The Bughouse Affair: A Carpenter and Quincannon Mystery (16 page)

Quincannon had nothing to say.

Neither did the bughouse Sherlock.

18

QUINCANNON

It was well past midnight when Quincannon finally trudged wearily up the stairs to his rooms. After Kleinhoffer had finished with him, the newspapermen had descended—on him but not on the Englishman, who managed to slip away unnoticed. Quincannon had taken pains to keep Holmes well in the background; in his comments to the reporters, he referred to him as a “temporary operative” and an “underling.”

He donned his nightshirt and crawled into bed, but the night’s jumbled events plagued his mind and refused to let him sleep. At length he lit his bedside lamp, picked up a copy of Walt Whitman’s
Sea-Drift.
Usually Whitman, or Emily Dickinson or James Lowell, freed his brain of clutter and allowed him to relax, but not tonight. He switched reading matter to
Drunkards and Curs: The Truth About Demon Rum.
He and Sabina had once been hired by the True Christian Temperance Society to catch an embezzler, and this had led him to his second collecting interest: temperance tracts, whose highly inflammatory rhetoric he found amusing.

Drunkards and Curs
did the trick. Before the end of one turgid chapter he was sound asleep.

He awoke not long past seven, allowed himself a hasty breakfast, and within an hour was at the agency offices. For once he was the first to arrive. And when he unlocked the door and stepped inside, he was pleased to find an envelope that had been slipped under the door. It contained a single sheet of paper, on which was written in Ezra Bluefield’s backhand scrawl:

Duff’s Curio Shop. He knows.

E.B.

A wolf’s smile split Quincannon’s freebooter’s whiskers. Ezra Bluefield, true to his word as always, had finally come through, and the morning was now considerably brighter.

He went to coax steam heat from the radiator; on mornings such as this, the offices were as damp and chill as a cave. While he was so engaged, Sabina arrived.

“Up bright and early this morning, I see,” she said. Then, as she removed her straw boater, “But not bushy-tailed. Another sleepless night?”

“For the most part.”

“Did something happen at the Costain home?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Dodger Brown struck again?”

“Struck, and committed another cold-blooded murder.”

“Murder? Who was killed? Not that man Holmes—”

“No. More’s the pity.”

“Who, then?”

“Andrew Costain. Stabbed and shot in bizarre circumstances.” He went on to outline the evening’s events.

Sabina’s only reaction was the high lift of her eyebrows as he unfolded the tale. “It all seems fantastic. How could Dodger Brown possibly have escaped both the locked study and the house?”

“How indeed. A pretty puzzle, the crackbrain called it. His only worthwhile remark the entire night.”

“You have no one to blame for his presence but yourself,” she reminded him.

Quincannon ignored the remark. “You should have seen him, crawling around on hands and knees, peering through his magnifying glass. Ludicrous. Why, he even seems to think there’s to be a contest between us to see who can solve the riddle. As if he could manage it by aping methods used by the real Sherlock Holmes!”

“Perhaps he can.”

“Balderdash. There’s only one man clever enough to get to the bottom of a crime such as this.”

Sabina fixed him with one of her analytical looks. “You wouldn’t be feeling a touch threatened by him, would you?”

“Threatened? By a lunatic? Faugh!”

“Well and good, then. Have you any theories yet?”

“No, but it’s only a matter of time and a bit more legwork.”

“You know, John, this business may be more complicated than you realize.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You recall the silver money clip I found in Clara Wilds’s rooms? It belonged to Costain.”

“Costain? You’re sure of that?”

“Yesterday I took it to the silversmith who made it. He made a positive identification.”

Quincannon loaded and fired his briar while he pondered this. “So then Costain must have been one of the dip’s victims. And a recent one, if what I took to be gastric discomfort at our first meeting was in fact pain from a wound caused by one of Wilds’s hatpin thrusts.”

“Coincidence, do you think?”

“I don’t see how it could be anything else,” he said when he had the pipe drawing. “And yet…”

“Yes, ‘and yet.’ Clara Wilds was murdered two days ago, Andrew Costain was murdered last night. And both, conceivably, by the same person. That would seem to be stretching coincidence to the breaking point.”

