The Bughouse Affair: A Carpenter and Quincannon Mystery (11 page)

Averting her eyes from the body, Sabina began a hurried search of her own. There was nothing for her to find in the parlor. In the bedroom she looked in the small nightstand next to the bed, then in a heavy armoire thick with a violet scent that emanated from a satin sachet bag on a hanger. The armoire was filled with clothing and an array of different styles of hats, some with veils—the costumes Wilds had worn on dipping excursions. These, too, had been searched by the murderer; there was nothing left to find.

Sabina spied a large trunk under the room’s one window. Its top was hinged open, the tray askew on the floor, the contents of both piled nearby. A worn quilt; a child’s rag doll, one eye missing; a dictionary whose main use apparently had been to press and dry flowers; an empty cut-glass perfume bottle; an old, cracked leather man’s purse; a handbag beaded with what looked to be real pearls but probably weren’t.

Sabina examined the purse, found it empty. The late Henry Holbrooke’s billfold, judging from his widow’s description. If so, the cash he’d carried had been removed and either spent or stashed elsewhere.

She set it aside and examined the beaded bag. Regular handbags were not fashionable these days, but small, decorative ones with a dainty strap that hung from the wrist were sometimes used in the evenings. This one was old and worn, but of good quality—a Corticelli manufactured in Florence, Italy, a type Sabina had long admired but could not justify the expense of purchasing. She flipped the little mother-of-pearl clasp and felt inside. Also empty.

When she turned from the bench, a thin sprinkling of dirt particles on the bottom window ledge caught her eye. The particles appeared to be moist, freshly strewn there. And were, she found when she picked one up between her thumb and forefinger. Likely it had come from a box of geraniums hanging on a hook outside.

She raised the sash and looked more closely at the box. One of the plants was tipped slightly against the other. She thrust her hand into the dirt between the two, felt roots and, toward the bottom, the object that Clara Wilds had hidden there—a small sack of dark blue velvet tied with a drawstring.

Sabina emptied the sack onto the bed. A diamond stickpin, two gold pocket watches, a large ivory watch fob, a hammered silver money clip with an intricate design, a handful of similarly valuable items, and a thick roll of greenbacks bound with a rubber band. Literally buried treasure. Clara Wilds’s murderer had fled the scene of his crime empty-handed.

Or had he? There was no way of telling.

Sabina flipped through the greenbacks, found the total to be in excess of two hundred dollars. Then she gathered up all the items, returned them to the blue velvet sack, and tucked the sack into her reticule. After a moment’s reflection, she added the cracked leather purse. There had been no question that she should confiscate everything herself; if she left the items for the police to find, they would never be returned to their rightful owners.

She had been here long enough. At the door she peered out to make sure the carriageway was still deserted, then stepped out and away.

13

QUINCANNON

Andrew Costain’s offices were in a brick building on Geary Street that housed a dozen attorneys and half as many other professional men. The anteroom held a secretary’s desk but no secretary; the bare desktop and dusty file cabinets behind it suggested that there hadn’t been one in some while. A pair of neatly lettered and somewhat contradictory signs were affixed to one of two closed doors in the inside wall. The upper one proclaimed
PRIVATE
, the lower invited
KNOCK FOR ADMITTANCE
.

Quincannon knocked. There were a few seconds of silence before Costain’s whiskey baritone called out, “Yes? Who is it?”

“John Quincannon.”

Another few seconds vanished, as if the lawyer were finishing up business at hand before moving on to the business that required the services of a private investigative agency. Then, “Come in, Mr. Quincannon. Come in.”

Costain was sitting behind a cluttered desk set before a wall covered with what appeared to be a full set of Blackstone, writing in a leather-bound notebook slightly larger than a billfold. More books and papers were scattered on dusty pieces of furniture. On another wall, next to a framed law degree, was a lithograph of John L. Sullivan in a typical fighting pose.

The lawyer motioned to Quincannon to wait while he finished whatever notations he was making. After a few moments he closed the notebook and consigned it to a desk drawer, then sat back with his fingers twiddling an elk’s tooth attached to a thin gold watch chain.

