The Plague of Thieves Affair (11 page)

“I don't know. I didn't have a chance to ask him.”

Three horizontal lines marred the smooth surface of Octavia Fairchild's forehead. “Why not?”

“I would rather wait until your husband returns before I explain.”

“That's not necessary. Roland and I have no secrets from each other.”

“Just the same, I'd rather wait.”

“At least tell me this,” the woman said through pursed lips. “Does Charles still retain the mad notion that he is that British detective, Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes.”

“He should be put in an asylum. I've said that all along and Roland agrees with me. He's a danger to himself and quite possibly to others.”

“I don't agree, Mrs. Fairchild.”

“You're not qualified to judge. You hardly know the man.”

“Nor do you. From what your husband told me, no one in your family has seen Charles in years.”

Octavia Fairchild fixed her with a gimlet eye. Sabina met and returned the gaze stoically. This silent clash of wills lasted for some fifteen seconds; then Mrs. Fairchild got abruptly to her feet and, without a word, walked to the bedroom in an exaggerated regal stride, entered, and closed the door sharply behind her.

Sabina sat with a tight curb on her temper. She hadn't much cared for Roland W. Fairchild, and she actively disliked his wife. Among other things, the woman was artificial, overbearing, contrary, and downright rude. In short, she was what Stephen had referred to as a provider of a severe pain in the gluteus maximus.

Waiting, Sabina wondered if she might have been a little hasty in defending Charles the Third. Was he in fact a danger to others, if not to himself? She remembered the incident in October, her discovery of the body of Artemas Sneed, the scruff who had attempted to blackmail Carson Montgomery, and her surmise that it might well have been the crackbrain Sherlock who had skewered him with a sword cane. In self-defense, if so, she'd thought at the time, but it could have been otherwise—a lunatic's premeditated act of vigilante justice. Even if she'd confronted him, Charles the Third would not have admitted to the slaying no matter what had transpired in Sneed's waterfront lair. So there was no way for her to know one way or the other.

The sound of a key turning in the door latch heralded Roland Fairchild's return. Sabina remained seated as he entered and closed the door behind him. When he spied her he halted, blinking, and glanced around the otherwise empty room. His surprise at finding her alone in the sitting room was obvious, as well it should be.

“Mrs. Carpenter,” he said. “Ah … where is my wife?”

“In the bedroom, I believe.”

“Bedroom? Why?”

Sabina had no doubt the woman was listening behind the closed door. She said, “You'll have to ask her, Mr. Fairchild.”

He made a vague dismissive gesture, as if his wife's actions were of no particular consequence to him, removed his bowler hat, and seated himself in the same chair she had occupied. His attire was as natty today as it had been on Thursday, dominated this time by a Lombard houndstooth silk vest and a cravat the color of burgundy wine.

“You have news of my cousin? You've found him?”

“Not exactly. He is still in San Francisco, or was last evening, but I wasn't able to find out where he's residing.”

“Then how do you know he's still here in the city? Did someone see him?”

“Yes. I did.”

“Where?”

“At an art gallery on Post Street. As I told your wife, I spoke to him briefly.”

“Did you tell him you know his real identity?”

“Yes.”

“Well? What did he say?”

“He refused to admit it.”

“Of course he still believes he's Sherlock Holmes,” Fairchild said, as if he were neither surprised nor displeased at the fact. There was what Sabina took to be a hopeful note in his voice when he asked, “Is it your opinion that his delusion is such that he has completely suppressed the truth about himself?”

“For the most part, yes, though I should say he has moments of awareness.”

“He may be certifiably insane nonetheless. What was his reaction to the news of his father's death and the inheritance awaiting him in Chicago?”

“None.”

“To my presence in San Francisco? You did tell him I am staying here at the Baldwin Hotel?”

“Yes, but he didn't respond to that, either.”

“Did you try to talk him into contacting me?”

Time to pay the piper.

“I didn't have time,” Sabina said. “He fled before I could say or ask anything more.”

“Fled? For what reason?”

“I'm afraid it's my fault.”

A nose twitch showed Fairchild's displeasure. “Are you saying you acted inappropriately, frightened him away?”

“Somewhat rashly, yes. The circumstances were such that—”

“Hang the circumstances. Why didn't you stop him?”

“How should I have done that, Mr. Fairchild? By force?”

