The Bughouse Affair: A Carpenter and Quincannon Mystery (19 page)

He had been in hobo jungles and opium dens that were tidier and less aromatic. Breathing through his mouth, he searched the confines. It was evident from the first that two men lived here recently. Verminous blankets were wadded on each of two bunks, and there were empty bottles of Salty Jim’s tipple, the cheap and potent white-line whiskey also known as four-bit micky and Dr. Hall, and empty flasks of the foot juice favored by Dodger Brown. The galley table, however, bore remnants of a single meal of oyster stew and sourdough bread, one tin coffee mug, one dirty glass, and one half-empty jug of Dr. Hall.

Under one of the bunks was a pasteboard suitcase. Quincannon drew it out, laid it on the blankets, snapped the cheap lock with the blade of his pocketknife, and sifted through the contents. Cheap John clothing of a size much too small to fit Salty Jim. An oilskin pouch that contained an array of lock picks and other burglar tools. An old Smith & Wesson revolver wrapped in cloth, unloaded, no cartridges in evidence. And a larger, felt-lined sack that rattled provocatively as he lifted it out.

When he upended the sack onto the blanket, out tumbled a variety of jewelry, timepieces, small silver and gold gewgaws. Pay dirt! A quick accounting told him that he was now in possession of the remaining stolen goods from Dodger Brown’s first three robberies.

There was one other item of interest in the suitcase, which he’d missed on his first look. It lay on the bottom, facedown, caught under a torn corner. He fished it out, flipped it over. A business card, creased and thumb-marked, but not of the sort he himself carried. He had seen such discreet advertisements before; they had grown more common in the Uptown Tenderloin, handed out by the more enterprising businesswomen in the district. This one read:

FIDDLE DEE DEE

M
ISS
L
ETTIE
C
AREW
P
RESENTS

B
OUNTIFUL
B
EAUTIES FROM
E
XOTIC
L
ANDS

M
AISON DE
J
OIE
244 O’F
ARRELL
S
TREET

Well, now. Such a relatively refined establishment as the Fiddle Dee Dee was hardly the type of bawdy house Salty Jim would want or be permitted to patronize. The card, therefore, must belong to Dodger Brown. Quincannon was certain of it when he turned the card over and found pencil-scrawled on the back:
Chinee girls!!

He considered. Was it possible that the Dodger wasn’t in quite as much hurry to flee the Bay Area as it had seemed from his visit to Luther Duff yesterday? That a different urge had prompted his eagerness for cash, and was the reason why the rest of his ill-gotten gains were still stashed here and he hadn’t spent last night on this scabrous tub?

A likely prospect. As was the Dodger’s eventual return. But when would that be? Salty Jim might know, but he was bound to be even more uncommunicative when he awoke from his nap. And the prospect of a long and possibly fruitless vigil in the pirate’s company held no appeal. After a few moments of reflection, Quincannon decided to follow his hunch and pay a call on Miss Lettie Carew in her
maison de joie.

He returned the swag to its felt-lined nest and added the sack to the one he’d pocketed in Duff’s Curio Shop, after which he stepped onto the deck with Dodger Brown’s revolver in hand. Salty Jim was still
non compos,
but now starting to stir a bit. Quincannon left him bound where he lay, dropped the pistol into the bay, and further coppered his bet by untying and setting the pirate’s rowboat adrift. Then, whistling “The Brewers Big Horses Can’t Run Over Me,” one of his favorite temperance songs, he climbed down into the rented skiff and rowed briskly back to the wharf.

22

SABINA

Inside the house Penelope Costain’s voice said angrily, “And just what did you expect to find in my home, Mr. Holmes? The police went over every inch of the premises last night.”

“Clues to the unfortunate events that took place here.”

“And you found none that the police overlooked, I’m sure. If you’ve disturbed or taken anything, I’ll have you arrested.”

“Tut, tut. Nothing has been disturbed or removed.”

“I should have you arrested for trespassing anyway, but I won’t if you leave at once.”

