“The body is not pleasant to look at, Mr. Lyons. He was shot, you know, and his face — ”
“Violent death has little effect on me,” Quincannon said. “I was raised in Indian country, as I said.”
Turnbuckle seemed to be weakening. But he said, “The coroner, Dr. Petersen, will be here soon.”
“I’ll leave as soon as he arrives. A minute with my poor, murdered friend. That is not too much to ask, is it, Mr. Turnbuckle? Surely?”
“Well, I… no, I suppose it isn’t…”
Quincannon stepped forward and clasped the undertaker’s hand, saying, “Thank you, sir, thank you so much,” and at the same time turning him so that they were both moving down the hallway.
Turnbuckle led him to the door at the rear, through it into his workroom. Embalming machinery gleamed in the light from two lamps; so did the undertaker’s needles and razors and other tools of his trade, shut away inside glass-fronted cabinets. The unpleasant chemical smell of formaldehyde was strong in the room. Whistling Dixon’s corpse lay on a slab in its center, uncovered and face up, the dead eyes staring at eternity.
“Yes,” Quincannon said, “yes, it is poor Mr. Dixon.”
“Did you doubt it?”
“No, no. I simply find it difficult to believe that such a fine man has been killed in such a terrible fashion. He never carried more than a dollar on his person at any time. Did you know that, Mr. Turnbuckle?”
“I’m afraid I did not have the pleasure of knowing Mr. Dixon.”
“Too bad. You would have admired him, just as I did. May I be alone with him for a minute?”
Turnbuckle blinked. “Alone?”
“If you wouldn’t mind. I’ll soon be leaving Silver City; I may not be here when you’ve made him ready for burial. I could pay my respects here and now.”
“Well, this is most irregular — ”
“I realize that. Most irregular. But the circumstances, Mr. Turnbuckle, the circumstances… well, you understand.”
“Yes,” Turnbuckle said uncertainly, “of course.”
“A minute is all I ask. No longer.”
“Very well, then. A minute, Mr. Lyons, no more.”
The undertaker went to the door, glanced back at Quincannon, seemed to shake his head, and went out. Quincannon was already at the slab when the door clicked shut. Quickly he began to search the dead man’s clothing.
The shirt pocket contained a nearly empty sack of Bull Durham, papers, and a handful of lucifers. One pocket of a faded and patched Levi jacket was empty; the other yielded a small chunk of ore that Quincannon identified as pyragyrite — the kind of silver ore that contained feldspar, mica flecks, and the reddish, almost crystalline metal known as ruby silver. Nothing unusual in a man, even a cowhand, carrying silver ore in these mountains, he thought; and from what he had learned last night Dixon had done some prospecting in his free time. He returned the chunk to the jacket and went through the pockets of a pair of equally faded and patched Levi’s.
A clasp knife with a chipped handle. A silver half eagle that Quincannon held up to catch the lamplight, just long enough to determine that it was not a counterfeit. And a brand-new gold pocket watch, an expensive-looking Elgin with an elaborately scrolled hunting case that depicted a railroading scene. Quincannon flipped open the dustcover, read what was etched on the casing inside.
Jason Elder — 1893.
From the alleyway outside, just as he closed the cover, he heard the sound of a horse and buggy approaching. The Elgin watch went into the pocket of his frock coat, and not a moment too soon: the door to the hallway opened and Turnbuckle came hurrying in.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Lyons,” the undertaker said, “but you’ll have to leave now. Dr. Petersen is here.”
Quincannon sighed. “Of course. I do appreciate your kindness.”
“Yes. Now if you will just come with me…”
When they reached the front entrance Quincannon said, “I wonder, Mr. Turnbuckle, if you would allow me to make a small contribution to the burial fund.”
Someone had begun to rap on the alley door to the workroom. But Turnbuckle paid no attention to that. His face showed animation again; his ears seemed to prick up like a dog’s. “Well,” he said, “well, that is hardly necessary, Mr. Lyons. But if you prefer it…”
“Oh, I do.” Quincannon took a five-dollar note from his billfold and handed it to the undertaker. “You will see to it that he has a nice casket, won’t you?”
“Oh, indeed. Indeed I will.”
Quincannon left Turnbuckle clutching the greenback. It gave him a moment of small, wry amusement to think of what Boggs would say when he encountered an expense labeled “five dollars for Whistling Dixon’s burial fund.” But it had been money well spent. If Silver City was like other frontier towns, Turnbuckle would receive a fixed sum from city coffers for the burial of men such as Dixon, men without families or estates. Which meant he would be required to itemize any contributions to the burial fund that he received, and to turn the money over to the city — and Turnbuckle had not struck him as the sort of man Diogenes had been searching for with his lantern. The five dollars would disappear. And when it did, any inclination Turnbuckle might have to mention Andrew Lyons’ curious visit would disappear along with it.
A pair of brewery wagons, both drawn by thick-bodied dray horses, clogged the street in front of the brewery, waiting to enter the warehouse. The big doors were open and the rich, yeasty smell of beer spiced the air. It made Quincannon thirsty, but it was a thirst he ignored for the moment. The Elgin watch with its fancy case and its inscription was a conscious weight in his pocket.
Why had Whistling Dixon been carrying another man’s watch? What was his connection to the opium-smoking tramp printer, Jason Elder?
Chapter 6
The newspaper office was on Volunteer Street, between Jordan and Washington. Through the front window glass, Quincannon could see a man inside at the rear, working at the bulky black shape of a printing press. The mane of hemp-colored hair identified the man as Will Coffin.
Quincannon entered. Coffin glanced over at him, said, “Good morning,” in gruff tones, but made no move to leave his labors at the press. He seemed to be alone in the cluttered-office, with its two desks and stacks of newsprint and walls framed with past issues of the Volunteer. And judging from his tone and from the scowl that twisted his ink-smudged features, he was in a bad humor today.
The press, Quincannon saw as he crossed the office, was an old Albion. Coffin was setting type — taking oily ten-point from the type case on its sloping frames and fitting it into his brass type stick. The smells of printer’s ink and oil and newsprint, and the pungent aroma of Coffin’s pipe tobacco, were strong in the office.
Quincannon said, “You seem in dark spirits this morning, Mr. Coffin.”
“I am, and with good cause. The damned heathens broke in here again while I was in Boise.”
“Chinese, you mean?”
“Certainly. Who else would I mean?”
“Was anything stolen?”
“No. But it took me two hours to clean up the results of their mischief.” Coffin glowered down at the type stick. “And as if Chinamen running amok aren’t trouble enough, I have to do all my own typesetting in order to get the next issue out on time. Damned nuisance all around.”
“What about the compositor who sometimes works for you? Jason Elder, is it?”
“Him,” Coffin said, as if the words were an epithet. “I went looking for him early this morning; he isn’t at that pigsty he lives in and seems not to have been there for days. He is nowhere to be found.”
“You have no idea where he might have gone?”
“To hell on his opium pipe, for all I know or care. Tramp printers! Even at their best, they are notoriously unreliable.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Coffin, I’ve heard it mentioned that you yourself were once a tramp printer.”
Coffin didn’t answer immediately. The type stick was full; he justified the line and then turned to set it in the galley, completing a column. “I was much younger then,” he said. “Young men are prone to foolish endeavors. Besides, it was my father’s profession — printing, that is. He wasn’t a tramp; he owned his own printing and engraving shop in Kansas City for thirty years.”