The Plague of Thieves Affair (15 page)

Rayburn gasped and Carreaux exclaimed,
“Mon Dieu!”
But Charles the Third understood immediately.

“False!” he cried. “A false corporation!”

Bakker, realizing the game was up, made a clumsy attempt to flee. Charles the Third tripped him, pounced on top, and tore open the man's shirt to reveal exactly what Sabina expected to see—a padded convex mound wrapped in an elasticized garment resembling a woman's corset, a false corporation so cunningly made it would look and feel genuine when the clothing that covered it was searched. The corsetlike garment fit snugly, but not so snugly as to prevent it from being pulled up along one side. Which Charles quickly proceeded to do. A moment later he removed the Marie Antionette from among wads of cotton padding inside.

His bright gaze rested on Sabina as he held the prize up for all to see. “Capital brainwork, my good woman,” he said with a hint of jealousy. “And the end game well played!”

A good deal of confusion ensued. Monsieur Carreaux seized the chatelaine bag, examined it, and then, with a Gallic flourish, he threw his arms around Sabina and bestowed moist kisses on each cheek. Charles the Third, with Rayburn's assistance, was busy lifting a weakly struggling Thaddeus Bakker, or whatever his real name was, onto his feet. Some of the guests had spilled out of the storeroom to look on, chattering in excited voices. Martin Holloway, realizing his partner had been captured and the theft ploy foiled, ran to the front door in a panicked effort to escape; Eldredge and the man with the pince-nez restrained him, after which he and Bakker were locked away in Rayburn's office. Eldredge was then sent to summon the police.

*   *   *

It was two hours before the plainclothesmen in charge finished their officious duties and allowed everyone to leave. Two facts resulted from their interrogation of the sullen culprits. Thaddeus Bakker's real name was Horace Binder and he was indeed from Sacramento, where he had been twice arrested and once convicted for jewel robbery. And Martin Holloway was his brother-in-law.

Sabina had little opportunity to speak to Charles the Third while this was going on. He blustered a bit to anyone who would listen, insisting that he was in fact and indeed Sherlock Holmes, “the last and highest court of appeal of detection,” and that he, too, had deduced the clever method by which Bakker/Binder had secreted the Marie Antoinette bag. “If my splendid associate had not acted as quickly and in the fashion she did,” he said, “I would have done so myself.”

Sabina smiled wryly to herself when she overheard this. Horsefeathers, she thought.

When permission was given for them to leave, she sought out Charles the Third, took hold of his arm, and asked if he would mind escorting her home to her flat. He consented gallantly, as she had thought he would. She needed no escort, of course, but she didn't want him slipping away from her again, at least not until she'd had a chance to talk to him privately. Sharing a hansom gave her that opportunity.

Once they were alone together in the cab, he said, “A trying evening, to be sure. But a rather exhilarating one nonetheless. It is always gratifying to unmask thieves and render them their just deserts.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Bakker, or Binder, is a clever fellow, but his plan was doomed to failure pitted against not one but two brilliant minds. Once again the observation of trifles and the application of logic have proven my long-held theory that they are the most successful methods of detection.”

He paused to produce and light his long, curved clay pipe. Sabina wrinkled her nose; his choice of tobacco was even worse than John's. “I must congratulate you, Mrs. Carpenter,” he said then, “on the manner in which you utilized the furniture in your little brain attic tonight. Most detectives on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean, I have found, take in all the lumber of every sort that they come across, so that the knowledge which might be useful to them gets crowded out, or at best is jumbled up with a lot of other things, and they have difficulty in laying hands on it. That is certainly not true of you. Or, for that matter, your erstwhile partner. You are both skillful workmen who are careful, indeed, as to what you take into your brain attics. As of course am I.”

Sabina smothered both a sigh and a yawn, and thanked him for the compliment. Then, with deliberate flattery, “You and I do make a rather effective team, don't we?”

“We do indeed.”

“Perhaps we can work together again. Assuming, that is, that you plan to remain in San Francisco?”

“At least for the nonce, I do. Though I must return to London fairly soon and ease poor Doctor Watson's mind about the state of my well-being. Meanwhile, I should very much enjoy another commingling of the furniture in our brain attics.”

