The Bughouse Affair: A Carpenter and Quincannon Mystery (14 page)

Hoolihan’s had no crystal chandeliers, fancy mirrors, expensive oil paintings, white-coated barmen, or elaborate free lunch. It was dark and bare by comparison, sawdust thickly scattered on the floor and a back room containing pool and billiard tables on which Quincannon often played. The only glitter and sparkle came from the shine of its old-style gaslights on the ranks of bottles along the backbar, and its hungry drinkers dined not on crab legs and oysters on the half shell but on corned beef, strong cheese, rye bread, and tubs of briny pickles.

Quincannon had first grativated there because the saloon was a short cable-car ride from his rooms and because staff and clientele both respected the solitary drinker’s desire for privacy. Even after taking the pledge, it remained his refuge—an honest place, made for those who sought neither bombast nor trouble. Far fewer lies were told in Hoolihan’s than in the rarefied atmosphere of the Palace bar, he suspected, and far fewer dark deeds were hatched.

It was a few minutes shy of seven o’clock when he arrived at Hoolihan’s and claimed a place at the bar near the entrance. Ben Joyce, the head barman, greeted him in his mildly profane fashion. “What’ll it be tonight, you bloody Scotsman? Coffee or fresh clam juice?”

“Clam juice, and leave out the arsenic this time.”

“Hah. As if I’d waste good ratsbane on the likes of you.”

Ben brought him a steaming mug of Hoolihan’s special broth. Quincannon sipped, smoked a pipeful of tobacco, and listened to the ebb and flow of conversation around him. Men came in, singly and in pairs; men drifted out. The hands on the massive Seth Thomas clock over the backboard moved forward to seven. And seven-oh-five. And seven-ten …

Annoyance nibbled at him. Where the devil was that dingbat Holmes? He’d considered himself a sly fox for his conscription of the Englishman, but Sabina might have been right in reproaching him for an error in judgment; for once he may have outsmarted himself. If the fellow was untrustworthy as well as unbalanced …

Someone moved in next to him, jostling his arm. A gruff Cockney voice said, “Yer standing in me way, mate.”

Quincannon turned to glare at the voice’s owner. Tall, thin ragamuffin dressed in patched trousers and a threadbare sailor’s pea jacket, a cap pulled down low on his forehead. He opened his mouth to make a sharp retort, then snapped it shut again and took a closer look at the man. Little surprised him anymore, but he was a bit taken aback by what he saw.

“Holmes?” he said.

“At yer service, mate.”

“What’s the purpose of that outlandish getup?”

“It seemed appropriate for the night’s mission,” the Englishman said in his normal voice. His eyes, peering up from under the brim of his cap, were as bright as oil lamps. “Disguise has served me well during my career, and the opportunity for some has not presented itself in some time. I must say I enjoy playacting. It has been said, perhaps truly, that the stage lost a consummate actor when I decided to become a detective.”

Daft as a church mouse, Quincannon thought.

Quickly he ushered Holmes outside and into a hansom waiting nearby. The crackbrain had no more to say on the subject of disguises, but as the hack rattled along the cobblestones to Mission Street and on toward Rincon Hill, he put forth a slew of questions on the night’s venture, the “pannyman” responsible for the burglaries, and the various methods employed by American burglars in general. The man was obsessed with details on every conceivable topic.

For the most part Quincannon answered in monosyllables in the hope that Holmes would wind down and be quiet. This was not to be. The Englishman kept up a running colloquy on a variety of esoteric subjects from the remarkable explorations of a Norwegian named Sigerson to the latest advances in chemistry and other sciences to the inner workings and possible improvements of horseless carriages. He even knew somehow that an ex-housebreaker living in Warsaw, Illinois, manufactured burglar tools, advertised them as novelties in the
National Police Gazette,
and sold them mail-order for ten dollars for the set—a declaration that came as no surprise to Quincannon since the lock picks he carried for emergencies had come from just such a set liberated from an East Bay scruff.