His person was somewhat more tidy than his office, though not as tidy as he’d been in evening dress at the Axminster home. The successful image, however, was belied by the rumpled condition of his expensive tweed suit and striped vest, the frayed edges of his shirt cuffs and collar, his rum-blossom nose and flushed features, and the perfume of forty-rod whiskey that could be detected at ten paces or more. If Quincannon had been a prospective client, instead of it being the other way around, he would have thought twice about entrusting legal matters to Mr. Andrew Costain.

“Thank you for coming,” Costain said. He seemed even more nervous today than he had last night; the fluttering tic on his cheek gave the false impression that he was winking and his hands continued to twitch over the elk’s tooth fob. “You didn’t stop by earlier, by any chance?”

“No, I had other business to attend to.”

“Good, good. I asked because I had to leave the office for a short time—an urgent summons from a client.”

More likely, Quincannon thought cynically, the “urgent summons” had involved a visit to whichever nearby saloon he frequented.

“Have a seat. Cigar? Drink?”

“Neither.”

“I believe I’ll have a small libation, if you don’t mind. It has been something of a trying day.”

“It’s your office, Mr. Costain.”

While Quincannon moved a heavy volume of Blackstone from the single client’s chair and replaced it with his backside, Costain produced a bottle of rye whiskey and a none-too-clean glass from his desk drawer. His idea of a “small one” was three fingers of rye, half of which he tossed off at a gulp. The rum blossom glowed and the flush deepened, but the lawyer’s hands continued their restless roaming.

“Your message mentioned a financial advantage. For what service?”

“That’s rather obvious, isn’t it, in light of recent events. Have you caught the burglar yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“Identified him?”

“To my satisfaction. A man named Dodger Brown.”

“I don’t recognize the name.”

“No reason you should as a civil attorney,” Quincannon said. “It’s only a matter of time until he’s locked away in the city jail.”

“How much time?”

“Within forty-eight hours, if all goes well.”

“How do you plan to catch him? While in the act?”

“If not before.”

“Don’t be ambiguous, man. I have a right to know what you’re up to.”

“Indeed? My client is the Great Western Insurance Company. I need answer only to them.”

Costain drained his glass, looked yearningly at the bottle, wet his lips, and then with a steadfast effort returned both bottle and glass to the desk drawer and pushed it shut. “My name is on that list of potential victims, you said so last night. Naturally I’m concerned. Suppose this man Brown wasn’t frightened off by his near capture at the Truesdales’? Suppose he’s bold enough to try burgling
my
home next, even this very night? My wife and I can ill afford to have our house ransacked and our valuables stolen. The damned insurance companies never pay off at full value.”

“A legitimate fear.”

“I want you to see to it that we’re not victimized. Hire you to keep watch on my home tonight and every night until you’ve caught this man Brown.”

Quincannon said, “There are other alternatives, you know, which would cost you nothing.”

“Yes, yes, I know. Move our valuables to a safe place and simply stay home nights until the threat is ended. But we have too many possessions to haul away willy-nilly and too little time to undertake the chore. Even if we did remove everything of value, Brown might still break in and if he found nothing worth stealing, vandalize the premises. That has been known to happen, hasn’t it?”

“It has, though not very often.”

“I don’t like the idea of my home being invaded in any case,” Costain said. “And it well could be since it’s on that list of yours. My wife and I have separate appointments tonight and a joint one tomorrow evening that we’re loath to cancel. The house will be empty and fair game from seven until midnight or later both nights.”

“You have no servants?”

“None that live in. And it would be useless to ask for help from the city police without certain knowledge of a crime to be committed.”

Quincannon nodded, considering. If Costain wanted to pay him for the same work he had been engaged to do by Great Western Insurance, there was neither conflict of interest nor any other reasonable argument against it. The notion of another night or two hiding in shrubbery and risking pneumonia had no appeal, but minor hardships were part and parcel of the detective game.

“You’ll accept the job, then?”

