The Body Snatchers Affair (20 page)

“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.

 

21

SABINA

It was a few minutes before noon when Sabina arrived at the Blanchfords' Nob Hill mansion. On the one hand she didn't relish her mission; on the other hand she was looking forward to it. Like John, she derived satisfaction from the successful conclusion to an investigation, even one as unpleasant as this. She could only hope that the matter with Carson could be untangled satisfactorily as well, for his sake as well as hers.

The houseman, Edmund, a thin old man with the face of a mournful hound, admitted her, left her waiting in the front hall while he went to announce her, and then showed her out to the side terrace where Harriet and Bertram Blanchford were having a late breakfast or early lunch at a table overlooking the rose garden. Mrs. Blanchford no longer seemed quite so frail today; her relief was evident in the erect set of her body, the color in her cheeks, the brightness of her eyes. She offered Sabina a thin but welcoming smile.

“I take it you're here because Blackbeard delivered my message?”

“Yes, as soon as I arrived at the office.”

“I didn't expect you to come in person, but I'm not displeased that you did. Isn't the news splendid?”

Indeed it was, Sabina agreed, managing to keep tartness out of her voice. She declined a cup of tea, but accepted the widow's invitation to occupy the heavy wrought-iron chair between her and her son. Bertram was smoking an expensive cigar—evidently Mrs. Blanchford's prejudice against tobacco didn't extend to the outdoors—and wearing an expression of smug solemnity.

“Paying the ransom demand was absolutely the right thing to do, Mrs. Carpenter,” he said. “When I opened the mausoleum this morning, there Father was—back safe and sound in his casket. Though how he was returned is as much a mystery as how he was taken. The door was locked as before and nothing was disturbed.”

“So I understand.” Sabina shifted her gaze to his mother. “I'd like another look at the crypt, if you don't mind.”

“Why do you find it necessary?”

“I have my reasons.”

“Very well, then.”

“Will you accompany me, Mr. Blanchford?”

Bertram shrugged. “As you wish.”

Mrs. Blanchford took the large brass key from her dress pocket, handed it to him. As before he fetched a lantern from inside the house, then he and Sabina set off to where the mausoleum squatted, cool and dark, at the foot of the garden. When the heavy bronze door was unlocked, the young man stepped back and to one side.

“I'll wait here while you have your look inside.”

“I have no need for a look inside.”

“But you said—”

“A ruse to bring you down here alone.” Sabina fixed him with a narrowed and knowing eye. “Now, then. Where is the ransom money?”

“What?”

“Have you shared it with your confederate and debtors yet? Or is it all still in your possession?”

“I … I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Oh, yes you do. You no more delivered the seventy-five thousand dollars to Golden Gate Park than I flew upside down in the last windstorm. The plain truth is, you're the one who planned this body-snatching business. And wrote and ‘delivered' the ransom demands.”

Bertram blinked, sputtered, then made an effort to draw himself up indignantly. “That's a slanderous accusation. How dare you!”

“A copycat crime if ever there was one. Inspired by the newspaper accounts of the Chinese tong leader's stolen remains that appeared just after your father's death. There's no use denying it.”

“I do deny it. You know full well that I had no access to the key, no way of getting inside the crypt—”

“Nonsense,” Sabina said. “All that mystification was designed to cloud the truth, keep your mother from becoming suspicious, and focus attention on a nonexistent gang of body snatchers. There is no mystery about the alleged disappearance of your father's body or its delivery last night.”

Bertram wagged his head, but not in denial. His eyes had already taken on the shine of a trapped animal's.

“We both know the body was never in the mausoleum,” Sabina said. “It was removed from the casket at the Evergreen Chapel, after the service and before the procession here. The casket is heavy and your father was a slight man—you counted on none of the pallbearers noticing the disparity in weight and none did. Joshua Trilby did the removal work, under the guise of a faked delay with the hearse. He also cut the piece from the satin lining and removed the ring, which he then turned over to you, and stored the body at the mortuary until last night.

“Its reappearance was even more simply managed. The mausoleum key was still in your mother's possession, though not as well cared for because of the circumstances. I expect you managed to appropriate it while she was asleep. You came down here to meet Trilby at a prearranged time, opened the crypt, helped him with the transfer, locked the door again afterward, and put the key back where you got it. Then, this morning, you pretended to discover your father's shell.”

“How … how could you know…”

“I began to suspect the truth when I examined the empty casket,” Sabina said. “If a gang of genuine body snatchers had been at work, all the heavy silver handles and other valuable silver trim would have been stolen as well. The casket's pillow bed was just as telltale. If a body had lain there for even a short length of time, the satin would have retained some impression of it. But there was none; it was completely smooth.”

