The Bughouse Affair: A Carpenter and Quincannon Mystery (10 page)

His frown deepened as he studied it. “Lady detective,” he said, but not in the way so many did, as if the concept was difficult to grasp. He hesitated, then motioned her off to an uncrowded side of the stall. In a low flat voice he asked, “Clara, she’s in trouble again, hah?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“What she do, steal money?”

“Yes. By picking pockets.”

“
Dio mio!
You sure?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“That Sally woman, that’s where she learn that game. Sure.”

“Sally?”

“Friend of Clara’s aunt Bess,” Tony said disgustedly. “Some friend—a thief. Used to be pickpocket when she’s younger, before her hands go bad with
artrite.
”

“Sally Tatum?”

“That’s right. You know her?”

“I know of her.” Dippin’ Sal, one of the more famous cutpurses who had plied her trade in Virginia City in the early days of the Comstock Lode. She must be in her sixties now, and long retired if her hands had become crippled with arthritis. “Is she still living in Nevada?”

“No, she’s come live down here now.”

“Do you know where?”

“With her son Victor. Another crook, that one. Whole family of
truffatori
.”

“What’s Victor’s last name?” Dippin’ Sal had been married twice.

“Pope. He owns hardware store, but hammers and nails, they not all he buys and sells.”

“Stolen property?”

Tony shrugged elaborately, then made a dismissive gesture. “I don’t have nothing to do with crooks like him.”

“Do you know where his hardware store is located? Or where he lives?”

“In the Mission district. I know because my niece say so when she works for me last year, before she…” He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead he scowled and muttered something in Italian under his breath. “You think maybe that’s where you find Clara?”

“It’s possible.”

“And then what? You arrest her?”

“If I don’t, the police will.”

He nodded. “
Cosi sia.
You tell her something for me, eh?”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t come to her uncle Tony for money to get out of jail. She’s no longer
la familia,
you understand?”

“I understand, Mr. Antontelli.”

“Tony. Tony the Fish Monger.”

12

SABINA

The hansom clattered along bustling Mission Street, past shops and sidewalk stands and the oldest building in the city, Mission Dolores, the adobe church having been established by Father Junipero Serra the same year as the Declaration of Independence was signed.

A few blocks farther on, the driver turned off onto Twenty-second Street and urged his horse uphill. Victor Pope’s house was on Jersey Street between Sanchez and Noe, a fact Sabina had learned by stopping off at the agency long enough to consult their office copy of the city directory. She had also gleaned the address of the hardware store Victor Pope operated, but it was much more likely that his mother would be at his home than at his place of business.

The small clapboard house was in the middle of a block lined with similar dwellings. Rosebushes bloomed in the front yard behind a white picket fence. Even among those who trespassed frequently across the boundaries of the law, the Popes were probably considered better-than-average citizens in a respectable working-class neighborhood such as this. The crime of buying and selling stolen property was a relatively inconsequential one in a city where many more serious felonies occurred on a daily basis, and if Victor Pope were accused of being a fenceman, he would no doubt claim he had no knowledge that the items he traded in were stolen property. As for Dippin’ Sal, he would present her as an honest but poor elderly relative.

Sabina asked the hansom driver to wait for her, and mounted the front steps. There was no bell push, so she rapped on the door. Slow, shuffling sounds came from within, the door opened a few inches, and a wizened face peered out at her. The woman’s eyes were cloudy with cataracts, and the hand that clutched the door’s edge was knobbed and misshapen with arthritis.

“Mrs. Tatum?” Sabina asked.

“Who’re you?”

“A friend of Clara Wilds.”

“Clara don’t have friends look like you, missy. What you want with me?”

“She mentioned your name to me once. I thought you might know where I can find her.”

“If you’re her friend, how come you don’t know?”

“We’ve fallen out of touch.”

“What you want with her?” the old woman asked suspiciously.

“A business matter. She did me a favor awhile ago and now I have a chance to return it.”

“What kind of favor?”

“The money-making kind.”

“Hah. What’s your game, missy?”