The bedroom door opened abruptly and out came Octavia Fairchild, dark visaged, like a cloud that robbed the room of some of its light. “A proper
male
detective would have stopped him by whatever means necessary. I told you, Roland, that hiring a woman was a foolish decision.”

Fairchild aimed a narrow-eyed glance at his wife. “Eavesdropping is childish behavior, Octavia. Why didn't you simply step out here and join us? Why were you lurking in the bedroom in the first place?”

“I neither like nor approve of your Mrs. Carpenter. She was quite rude to me before you came. Rude, and quite obviously incompetent. If you ask me, she should be discharged immediately and replaced by a capable male investigator as I suggested in the first place.”

“I haven't asked you. Please keep still and permit me to determine what's best.”

Octavia Fairchild snapped her mouth shut and stood stiffly, arms akimbo, directing dour looks at both her husband and Sabina.

“Mrs. Carpenter,” Fairchild said, “do you consider it likely my cousin will remain in San Francisco?”

“It's difficult to say for sure. For the time being, perhaps he will. He has what he considers, or rather his Sherlock Holmes persona considers, to be pressing business here.”

“What sort of pressing business?”

Sabina had no intention of sharing this information with the Fairchilds. “He didn't take me into his confidence.”

“Is it possible he'll contact you again of his own volition?”

“As unpredictable as I've found him to be, yes, it is. He might also decide to contact you in spite of his actions last evening, though that seems doubtful.”

“And if he doesn't do either? What are your chances of locating him again?”

Unable to keep still, Octavia Fairchild said, “Slim and none, I should say. I still think you should discharge her.”

“In favor of a male investigator who has had no dealings with Charles in San Francisco, doesn't know him at all?” Fairchild said this without looking at his wife.

“What about her partner, Mr. John Quincannon? Surely he is more competent than she.”

Sabina said, “My partner is involved in another case that commands his full attention. Even if he were free, there is nothing he could do that I can't or haven't already.”

“So you claim.”

“That's enough, Octavia,” Fairchild said sharply. Then to Sabina, “Well? What
are
the chances of communicating with Charles again?”

“I can't answer that. All I can tell you is that if you wish me to continue, I will do everything in my power to bring you and your cousin together.” John wouldn't like what she was about to say next, but there was no need for him to know about it. She must do what she felt was right and proper. “If I fail, I will not only waive the remainder of our agreed-upon fee, but refund your retainer.”

Octavia Fairchild emitted an unladylike snort. Her husband ignored her. Nose twitching again, he said, “Very well, Mrs. Carpenter. You have three days. If Charles has not contacted me in that time, with or without your assistance, I will consider our arrangement terminated, hold you to your promise regarding financial matters, and seek other options.”

“Very well,” Sabina said.

Fairchild showed her to the door. All the way across the room, she could feel Octavia Fairchild's hostile gaze like a dagger between her shoulder blades.

 

12

QUINCANNON

Elias Corby might have vanished into thin air, for all the success Quincannon had in attempting to find him after the embarrassing incident at the cooperage. He spent several hours interviewing coworkers and neighbors of Corby's, none of whom knew the man well. If the murderous crook had any close friends, male or female, or any vices such as gambling or the services of prostitutes, he'd spoken of them to no one. A closemouthed loner, from all indications.

Had he fetched his stash of money and fled the city for parts unknown? This thought gave vent to another, belated one and led Quincannon once more to Caleb Lansing's rooms. The strongbox was no longer secreted under the loose floorboard; it lay open and empty on the dining table. Damnation! Corby, of course. The none too bright Lansing must have let the location of the hiding place slip at some point in their dealings. And now the fugitive was in possession not only of his own loot but Lansing's as well—enough cash to take him a long way from San Francisco.

On the slim chance that Corby might still be holed up in the city, Quincannon put out the word among his informants and information sellers—men such as Luther James, Breezy Ned, and Ezra Bluefield. Bluefield, the former owner of a Barbary Coast deadfall called the Scarlet Lady, was a particularly reliable source of information; he owed Quincannon two debts of gratitude, one for having saved his life when a rival saloon owner attempted to puncture his hide with a bullet, the other for assisting him in his aim to become a respectable citizen by selling the deadfall and using the proceeds to purchase an Uptown Tenderloin saloon and restaurant, the Redemption, where he now held sway. But he still had his finger on the pulse of the Coast, and knew or could often find out the whereabouts of wanted lawbreakers.