Bertram said desperately, “If Trilby is guilty, he acted alone. I'm a wealthy man, I have no need for a large sum of cash.…”

“You're
not
a wealthy man. The estate your father left is not nearly as large as has been generally assumed, and as you no doubt knew; the Blanchford Investment Foundation drained away much of your father's wealth, and ill-advised stock-market purchases depleted it further.” This information had come from the financial wizard Matthew Wainwright. What she went on to say was courtesy of Slewfoot. “Your own funds you depleted with large bets on slow horses and your impulsive investment in the Ingleside racetrack. You're presently in debt to Billy the Bookie and other sure-thing operators, and you have no means of borrowing enough to pay the markers. Your mother controls the family purse strings and she doesn't approve of your passion for horse racing and your penchant for consorting with touts and bookmakers. Don't bother to deny any of that, either. I know it all for a fact.”

Bertram's mouth hinged open, clamped shut again. His face had paled to the color of tallow.

“Trilby also has financial troubles, partly the result of mismanagement of his mortuary and partly horse-race gambling losses. Birds of a feather. You met him at one of the county fair races—you were seen together at the Alameda and other tracks on several occasions, thick as the thieves you are. You had no trouble talking him into becoming your accomplice in the scheme to dupe your mother, I'm sure.”

A sound halfway between a moan and a goat's bleat escaped Bertram's throat. He took a half-step toward Sabina. For an instant she thought he might attempt to attack her. Even though she knew him to be a weakling and likely a coward, she had been prepared for any rash act on his part; throughout the confrontation she'd kept her hand inside her bag, her fingers clutching the handle of the Remington derringer. But Bertram's half-step was merely reflexive. There was no fight in the man; she would have no trouble with him.

There was no bluster left in him, either. “I had to do it,” he said, abandoning all pretense of innocence. “I
had
to. Threats of bodily harm if I didn't pay my markers … I had to do something!”

“The ransom money. Do you still have it?”

“Yes, in my office downtown. I intended to pay Trilby and the bookmakers tonight, but now—”

“Now you'll make an excuse to your mother and together we'll go fetch it. I'll see that it's returned to her.”

“And tell her that I— No, you can't do that! She'll be devastated, she'll disown me!”

“You should have thought of that,” Sabina said, “before you decided to become a ghoul.”

 

22

QUINCANNON

The day had turned overcast, the temperature several degrees colder, when Quincannon turned afoot into Fowler Alley. A sharp wind gusted along its nearly empty expanse, swirling refuse and grit from the pitted roadway. All of Chinatown had a desolate aspect today, like a place where most of the inhabitants have fled to avoid a plague. Very few Chinese were abroad; there seemed to be almost as many uniformed policemen walking the streets singly and in pairs, keeping the peace.

Quincannon made his way slowly along the first block, hands buried in the pockets of his Chesterfield, his shoulders hunched and his roving gaze studying the buildings with their grimy windows and indecipherable calligraphy. All seemed too small and closely packed to be the one he sought. He entered the second block. Halfway along he spied the one he should have noticed on his previous visit, one that was larger than the rest with an alleyway along one side that appeared wide enough to accommodate a carriage.

He crossed the cobbled street, stepped into the deserted alley. As he moved deeper into its gloomy expanse, he saw that it was a cul-de-sac that widened at its end, where an intersecting passage ran along the rear of the building. He hurried to the corner, poked his head around. Ah, yes! Parked in the shadows some twenty yards distant was a high-sided black wagon, unhitched and unattended, waiting.

Quincannon made his way to the rig along heavily rutted ground. One quick look up close was enough to confirm its purpose and that this was the place he'd come looking for.

The wagon was the Chinese version of a hearse, the building an undertaking parlor.

Just beyond the rig's backside, a closed door was set into the wall—the parlor's rear entrance. A tight little smile split Quincannon's beard when he found the door neither barred nor latched. He eased it open with his left hand, sliding the Navy Colt from its holster with his right. The pale glow from a pair of hanging lanterns showed him a storage area and a corridor that led from it toward the front, both empty. From somewhere in that direction the singsong voices of two or three Chinese came to him, but back here there was only silence.

His eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom; he had no difficulty making his way across the room, the warped floorboards creaking from his weight but not loudly enough for the sounds to carry. He stepped into the corridor, tiptoeing. Halfway along, the sickish odor of formaldehyde dilated his nostrils, forcing him to breathe through his mouth.