QUINCANNON
Friday morning was bright, sunny, the air crisp and winey as well as briny, and Quincannon whistled “The Drunkard’s Funeral,” one of his collection of temperance tunes, as he alighted from the Powell Street cable car and proceeded at a brisk pace down Market Streeet. The briefcase he carried swung loosely at his side, but his grip on it could not have been tighter.
For once, he arrived at the office before Sabina. The morning mail had already been delivered; he scooped it up from the floor under the mail slot and tossed it on his desk. Went to turn up the steam heat to dispel the lingering night’s chill, then knelt and twirled the combination lock to open the office safe. It was a Mosler, one of the best manufacturers of strongboxes; large, bolted to the floor, and as secure as any private business could expect. Far more secure than the small one in his bedroom.
He opened the briefcase and transferred the files he’d appropriated from James Scarlett’s law office to the safe. They constituted important evidence and now he didn’t have to worry about their safety until the time came to turn them over to the authorities.
The mail wasn’t such-a-much—only one containing a check in payment for services rendered, the rest circulars, bills, this month’s issue of the Police Gazette. There was also a sealed envelope with “Mrs. Carpenter” scrawled on it in a barely legible backhand. The writing was familiar, that of the news vendor, Slewfoot, one of their more reliable informants. A communication from him, as from others in the city-wide network of information sellers, was often delivered in this fashion after office hours.
He was putting the envelope and the bills on Sabina’s desk blotter when the telephone bell jangled. Alexander Graham Bell’s invention had its uses, but he had yet to get used to the sudden shrill clamor of its summons. He cut off the noise on its second ring.
A woman’s imperious voice said, “Is that you, Blackbeard?”
Mrs. Harriet Blanchford. Not even such as the Blackbeard slight bothered him this morning. He said cheerfully, “John Quincannon, Mrs. Blanchford,” listened, said, “No, Mrs. Carpenter, hasn’t come in yet this morning. I imagine she’ll arrive shortly.” Listened some more and then said, “Yes, I’ll make sure she gets the message,” and was rewarded with an abrupt termination of the call. Ah, well, the elderly had their privileges, a tolerable amount of rude behavior among them. The more so when the party involved was wealthy and destined to be another satisfied client.
He would be leaving shortly, so he sat down to commit Harriet Blanchford’s message to paper. He was in the process when the door opened to admit his erstwhile and much coveted partner.
“Good morning, my dear. Beautiful day, isn’t it.”
“Is it?” she said. Her tone was uncharacteristically bleak. “What makes you so jolly today?”
“Considerable progress on the Scarlett case. What makes you so dispirited?”
Sabina didn’t respond. Instead, she went about unpinning her hat and hanging up her cape on the coat tree. He inspected her more closely as she did so, and what he saw was alarming. She looked even more tired today, her eyes betokening a sleep-deprived night. There was a remoteness about them, too, as if her mind were heavily burdened. And her mouth and jaw bore the kind of tightness that came from teeth-clenching. Carson Montgomery again? If the man had harmed or severely upset her in any way …
Quincannon watched her sit at her desk. She noticed the “Mrs. Carpenter” envelope immediately, opened it, read the paper inside without a change of expression, reinserted it, and put it aside.
“Good news?” he asked.
“Expected news.”
“The Blanchford case?”
“Yes. Is this the only message that came for me?”
“Were you hoping for another?”
“No. Just the opposite.”
“Well, I have more Blanchford news for you,” he said. “The widow telephoned not five minutes ago. It seems the kidnappers kept their promise after all.”
“Her husband’s body is back in the family crypt?”
“Brought there and deposited sometime last night. Her son found it there this morning.” Sabina’s expression prompted him to add, “You don’t seem surprised.”
“I’m not. Also as I expected.”
“The body was returned in the same mysterious manner as its taking, Mrs. Blanchford said. What did she mean by that?”
“It was allegedly stolen in what appeared to be an impossible fashion, the crypt being still sealed with no tampering of its door lock and Mrs. Blanchford in possession of the only key.”
This announcement warped Quincannon’s brow. He said, “And returned in the same fashion, evidently, if the crypt was locked again this morning.”
“Not quite, but close enough.”
“So. A seemingly impossible crime, and you didn’t tell me about it?”
“I didn’t need to.”
“You mean you’ve solved the mystery? How?”
“That’s a silly question, John. By detective work and deductive reasoning, of course. You don’t honestly believe you’re the only one adept at that sort of conundrum, do you?”
“No, but I’ve had a great deal of experience—”
“And I haven’t? Oh, but naturally my skills are nowhere as preeminent as yours.”
Quincannon felt himself being boxed into an uncomfortable corner. He squirmed his way to safety by saying, “That’s not true. They’re every bit the match of mine,” but the words weren’t merely a convenient sop; he meant them, much as it bruised his ego to admit it. “So now you know who’s behind the Blanchford snatch.”
Sabina seemed mollified, at least temporarily. “Who, and how their tricks were worked. A bumbling fool’s game from start to finish.”
“How so?”
Instead of answering his question, she changed the subject—or so he thought at first—by asking a question of her own. “Have you found out the significance of Fowler Alley yet?”
“Fowler Alley? No, but I will.”
“Yes. Right now.”
“What do you mean?”
“I believe I know what it is.”
“You do?” He peered at her with his head tipped forward like a crane’s. “What? How?”
“You’ll know when I tell you the solution to the Blanchford crime. The details make it apparent.”
Sabina proceeded to do so, not taking time to savor her prowess as he might have done in a reversed role; her explanation was specifically brief and to the point. When she revealed the gaffe, he saw immediately how it related to James Scarlett’s last words. He smote himself on the forehead. “By Jove, that must be the answer! I’m a rattlepate for not seeing it myself.”
“Well, those are your words, not mine.”
Quincannon bounced to his feet, favored her with a radiant smile as he clamped on his derby. “Sabina, my dear, you’re truly wonderful. I could kiss you.”
“If you try, I’ll box your ears until they bleed.”
He laughed, impudently blew her a kiss anyway from a safe distance, and then went haring out the door.