Holmes’s monologue ceased, mercifully, when they departed the hack two blocks from Andrew Costain’s home. It was another night made for the prowling of footpads and yeggs, restless streams of cloud playing peekaboo games with stars and the scythe-blade moon. The neighborhood, the first of San Francisco’s fashionable residential districts, was built around an oval-shaped park that was an exact copy of London’s Berkeley Square—a fact the Englishman naturally chose to comment on. It had begun to fall into disfavor in 1869, when Second Street was carved through the west edge of Rincon Hill to connect downtown with the southern waterfront. Now its grandeur, along with that of Rincon Hill, was fading. Most of the powerful millionaires and their families had moved to more fashionable venues such as Nob Hill. Now it was on the shabby genteel side, though far from the “new slum, a place of solitary ancient houses and butt ends of streets,” as it had been unfairly dubbed by that insolent fellow Scotsman, Robert Louis Stevenson.

Many of the houses they passed showed light, but the Costain home, near South Park, was dark except for an electric porch globe. It was not as large as the Truesdale pile, but its front and rear yards were spacious and contained almost as many plants, trees, and shadowy hiding places.

Holmes peered intently through the row of iron pickets into the front yard as they strolled by. “Which of us will be stationed here?” he asked.

“You will. I’ve a spot picked out at the rear.”

“Splendid. The
mucronulatum,
perhaps. Or … ah, yes, even better. A
Juniperus chinensis ‘corymbosa variegata,
’ I do believe.”

“What are you prattling on about?”

“Shrubbery.”

“Eh?”

“
Mucronulatum
is the species more commonly known as rhododendron. Quite a healthy specimen there by that garden bench.”

“And what the devil is
Jupiter chinchin thrombosa
?”

“
Juniperus chinensis ‘corymbosa variegata,
’” the Englishman corrected. “One of the more handsome and sturdy varieties of juniper shrub. Its flowers are a variegated creamy yellow and its growth regular, without twisted branches, and generally of no more than ten feet in height. I thought at first that it might be a
chinensis corymbosa,
a close cousin, but the
chinensis corymbosa
grows to a greater height, often above fifteen feet.”

Quincannon had nothing to say to that.

“I’ve decided the
corymbosa variegata
will afford the best concealment,” Holmes said. “Without obstructing vision, of course. But I should like to see the rear of the property as well, if you have no objection. So that I may have a more complete knowledge of the … ah … lay. That is the American term, lay?”

“It is.”

“I find your idiom fascinating,” Holmes said. “One day I shall make a study of American slang.”

“And write a monograph about it, no doubt.”

“Or an article for one of the London popular journals.”

They reached the end of the block and circled around into a deserted carriageway. When they drew near the carriage barn at the rear of the Costain property, Holmes stopped and peered through the fence as intently as he had in front. After which he asked where Quincannon would station himself.

“That tree there on your left,” Quincannon lied. “I don’t happen to know its Latin or its English name—”

“Taxus brevifolia,”
Holmes said promptly, “the Pacific yew.”

Quincannon ground his teeth. The prospect of a cold night in the Englishman’s company, not to mention a day trip to the low dives of the Barbary Coast, was as appealing as having one of his molars pulled without benefit of nitrous oxide.

He said, “If you’ve tabbed up enough, we’ll take our positions now.”

“‘I see you stand like greyhound in the slips, straining upon the start. The game’s afoot.’”

“What’s that you’re blathering now?”

“Not blather, my good man. A quote from the immortal Bard—
King Henry the Fifth
. Aptly applied, eh?”

“Bah.”

The confounded fellow rubbed his hands together briskly and winked. “A long low whistle if our man should appear, and we’ll then join forces at the fountain in the side yard. Agreed?”

“Your memory is as keen as your conversation,” Quincannon said sardonically.

Holmes seemed not to notice the sarcasm. He said, “Indeed,” and hurried on his way.

Quincannon returned to the gate that gave access to a small carriage barn inside the Costain property. He made sure he was still alone and unobserved, then unlatched the gate and made his way carefully through the shadows alongside the barn. The surveillance spot he had picked out on his earlier tabbing was a shed set at an angle midway between barn and house. Not only did the shed provide a viewpoint of the rear-yard part of the side yard, but also afforded some shelter from the wind and the night’s chill. The thought of the bughouse Sherlock shivering among the
chinensis whosis
in front would warm him even more.