“So it would.”

“There’s something else that bothers me,” Sabina said, “if we assume Dodger Brown is guilty of both crimes. His criminal record.”

“What about it?”

“His felonies have always been nonviolent. Why, all of a sudden, would he commit two bloody homicides in two days?”

“Greed. Fear of capture. He is known to carry a pistol.”

“But never to have used it.”

“True.”

“Is it likely he’d also carry a weapon such as a stiletto?”

“Not from what we know about him, but his habits might have changed for some reason.” Quincannon ruminated again. “It may also be that either or both weapons used belonged to Costain. The revolver bought by him for protection, a purchase he neglected to tell his wife about. The lethal weapon an object from his desk, such as a letter opener. In any case, the murder would seem to be the result of a brief but fierce struggle.”

“That seems plausible,” Sabina said. “But why would Dodger Brown carry a bloody stiletto or letter opener away with him and leave the pistol behind?”

“Panic. A man who has just taken another man’s life doesn’t always act rationally. Whatever happened in Costain’s study, we’ll find out when I’ve yaffled the Dodger. And that won’t be long now.”

“You said that yesterday. He’s still at large.”

“But now we have a lead,” Quincannon told her, “courtesy of Ezra Bluefield.” He showed her the message that had been slipped under the office door.

“Our old friend Luther Duff.”

“One of the easier eggs to crack in the city. For our purposes, Dodger Brown couldn’t have picked a better fenceman.”

“Assuming Duff knows his whereabouts. With at least one murder on his conscience, he may have already gone on the lammas.”

“If he has,” Quincannon said darkly, “I’ll track him down no matter where he goes. But I have a feeling he’s still in the area. If he is and he’s planning to run, he’ll need cash and Duff drives a hard bargain. Luther should know where to find him if anyone does.”

“Let’s hope so. John, have you informed Jackson Pollard of last night’s events?”

“No, not yet.”

“Don’t you think you should?”

Quincannon grimaced at the prospect. “Likely he’ll lay the blame on me and I’m in no mood for one of his rants.”

“If you’d rather I telephoned him…”

“No, the duty’s mine. I’ll stop in at Great Western after I’ve seen Luther Duff.”

“Before would be better.”

“But afterward I expect to have favorable news to sweeten his temper.” Quincannon reached for his derby, tipped it onto his head. “And with a smile from lady luck, before the end of the day I’ll have Dodger Brown.”

19

SABINA

Despite her misgivings about investigating Clara Wilds’s murder, Sabina found herself doing just that when she left the home of the last of the pickpocket’s victims. She had no other pressing business, and she was still not convinced Dodger Brown was the guilty party. Whether it was Brown or someone else who had stabbed Wilds, the culprit might have been seen entering or leaving her rooms. The police operated on the theory that the deaths of felons, male or female, violent or otherwise, were a benefit to society and so expended little effort in such cases. They would not have bothered with any but a routine investigation.

Wilds had been a wicked woman whose extortion schemes and dipping forays had harmed numerous individuals, but she had also been a human being. In Sabina’s view, murder should never be condoned no matter who the victim. Besides, there were curious elements in the woman’s sudden demise—the silver money clip belonging to a second murder victim, Andrew Costain, for one—that aroused Sabina’s sleuthing instincts.

She spent the rest of the morning in the vicinity of Wilds’s rooms, asking carefully phrased questions of residents, passersby, and wandering street vendors. The pickpocket’s murder seemed to have aroused only mild interest in the neighborhood, and only two individuals acknowledged knowing her by sight. But neither knew or would say anything about Wilds’s comings and goings or any regular male visitors she might have had.

Sabina’s perseverance finally produced results at two o’clock, when she knocked on the door of a home across the carriageway that ran behind Wilds’s boarding house.

The woman who answered the door seemed more inquisitive than any of the other neighbors. When she admitted to having seen Wilds on several occasions and to being shocked by the murder, Sabina decided that the best way to gain her confidence was to identify herself—something she had avoided doing elsewhere in the neighborhood. She presented her card, and explained her interest in Clara Wilds in vague terms, saying that Wilds was “the subject of an investigation for an important client.” The neighbor, whose name was Mrs. Anthony Marcus, seemed thrilled to be in the presence of a lady detective; she invited Sabina into a tidy parlor free of the usual gimcracks for further conversation.