“The same one you used to be in. The one you taught her.” Sabina punctuated those statements by reaching up to finger her Charles Horner hatpin. “Only my territory is the Uptown Tenderloin.”

There were several seconds of silence. Then Dippin’ Sal nodded once, satisfied, and her crabbed fingers opened the door all the way. Past her Sabina had glimpses of a small front parlor with striped wallpaper and old, worn furniture decorated with antimacassars.

“I can’t tell you where Clara’s livin’ now. She used to come around regular, now she don’t. Can’t be bothered anymore with an old woman taught her most every trick she knows.”

“Including the hatpin diversion?”

“No, she thought that one up herself. Pretty smart. You’re using it, too, eh?”

Sabina nodded. “Do you know anyone who can tell me where to find her?”

“Talk to my son. Likely he knows.”

“Fencing for her, is he?”

“And laying her, too, likely, not that he’d ever admit it to me. My Victor’s the same as his father was. Same as most men, come to that.”

“Is Clara still keeping company with Dodger Brown?”

“The Dodger? Maybe she is, maybe she isn’t. How would I know?” Dippin’ Sal raised and dropped her crippled hands. She smacked her lips as if there was a bitter taste in her mouth. “I’m just an old woman nobody cares about no more. But I was good in my day—the best there was workin’ the Comstock, smooth as silk. You better believe that, missy. The damn best there was, and I didn’t need no hatpin, either.”

*   *   *

Pope’s Hardware Store stood on the corner of Twenty-third Street and Guerrero. Its wood floors were buckled with age, so that one had a sensation of walking on the deck of a ship at sea, and it smelled not unpleasantly of creosote and sawdust. A heavyset man with thick, black hair who was selling paintbrushes to a customer in work clothes concluded the transaction and rang up the sale on an ornate gold-filigree cash register. Sabina waited until the customer had left and there was no one else in sight before she approached the heavyset man.

“Are you Victor Pope?” she asked.

“At your service.”

“I understand you know Clara Wilds.”

The name made him wary. “Who told you that?”

“Your mother.”

“Why would she—? Say, who are you?”

“Call me Lil. I need to get in touch with Clara. Dippin’ Sal said you’d have her address.”

“Old woman can’t keep her mouth shut—” Pope blinked. “What name was that?”

“You heard me right. I’m in the same profession your mother used to be and Clara is now.”

Pope glanced furtively toward the door, as if he were afraid someone might have crept in while he wasn’t looking. He passed a hand over his coarse features. “How come you’re looking for Clara?”

“I have a business proposition for her. One that’ll fatten both our purses. And yours as well, if you’re fencing for her.”

“Doing what for her?”

“Pardon the pun, Mr. Pope, but let’s not fence. We both know you’ve been disposing of the swag from Clara’s robberies.”

Pope decided there was no point in further denial. “My mother tell you that, too?”

“She didn’t have to.”

“But she did, didn’t she? Old woman hates me. I took her in when she got all crippled up, and still she hates me. I don’t know why.”

He might not, but Sabina had a good idea of the reason.

“What else did the old lady say? That I’ve been seeing Clara on the sly? Well, it’s a lie. A damn lie.”

No, it wasn’t. The lie was Pope’s, not Dippin’ Sal’s. It was in his close-set brown eyes as well as on his lips.

“Has Clara brought you anything within the past few days?” Sabina asked.

“No. I haven’t seen her in more than a week.” Pope licked his lips, all but drooling his avarice when he asked, “What kind of business proposition?”

“For Clara’s ears only. All you need to know is that there’s plenty of money for you in the game. Where can I get in touch with her?”

Pope hesitated, but as usual with his type of petty crook, greed trumped caution. “She rooms in North Beach now. Brown-shingled lodging house on the corner of Union and Grant, north side. Ground floor rear.”

“Does she live there alone?”

“Far as I know.”

“But she is still seeing Dodger Brown?”

“If she is, she hasn’t said anything to me about it. I haven’t seen him in months. He don’t bring any … goods to me to sell.”

“Do you know who his fenceman is?”

“No. You and Clara won’t use anybody but me?”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Pope. You’ll get what’s coming to you.”