No such luck in Corby's case. When no word came from Bluefield or any of his other informants by Saturday morning, Quincannon, whose patience was already worn celluloid thin, decided the time had come to take another criminal bull by the horns, wrestle him a bit, and see what could be found out from him.

Xavier Jones, for one. Cyrus Drinkwater, for another.

Jones was his first choice, so he set out mid-morning for the West Star Brewing Company. Yesterday's rain had gone and the sky was mostly clear, the February sunlight pale, the wind modulated into a cool breeze. A day made for much more pleasant activities than chasing after thieves, a fact which sharpened his determination.

West Star Brewing was situated on Jackson Street near the site of the old Adam Schuppert Brewery, California's first such enterprise established during the 1849 Gold Rush. The building was smaller than Golden State's and, according to James Willard, produced an inferior brand of lager. But Quincannon's visit there proved to be wasted effort; Saturday, he was told, was not one of Xavier Jones's workdays.

He had obtained the brewmaster's residence, on Sacramento Street near Lafayette Park, from the city directory. But a trolley car ride there did him no good. Jones was not at home, or at least not answering his bell, and the large and well-populated building's security was such that surreptitious entry for a search of Jones's apartment would have been difficult.

Quincannon settled instead for contacting a handful of Jones's neighbors. One confided that the brewmaster's favorite idle-hour pastime was playing cribbage and that he frequented an establishment on Polk Street called the Elite Cardroom and Pool Emporium. He found his way there, only to learn that the place's elegant name was a misnomer—it was just another run-of-the-mill neighborhood gaming parlor—and that Jones was neither present nor had been there that day.

Frustration had once again begun to weigh heavily on Quincannon by this time. Thwarted no matter where he looked for Jones, as he'd been thwarted in his hunt for Elias Corby. Would Cyrus Drinkwater be easier to buttonhole? Well, he would soon find out. He'd had enough of chasing around the city on the rail lines; he hired a cab to drive him to Rincon Hill.

Drinkwater was a known habitué of the Cocktail Route, the nightly bacchanal in which wealthy businessmen of all types met with friends in one of more than twenty first-class saloons between the Reception on Sutter and Dunne Brothers at Eddy and Market, to discuss business, politics, and scandal involving others and themselves, all the while consuming copious amounts of liquor and food—a ritual that often lasted all night. Men such as Drinkwater seldom arrived home before dawn or emerged again before noon on weekdays, usually much later on weekends.

The thought of rousing the old reprobate from his bed was a pleasing one, but he had no more luck at the lavish home than anywhere else on this day's blasted runaround. The uniformed maid who answered the door informed him that Mr. Drinkwater was not in residence. Nor did she know, or refused to tell if she did, where he could be found.

Drinkwater maintained an office in a building on Turk Street near the Civic Center. He wasn't there, either. Canvassing the array of saloons and restaurants where he might have gone to cure a hangover or fill his belly was an undertaking that held no appeal for Quincannon. He decided instead to direct his hired cab to the headquarters of the Gray Brothers Quarry Company on Sansome at Green. Drinkwater was known to make periodic rounds of his various enterprises, and his not-so-silent partnership in the Grays' operations was second only to his ownership of West Star Brewing as a major source of income.

The quarry site was the largest in the city. George and Harry Gray, that pair of equally conscienceless rogues, had been in the quarrying business for nearly thirty years. They had established their Telegraph Hill quarry and rock crusher some four years before, an ideal location for their purposes; the unstable cliff was composed of the sandstone geologists called greywacke mixed with laminated shale, a hard serpentine perfect for their manufacture of the artificial stone used for paving city sidewalks and curbs. They had blown up huge chunks of the rock face, reputedly using ninety kegs of dynamite in the original detonation—heedless of the homes perched on the hilltop nearby and the citizens who lived in them. In January of '94, one explosion caused a rockslide that crushed a duplex on Vallejo Street, but despite the fact that the owner received a $3,000 judgment against the Grays, it did nothing to bring about so much as a temporary stoppage of the careless dynamiting. It wasn't until a shoemaker's house at the corner of Union Street and Calhoun Terrace was blown off its foundation the following year that a judge issued a permanent injunction forbidding any more blasting.