her memory, as had those of her deceased parents, but she assumed that was human nature. One’s memories blur; one goes on.
She scrutinized her reflection in the mirror and concluded that she looked more like a respectable young matron than a private detective setting out to trap a pickpocket. Satisfied, she left her second-story Russian Hill flat, passed through the iron picket fence, and entered a hansom cab that she had earlier engaged. It took her down Van Ness Avenue and south on Haight Street.
The journey was a lengthy one, passing through sparsely settled areas of the city, and it gave Sabina time to reflect upon the job ahead. Charles Ackerman, own er of the Haight Street Chutes amusement park and an attorney for the Southern Pacific and the Market Street and Sutter Street Railroads, had come to the offices of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, the previous morning. Sabina’s partner, John Quincannon, had been out of sorts because she had just refused his invitation to dinner at Marchand’s French restaurant. Sabina, a practical woman, refused many of John’s frequent invitations. Mixing business with pleasure was a dangerous proposition; it could imperil their partnership, an arrangement she was very happy with as it stood…
And yet, she did not find John unattractive. Quite the opposite…
Sternly Sabina turned her thoughts to the business at hand. Charles Ackerman had a problem at his newly opened amusement park on Haight Street near the southern edge of Golden Gate Park. Patrons had complained that a pickpocket was operating in the park, yet neither his employees nor the police had yet to observe any of the more notorious dips and cutpurses who worked the San Francisco streets. A clever woman, Ackerman said with a nod at Sabina, might be able to succeed where they had failed. John bristled at being excluded, then lapsed into a grumpy silence. Sabina and Ackerman concluded the conversation and agreed she would come to the park the next morning, after she had finished with another bit of pressing business.
The hack pulled to the curb between Cole and Clayton Streets. Sabina paid the driver and alighted, then turned toward the park. Its most prominent feature was a 300-foot long Shoot-the-Chutes, a double trestled track that rose seventy feet into the air. Passengers would ascend to a room at the top of the slides, where they would board boats for a swift descent to an artificial lake at the bottom. Sabina had heard that the ride was quite thrilling—or frightening, according to the person’s perspective. She herself would enjoy trying it.
In addition to the water slide, the park contained a scenic railway, a merry-go-round, various carnivallike establishments, and a refreshment stand. Ackerman had told Sabina she would find his manager, Lester Sweeney, in the office beyond the ticket booth. She crossed the street, holding up her slim flowered skirt so the hem wouldn’t get dusty, and asked at the booth for Mr. Sweeney. The man collecting admissions motioned her inside and through a door behind him.
Sweeney was at a desk that seemed too large for the cramped space, adding a column of figures. He was a big man, possibly in his late forties, with thinning red hair and a complexion that spoke of a fondness for strong drink. When he looked up at Sabina, his eyes, reddened and surrounded by pouched flesh, gleamed in appreciation. Quickly she presented her card, and the gleam faded.
“Please sit down, Missus Carpenter,” he said. “Mister Ackerman told me you’d be coming this morning.”
“Thank you.” Sabina sat on the single wooden chair sandwiched between the desk and the wall. “What can you tell me about these pickpocketing incidents?”
“They have occurred over the past two weeks, at different times of day. Eight in all. Word is spreading, and we’re bound to lose customers.”
“You spoke with the victims?”
“Yes, and there may have been others who didn’t report the incidents.”
“Was there anything in common that was reported?”
Sweeney frowned, thinking. The frown had an alarming effect on his face, making it look like something that had softened and spread after being left out in the rain. In a moment he shook his head. “Nothing that I can recall.”
“Do you have the victims’ names and addresses?”
“Somewhere here.” He began to shuffle through the many papers on his desk.
Sabina held up a hand and stood. “I’ll return to collect the list later. In the meantime, I trust I may have full access to the park?”
“Certainly, Missus Carpenter.”
Several hours later Sabina, who was familiar