“I will,” Quincannon said blandly, “provided you’re willing to pay the standard rate for my time plus an additional fee.”

“What’s that? Additional fee for what?”

“Surveillance on your home is a job for two men.”

“Why? You were by yourself at the Truesdales’.”

“The Truesdale house has front and side entrances that could be watched by one man alone. Yours has front and rear entrances, therefore requiring a second operative.”

“How is it you know my house?”

“I tabbed it up, along with the others on the list, the day I was hired by Great Western.”

“Tabbed it up?”

“Crook’s argot. Paid visits and scrutinized the properties, the same as the housebreaker would have done to size up the lay.”

Costain continued to twitch, but he didn’t argue. “Very well,” he said. “How much will it cost me?”

Quincannon named a per diem figure, only slightly higher than his usual for a two-detective operation. His dislike for the bibulous lawyer was not sufficient to warrant gouging him unduly.

The amount induced Costain to mutter, “That’s damned close to extortion,” then to reopen his desk drawer and help himself to another “small libation.”

“Hardly.”

“I suppose the figure is nonnegotiable?”

“I don’t haggle,” Quincannon said.

“All right. How much in advance?”

“One day’s fee in full.”

“For services not yet rendered? No, by God. Half, and not a penny more.”

Quincannon shrugged. Half in advance was more than he usually requested from his clients.

“You’ll take a check, I assume?”

“Of course.” As long as it wasn’t made of rubber.

“You had better not fail me, Quincannon,” Costain said as he wrote out the check. “If there is a repeat of your bungling at the Truesdales’, you’ll regret it. I promise you that.”

Quincannon bit back an oath, scowled his displeasure instead, and managed an even-toned reply. “I did not bungle at the Truesdales’. What happened two nights ago—”

“—wasn’t your fault. Yes, yes, I know. And if anything similar happens it won’t be your fault again, no doubt.”

“You’ll have your money’s worth.”

“I had better.”

And I’ll have my money’s worth, and then some, Quincannon thought. He tucked the check into a waistcoat pocket and left Costain to stew in his alcoholic juices.

The Geary Street address was not far from his bank or the agency offices. He went first to the Miner’s Bank, where he made sure Costain had sufficient funds in his account before depositing the check. Then he set off for the agency at a brisk pace.

San Francisco was a fine city, he reflected as he walked, the more so on a nippy but sun-bright day such as this one. The fresh salt smell from the bay, the rumble and clang of cable cars on Market Street, the stately presence of the Ferry Building in the distance—he had yet to tire of any of it. It had been a banner day when he was reassigned here during his days with the United States Secret Service. The nation’s capital had not been the same for him after his father succumbed to the assassin’s bullet on the Baltimore waterfront; he had been ready for a change. His new home suited him as Washington, D.C., had suited Thomas Quincannon. The same was true of the business of private investigation, a much more lucrative and satisfying profession than that of an underpaid and overworked government operative.

When he arrived at the building that housed Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, he was in a cheerful mood. Temperance songs were among his favorite tunes, not because of his vow of sobriety but because he found them as exaggerated and amusing as temperance tracts; he whistled “Lips that Touch Liquor Will Never Touch Mine” as he climbed to the second floor and approached the agency’s door. But he came to an abrupt halt when he saw that the door stood ajar by a few inches, and heard the voice that came from within.

“I consider that a man’s brain originally is like a little empty attic,” the voice was declaiming, “and you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose. A fool takes in all the lumber of every sort that he comes across, so that the knowledge which might be useful to him gets crowded out, or at best is jumbled up with a lot of other things, so that he has a difficulty in laying his hands upon it. Now the skillful workman is very careful indeed as to what he takes in to his brain attic. He will have nothing but the tools which may help him in doing his work, but of these he has a large assortment, and all in the most perfect order. It is a mistake to think that little room has elastic walls and can distend to any extent. There comes a time when for every addition of knowledge you forget something that you knew before. It is of the highest importance, therefore, not to have useless facts elbowing out the useful ones.”