Mrs. Marcus was a large individual of some forty years who wore her age and weight well. Her graying hair was dressed close to the head with curled fringe at the forehead and fairly high buns on top, her rather plain face open and eager, her eyes bright as a bird’s. Not exactly a busybody or a gossip, Sabina thought, but nonetheless a woman who took a much keener interest in her surroundings than most.

“Ever since that woman moved in across the way,” Mrs. Marcus said, “I’ve thought there was something … well, furtive about her. The circumstances of her death certainly seem to confirm it.”

“In what ways did you think her furtive?”

“Her comings and goings were extremely irregular. Early mornings to very late nights, and as often as not she would approach her rooms along the carriageway below. Her dress was … how shall I put it … eccentric and varied greatly, as if she were trying to disguise her real person.”

Sabina nodded. “Please, go on.”

“Not that I’m the sort to spy on my neighbors, you understand. It’s just that my kitchen windows overlook the end corner of the boarding house where she had her rooms. My husband claims I spend too much time in the kitchen, day and night, but I believe in cleanliness and careful preparation of meals—”

“Is there anything else you can tell me about her? Did she have many visitors?”

“Well, the times I saw her leave and return she was alone. Except one evening, that is, when she was accompanied by a man who entered her rooms with her. That dreadful Barbary Coast isn’t far from here. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that she spent much of her time there. She wasn’t a … soiled dove, was she?”

“No.”

“Something just as wicked, though?”

“I’m not at liberty to say. Did you have a clear look at the man?”

“Yes, fairly clear.” Mrs. Marcus sniffed. “It was still light and they came strolling up the carriageway arm in arm.”

Sabina described Dodger Brown. “Is he the one?”

“Oh, no. The man was … let me see … in his forties, stocky. Bushy black hair. And rather well-dressed.”

Victor Pope.

“How long ago was it that you saw them together, Mrs. Marcus?”

“Just last week.”

“Did you happen to see Clara Wilds yesterday?”

“No. No, the last time was the day before.”

“Or anyone else in the vicinity of her rooms?”

“The person who took her life? No. If I had, I would certainly have informed the police.”

It was fortunate that Mrs. Marcus hadn’t been at her kitchen window when Sabina arrived or when she’d left a short time later. Not that she was particularly well known by sight to the city detectives, but Mrs. Marcus was an observer with a sharp eye for detail. A description of Sabina might have led to a certain amount of unpleasant questioning about her presence in the murdered pickpocket’s rooms.

“Oh, but there is one thing I did see yesterday, Mrs. Carpenter. I don’t know if it means anything or not, but it did seem a bit odd at the time.”

“And what would that be?”

“There was a buggy parked in the alley below, behind the boarding house. A rather nice one that I’ve never seen before or since. That’s why I noticed it—buggies like that are uncommon in this neighborhood.”

“What time was this?”

“Midafternoon, shortly before I left to do my marketing. It was gone when I returned … Oh! You don’t suppose…?”

“Possibly. In which direction was it facing?”

“Toward Columbus Avenue.”

“Was there any sign of the driver?”

“No, none.”

“Can you describe the buggy?”

“Well, it was black, with its top up.”

“Distinctive trim of any sort?”

“No … Wait, yes. The wheel spokes were a faded gold color.”

“Faded. The rig wasn’t new, then?”

“No, I don’t believe it was.”

“Did you recognize the manufacturer?”

Mrs. Marcus shook her head. “I’m afraid I know nothing at all about equipages.”

“One horse or two?”

“One. A brown one.”

“Bay, sorrel, chestnut?”

“I really couldn’t say. Brown is brown to me.”

Sabina thanked the woman and rose to leave. At the door Mrs. Marcus asked if she should notify the police about the buggy. Sabina said no, that wasn’t necessary, she would attend to the matter herself, and asked that her visit and investigation be kept in the strictest confidence as well. The less her confidante had to do with the blue coats, the better.