“As you wish, madam.
Au revoir.
”

Footsteps sounded inside. Sabina had just enough time to back down onto the path before the door opened and the cape-and-deerstalker Englishman emerged, his blackthorn walking stick in hand. He hesitated when he spied her, and glanced behind him. The door remained closed, Mrs. Costain still inside.

Holmes bowed as he joined Sabina. There was a smudge of dirt on one of his cheeks, as if he had spent part of his time inside crawling around in dark corners or a dusty attic. “My dear Mrs. Carpenter. An unexpected pleasure. May I ask what brings you here?”

“I’ve come to extend my condolences to the widow.”

“Detective business as well, perchance?”

“Perhaps. Though not of the same sort you’ve been indulging in.”

“Ah, you overheard my conversation with Mrs. Costain.”

“Part of it. I’ll thank you to cease claiming to be what you’re not—an authorized employee of the Carpenter and Quincannon agency.”

“My apologies, dear lady, for the small deception. But it was in a good cause, I assure you.”

“Yes? Did you learn something my partner and I should know?”

Holmes’s smile was crafty. Instead of answering her question, he said, “It’s almost teatime. On my way here I noticed a tea shop around the corner on Federal Street. Would you do me the honor of joining me there after you’ve finished speaking to Mrs. Costain?”

“I have no time for social niceties, Mr. Holmes.”

“You might find it worthwhile nonetheless,” he said. He bowed again and sauntered off, the ferrule of his stick tapping rhythmically.

Sabina watched after him for a few seconds, then returned to her former place at the front door. She had to move the funeral wreath aside in order to lift the heavy brass knocker.

The door opened abruptly and there appeared a pale, wrathful face under a black hat with a drawn-up veil, her prominent chin outthrust. “Now what do you—? Oh. I thought you were someone else.” The woman’s expression modulated into a frown. “I don’t know you. What do you want?”

“A few minutes of your time. My name is Sabina Carpenter.”

“Carpenter? Of the detective agency?”

“Yes.”

Penelope Costain hesitated. “I shouldn’t be speaking to you at all. If your partner and that fool Holmes had done their jobs properly, my husband would still be alive.”

“Please don’t blame Mr. Quincannon for what happened to your husband. If it had been humanly possible for him to have prevented it, he would have done so.”

“So you say.”

“May I come in?”

“I’ve just returned from making funeral arrangements. I’m really quite tired.”

“I won’t keep you long.”

“… Oh, very well.”

The widow’s mourning attire was a rather inappropriate black taffeta dress that rustled and crackled from static electricity as she ushered Sabina into an underheated and overdecorated parlor. Flowers and ruffles, statues of shepherds and shepherdesses, a hideous ormolu clock on the mantel. Antimacassars, Fabergé eggs, ornately painted plates on a wall rail. Life-size china dogs beside every chair, multicolored glass baskets holding mints and candies. An empty gilt canary cage. And over it all, a patina of dust as if the room hadn’t had a proper cleaning in some while. There was even a spiderweb between two of the ornate plates.

A gauche display of wealth that had been neglected—and plundered a bit, judging from the spaces where more of the ostentatious clutter had once been displayed. How could people live in such surroundings?

Mrs. Costain stood stiffly, her head cocked to one side in an oddly birdlike fashion, her short dark hair touching the high collar of her dress. Eyes like the points of arrowheads jabbed at Sabina as she said, “Well, Mrs. Carpenter? Why are you here?”

“First, to offer my condolences.”

“Thank you.”

“And I have something of your husband’s that I thought you might wish to have.”

“Of Andrew’s? What might that be?”

Sabina produced and handed over the silver money clip. Penelope Costain turned it over in her hand. As her fingers traced the intricate design, she winced slightly as if struck by a painful memory.

“Where did you get this?”

“From a pickpocket I was hired to apprehend.”

“A pickpocket. I see. And did you apprehend him?”

“Her.”

“A woman? Well, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“She was killed yesterday by an unknown assailant.”

“Deservedly, I’m sure. You’ll pardon my callousness, but I have no sympathy for such creatures. I would not be unhappy to hear that the man who shot my husband has also been killed.”