“Tell me, then. Where can I reach you?”

“Why, dear lady, you need only place another newspaper advertisement as you did in this case.”

“Yes, but what if I should need to call upon you quickly? And sooner than later? Surely you don't mind revealing your current address to me?”

He was silent for a time, puffing noisily on his pipe, apparently mulling on the advisability of confiding in her. At length he said, “You'll share the information with no one, not even your associate? If the knowledge were to reach the wrong ears, it would have a dire effect on the investigation that required my present disguise.”

“You have my word.”

“Very well. I am temporarily lodged at a small residential hotel on Stevenson Street.”

“Stevenson. That would be Tar Flat.”

“I believe that is what the area is called, yes.”

Tar Flat was an Irish workingman's neighborhood south of Market, not the sort of place she would have expected Charles the Third to hang his hat. But then he could always be counted on to do the unexpected and often inexplicable. “Which hotel?”

“The Dubliner. Room eleven.”

“Under what name?”

“Seamus O'Leary. Though I'm not often to be found there.”

“Is there someplace else you can be reached on short notice?”

He hesitated again. Then, “Two blocks south of the hotel there is a pub, or saloon in your American parlance, unimaginatively named the Tam O'Shanter that serves a palatable free lunch as well as alcoholic beverages. It is also the gathering place of certain individuals, thus serving me well as a listening and observation post.”

“May I ask why you're staying in Tar Flat?”

“You may ask, but I am not at liberty to answer. Suffice it to say that my presence there is of considerable importance and requires a certain amount of secrecy and subterfuge.”

All of this was typical daft blather, though given Charles the Third's past accomplishments, there would be a core of truth in it. Sabina asked, “How long do you expect to be at the Dubliner?”

“I really can't say. At least another week or so. Possibly longer. As you are quite well aware, many investigations require time and cannot be hurried.”

“Will you let me know when you move and where?”

“If circumstances permit, dear lady. If circumstances permit.”

Sabina let silence descend again for a time. The hack rattled and swayed on the cobblestones, the driver's whip cracking audibly to prod the horse as it drew them up the steep western slope of Russian Hill. The smoke from Charles the Third's pipe had begun to make Sabina feel nauseous; she drew aside the closed side curtain and slid the window open.

As they neared her street, she asked him, “Do you intend to keep your promise about tomorrow?”

“Promise? I recall making no promise.”

“But you did. You told me earlier that you would contact Roland Fairchild at the Baldwin Hotel.”

“Oh, that. A minor and annoying bit of foolishness, nothing more.”

“But you will attend to it? He is, after all, my client.”

“Yes, so you said. To locate a person named … what was it?”

“Charles Percival Fairchild the Third,” Sabina said patiently. “Of Chicago, Illinois. Sole heir to the substantial estate of his deceased father, Charles the Second.”

“A euphonious name, but one I had never heard before your mention of it. Nor have I ever been in Chicago, Illinois. But yes, I will pay a call on your client in the morning and set him straight. Is this satisfactory to you?”

“It is.”

“Capital. I wish you well in your search for this Charles Percival fellow, wherever he may be.”

The hansom drew up in front of Sabina's building. The crackbrain insisted on paying the taxi fare, escorted her to the door, said good night, bowed, and returned to the cab to be whisked away.

Would
he pay the call on his cousin in the morning? She could only hope so; she'd done all she could tonight to bring about the meeting. If he failed to appear, she would have no choice but to pursue him in Tar Flat, a rough place for a woman alone, but an even rougher one for a dandified tourist such as Roland W. Fairchild.

She sighed as she keyed open the front door. Unless she received an early communication from one or the other of them, she would have to give up part of her Sunday to find out.

 

16

QUINCANNON

The proprietor of the Elite Cardroom and Pool Emporium was no respecter of the Sabbath. The place was open bright and early on Sunday morning, which made Quincannon's trip to the neighborhood at least potentially worthwhile. Xavier Jones had still not returned to his boardinghouse. It could be that Cyrus Drinkwater had gotten word to him to lie low after the confrontation with Quincannon yesterday, but that didn't explain Jones's prior absence. In any event, with a little luck he could be eventually tracked down—assuming, of course, that he was still among the living.