*   *   *

The area known as North Beach was a misnomer. Though there had once been a beach there, Sabina had been told, the name derived from a nearby bayside resort called the North Beach. But in recent years the city had begun filling in the land to allow the building of fishing wharves, warehouses, and docks, and both beach and resort no longer existed. The heart of North Beach, Washington Square, was also a misnomer: it was not a square at all because Columbus Avenue sliced through one edge in a long diagonal. Just as ironic was the fact that the statue it was reportedly named for was not of George Washington, but Benjamin Franklin.

The neighborhood around the nonsquare was a lively one, originally settled by Italian fishermen because of its proximity to the waterfront where many plied their trade. Its relatively cheap rents, and nostalgia among the Italians because the newly made section of shoreline was said to resemble the Bay of Naples, added to the attraction. When Sabina emerged from the hack on the southeast corner of Union and Grant, the air was redolent with the mingled aromas of Italian cooking dispensed by vendors in pushcarts—garlic, basil, oregano, tomatoes. Why, she wondered, was her primary perception of places so often their food smells? Her overly healthy appetite was at work again, despite the grilled bratwurst she had treated herself to at the California Market.

She made her way uphill on Union and soon located the brown-shingled house. A small sign on the front gate identified it as
PARSONS’ ROOMING HOUSE
. A narrow lane and a weed-choked vacant lot bordered its far side, and as she approached she could see that entrances to the lodging house opened off the lane. Ground floor rear, Victor Pope had said.

The immediate area was deserted. Sabina turned into the lane, walked along one of the ruts to the steps that led up to the rear side entrance. The door, she saw when she neared the top of the steps, was slightly ajar. This gave her pause. She stood for a moment to listen. No sounds came from within.

A sharp rap on the door produced no response. Neither did calling out Clara Wilds’s name. After a few moments she pushed on the door until it creaked open all the way.

What she saw when she entered made her gasp and recoil. A female form clad in pale green linen lay sprawled on a rag rug before a small gas hearth. The woman’s face was turned aside and partially covered by strands of long brown hair, but there was no mistaking her identity. Nor the fact that she was the victim of foul play.

The weapon that protruded from her throat, surrounded by a welter of bright crimson, was the same one she’d used in the commission of her crimes—the familiar Charles Horner hatpin.

Sabina had seen violent death before—the vision of Stephen’s bullet-riddled body still haunted her dreams—but she had never become inured to it. Indeed, she questioned the veracity of those who claimed to be. Her legs were unsteady, her breath coming short, as she crossed the untidy parlor to kneel beside the dead woman.

The hatpin had been thrust deeply into the flesh just below the Adam’s apple, and the blood that had spilled from the wound was dark and coagulating. Dead not much more than an hour.

As Sabina started to rise, one of the outflung hands caught her attention—a dark gleam of red on two of the fingertips. A closer look revealed it to be blood mixed with particles of skin and a few short hairs under the nails. Clara Wilds had clawed and marked her attacker.

Sabina peered at the hairs without touching them. Brunette and silky, perhaps a man’s though she couldn’t be sure. According to the dossier on Dodger Brown, his hair was the color of his surname, but whether or not it was fine and slightly curly hadn’t been mentioned. John would know. But the Dodger was only one possible suspect; an extortionist and pickpocket made any number of enemies over the course of a long criminal career. If he
was
guilty, the telltale scratches and gouges from Wilds’s nails would be evidence of it once John tracked him down.

Sabina rose, stepped back to lean against the wall while she steadied herself. The police must be notified, of course, but she shared John’s distrust of the local constabulary, and did not want under any circumstances to be taken in and questioned by them. Better an anonymous call from the nearest telephone. But first …

She scanned the parlor. Her initial impression of untidiness had been false, she realized then. The room had been searched—not ransacked but gone through in a systematic way. An old horsehair sofa drawn out of position, a floor lamp tilted against it, drawers partially open in tables and sideboards. And in the bedroom, visible through an open doorway, the mattress pulled half off the bed. Someone looking for the loot from her pocket-picking exploits at the Chutes and elsewhere? And if so, had it been found?