“Understandably so. You did know that the money clip was stolen from your husband?”

“He mentioned the fact, yes.”

“When and where did it happen?”

“A few days ago, I believe. Near the Palace Hotel after Andrew left his office.”

Another of Clara Wilds’s random victims, then, on her prowls along the Cocktail Route?

“Did he say how much cash he carried in the clip?”

“A few banknotes, no more than thirty dollars. He was more upset at losing the clip than the money. That, and the fact that the pickpocket jabbed him with a sharp object just before she struck.”

Sabina saw no need to reveal what the object was. “Was anything else stolen besides the clip and banknotes?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Andrew would have mentioned it if there had been. Why are you asking all these questions, Mrs. Carpenter? The pocket-picking incident is no longer of any importance. My husband has been cruelly murdered. Finding the man responsible is all that matters now.”

“Of course. My partner is engaged in that very activity. In fact, he may already have accomplished it.”

“He knows the identity of the burglar?”

“He believes so.”

“But he’s not sure?”

“He won’t be until the man is in custody.”

“Have the police been informed?”

“They may have been by now. You needn’t worry, Mrs. Costain. Your husband’s murderer will not escape punishment, whether he’s the man Mr. Quincannon is pursuing or not.”

“That is of little comfort to me at the moment,” Penelope Costain said. Her head still cocked in that birdlike way, she made discomfited movements that caused the black taffeta to rustle and crackle again; her patience seemed to have worn thin. “Is there anything else?”

“Not at present, no.”

“Then I trust you will be good enough to leave me alone to grieve in private.”

*   *   *

“The history of teatime,” Sherlock Holmes said sententiously, “extends back to the seventeenth century, when Queen Elizabeth granted the East India Company the right to establish worldwide trade routes. Originally the routes were used for the transport of spices, but by the time Charles the Second claimed the throne, tea had become the beverage of choice for English society. Now the custom has spread to your country, although of course it is not yet either properly refined or highly regarded here.”

Sabina sipped her jasmine tea and wished the Englishman would cease pontificating and get to the point of this meeting. The tea shop on Federal Street was small and maintained a pretense of gentility despite the fact that the South Park neighborhood was no longer fashionable among the city’s gentry. She and Holmes were seated at a window table. She was not overly fond of tea, preferring coffee or John’s favorite beverage, warm clam juice, but she could appreciate a national tradition that supported eating well and often. Or she could if she weren’t being bombarded with far more details of British habits and tastes than she cared to hear about.

“Naturally there are several variations on the tea service: cream tea, with scones, jam, and clotted cream; light tea, with scones and sweets; and full tea, with savories, scones, sweets, and dessert.” Holmes motioned with mild distaste at the plate of scones and strawberry jam on the table between them. “This fare wouldn’t do in England, you know. No, not at all. The scones and elderberry preserves served in the London shop near my rooms on Baker Street are far superior.”

Sabina thought the scones and jam tasted just fine, but she didn’t say so. It would only have encouraged him. Not that he needed any encouragement to continue his lecture on the subject of tea. He seemed oblivious to her impatience.

“Few people,” he prattled on, “realize how many different varieties of tea there are from all over the globe. Assam, chamomile, Lapsang souchong, chai, jasmine—though the variety served in this establishment is rather poor. Oolong from the Far East, Darjeeling from India. Ali shan, Ti kuan yin, Formosa. Oh, yes, many, many different varieties. Perhaps one day I shall write a monograph on tea. Yes, I believe I will. Of course other studies have already been done, but I would adopt a much more scholarly approach—”

“Mr. Holmes,” Sabina said. Her voice was tart; she had had enough tea, literally and figuratively.

“Yes, dear lady?”

“Why did you ask me to meet you here? Surely not to regale me with your esoteric knowledge.”

“Nor merely to socialize, I confess. Did your interview with Mrs. Costain prove illuminating?”

What she had or hadn’t learned from the widow was no concern of his. “Interview isn’t the proper term. As I told you earlier, my purpose in visiting her was to offer my condolences.”

“You also intimated a professional reason.”