The cardroom at the rear of the Elite was empty, but two of the eight pool, snooker, and billiard tables were in use: a pair of young men in rough garb playing a desultory game of snooker, and a middle-aged, nondescript gent practicing cross-bank and combination pool shots by himself. A different oldster manned the cash register this day, a sour-faced fellow wearing a droopy moustache and green-and-gold sleeve garters.

Quincannon asked the same question he'd asked the day before, and received a loquacious response. Oh, sure, the oldster said, he knew Xavier Jones. No, Jones hadn't been in today. X played cards, not pool—cribbage, mostly, and sometimes whist or poker—but the games didn't usually get started until eleven or so on Sundays on account of some folks went to church first. The clerk aimed a wad of tobacco juice at a spittoon, more or less accurately. Didn't go to church himself, never did hold with organized religion, but that didn't mean he didn't believe in God. Folks worshipped in their own way, and that was the right of it as far as he was concerned. Why, he recollected a miner up Marysville way back in the seventies …

“Beg pardon, friend,” a voice behind Quincannon said. It belonged to the nondescript gent, he saw when he turned; the man had paused in his practicing and now stood with his hip cocked against his table. “Couldn't help but overhear. Step on over.”

Quincannon did as he was bid. “Do you know Xavier Jones?”

“Ought to. I'm a regular here, same as him.”

“You wouldn't happen to know where he might be found?”

“Might. My name's Gunderson.”

“Quincannon.”

“Shoot pool, do you, Mr. Quincannon?”

“Some.”

“How about a game while we talk?”

Quincannon had been sizing the fellow up without seeming to. He seemed innocuous enough, friendly, outwardly bored with his solo playing and looking for a bit of companionship. The cue he held negligently in one hand was a house stick. All a pose. Hustler, pool shark—Quincannon had seen enough of them over the years to spot one straightaway.

“Well,” he said after a short pause, “I guess I wouldn't mind.”

“Straight pool, eight-ball, rotation? Your pleasure.”

“Oh, it doesn't matter. Eight-ball?”

“Fine. Lag for break?”

Quincannon nodded his ascent, went to a wall rack to select a cue for himself. A few were slightly warped; he found one that was more or less straight and chalked the tip while Gunderson racked the balls. When they lagged, the shark deliberately stroked his ball into the far rail hard enough so that Quincannon would win the break.

“Looks like we're about evenly matched,” Gunderson said. Then, casually, “How about we make it interesting?”

“Interesting?”

“Small wager on the outcome.”

“How small?”

“Oh, say five dollars, if that's not too stiff for you?”

Quincannon pretended to think it over. “Well, I don't know … Are you sure you may know where I can find Xavier Jones?”

“Sure enough. Tell you about it while we play. Does the wager amount suit you?”

“Well … all right. Five dollars.”

Gunderson put a five-dollar greenback on the rim of the table; Quincannon matched the amount with a pair of two-and-a-half-dollar gold pieces. His break of the rack was amateurish, dead center on the one-ball so that none of the balls dropped into a pocket.

“Too bad,” the shark said. He chalked his cue and sank the eleven ball, giving him stripes, made two more easy shots, then deliberately missed a cross-bank.

Quincannon looked the table over, tapped in the five ball, then feigned bewilderment as to which shot to try next. “About Jones,” he said. “He wasn't home this morning and doesn't seem to have been yesterday, either.”

“No surprise in that.”

“No? Why not?”

“You must not know him very well.”

“I don't. My business with him concerns a debt he owes.”

“He's got himself a dolly,” Gunderson said.

“Ah. You know who she is?”

“Sure thing. Still your shot, friend.”

Quincannon missed a corner pocket try at the two ball. Gunderson walked around the table, said, “Looks like you've left me wide open,” and proceeded to pocket the rest of the striped balls and then the black eight to win the game. All relatively easy shots, so that he didn't have to reveal the depth of his skill. “My lucky morning,” he said then. “But luck can change fast. How about another game, a chance to get even?”