in the Marie Antoinette centerpiece.”

Sabina looked. It was the slight man with the pince-nez. “Just admiring it, apparently, like everyone else.”

“He was at the opening as well. Do you know him?”

“No. But there is nothing suspicious about him. Another connoisseur, most likely.”

“I believe I'll introduce myself. To Thaddeus Bakker as well. I am always interested in making the acquaintance of connoisseurs.”

Especially those who might be in the market for the overpriced art works you sell, Mr. Rayburn.

The evening progressed. Guests came and went, ate and drank, engaged in animated conversations, and admired the antique reticules. Sabina's feet and lower back began to ache from the constant moving about; she would have liked to rest for a time on the velvet settee by the entrance, but Charles the Third's dire warning kept her from doing so. She tried to maintain a central location where she could keep watch on both the display and the entrance, but that wasn't always possible because of the shifting of the crowd.