He crossed to the shed, eased the door open and himself inside. The interior was cramped with stacks of cordwood and a jumble of gardening implements. By careful feel with his gloved hands he found that the stack nearest the door was low enough and sturdy enough to afford a seat, if he were careful not to move about too much. He lowered himself onto the wood. Even with the door wide open, he was in such darkness that he couldn’t be seen from outside. Yet his range of vision was mostly unimpeded and aided by star shine and patchy moonlight.

He judged that it was well after seven by now. Andrew Costain had told him that his wife was due home no later than ten thirty, and that he himself would return by midnight. Even if Dodger Brown failed to appear, three and a half hours was little enough discomfort in exchange for a double fee.

His wait, however, lasted less than two hours. He was on his feet, flexing his limbs to ease them of cold and cramp, when he spied the interloper. A shadow among shadows, moving crosswise from his left—the same silent, flitting approach he had observed on the banker’s property two nights ago. Dodger Brown was evidently bolder and more greedy than experience had taught him.

Quincannon rubbed his gloved hands together in anticipation, watching the shadow’s progress toward the rear of the house. Pause, drift, pause again at the rear end of the porch. Up and over the railing there, briefly silhouetted: the same small figure dressed in dark cap and clothing. Across to the door, and at work there for just a few seconds. The door opened, closed again behind the burglar.

Quincannon spent several seconds readying his dark lantern, just in case. When one of the wind-herded clouds blotted the moon, he stepped out of the shed and hurried laterally to the bole of a tree a dozen rods from the house. He was about to give the signal whistle when a low ululation came from the front yard.

What the devil? He answered in kind, paused and whistled again. In a matter of moments he spied Holmes approaching. The Englishman seemed to have an uncanny sense of direction in the dark; he came in an unerring line straight to where Quincannon stood.

“Why did you whistle?” Quincannon demanded in a fierce whisper. “You couldn’t have seen—”

“Andrew Costain is here.”

“What?”

“Arrived not three minutes ago, alone in a trap.”

“Blasted fool! He couldn’t have chosen a worse time. You didn’t stop him from going inside?”

“He seemed in a great hurry and I saw no purpose in revealing myself. The pannyman is also here, I presume?”

“Already inside through the rear door, not four minutes ago.”

“Inside with us, too, Quincannon!” Holmes said urgently. “We’ve not a moment to lose!”

But it was already too late. In that instant a sharp report came from the house, muffled but unmistakable.

Holmes said, “Pistol shot.”

Quincannon said, “Hell and damn!”

Both men broke into a run.

17

QUINCANNON

Quincannon had no need to order the Englishman to cover the front door; Holmes immediately veered off in that direction. The Navy Colt and the dark lantern were both at the ready when Quincannon reached the rear porch. Somewhere inside, another door slammed. He ran up the steps to the rear entrance, thumbed open the lantern’s bull’s-eye lens, and shouldered his way through.

The thin beam showed him a utility porch, then an opening into a broad kitchen. His foot struck something as he started ahead; the light revealed it to be a wooden wedge, of the sort used to prop open doors. He shut the door and toed the wedge tightly between the bottom and the frame—a safeguard against swift escape that took only a clutch of seconds.

Two or three additional sounds reached his ears as he plunged ahead, none distinguishable or close by. The beam picked out an electric switch on the kitchen wall; he turned it to flood the room with light. Empty. Likewise an adjoining dining room.

His twitching nose picked up the acrid tang of burnt gunpowder. The odor led him into a central hallway, which he flooded with more electric light. Then he eased past two closed doors to a third at the far end, where another hallway intersected this one. The powder smell was strongest there.

Quincannon paused to listen.

Thick, crackling silence.

He moved ahead to where he could see along the intersecting hall, found it deserted, and stepped to the third door to try the latch. Locked from within. There was no key on this side.

He rapped sharply on the panel, called out, “Mr. Costain?”