The Plague of Thieves Affair (3 page)

Not Enough.

She had already weakened to the point of allowing an occasional social evening's entertainment, and he had been a perfect gentleman on each occasion; had not even once attempted to kiss her. Should she give him even more of a chance to prove himself? Not by succumbing to him physically—she was still not ready for that degree of intimacy—but by allowing him to spark her as a prospective beau would. The thought was appealing, yet she still felt reluctant. Her hands-off demeanor was her defense against a world that might brutally hurt her again. What if she were to become romantically involved with John, a risk-taking man in the same dangerous profession as Stephen, and something happened to him, too? She was a strong woman, but not strong enough, she feared, to survive a second painful loss …

Her reverie was interrupted, perhaps fortunately, by the arrival of the morning's third visitor. He entered after a rather loud knock, apparently made with the silver hound's-head knob on the walking stick he carried—a slim, fair-haired young man whom she had never seen before. He stood for a moment after closing the door, wrinkled his nose as if in disapproval of the surroundings, and then approached Sabina's desk as she rose to her feet.

His disapproval didn't extend to her; his roving gaze and rather rakish smile attested to that. A gay blade, she thought. And a dandified one, dressed in an expensive dove-gray sack coat, floral waistcoat, striped trousers, orange silk cravat, and high-topped leather shoes polished to a gloss. A diamond stickpin in his cravat gave off an opulent dazzle—a little too much dazzle, Sabina thought, for the stone to be genuine. His pale hair was cut short, parted in the middle and slicked down, and his chin was adorned with a small pointed beard.

“Do I have the pleasure of addressing Mrs. Sabina Carpenter?”

“You do. And you are, sir?”

“Roland W. Fairchild. Of Chicago, Illinois.”

He presented her with a gold-embossed card, which told her nothing more than he just had except for the fact that he was an attorney-at-law. She invited him to sit down, waited until he did so before reseating herself. He sat erect with his knees together, the stick propped between them, and smiled—half leered—at her across the desk.

“A lady detective, and a most attractive one,” he said. “Such an interesting novelty.”

Sabina had already begun to dislike Roland W. Fairchild of Chicago, Illinois; that silly comment firmed her opinion. She didn't respond to it, instead adopted a stern, no-nonsense look to show him what she thought of it and his overly bold appraisal of her.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Fairchild?”

“I should like to engage you to find a missing person.”

“One of our specialties,” she said, stretching the truth a trifle. “The name of this person?”

“Charles Percival Fairchild the Third. My first cousin.”

“Also of Chicago?”

“Originally.”

“How long has he been missing?”

“From his last known address, approximately seventeen months. I myself haven't seen him in more than three years.”

“Seventeen months? That's quite a long time, Mr. Fairchild. Were you only recently made aware of his absence?”

“No. We—that is, the family—have known of it for some time. It only became necessary to make a concerted effort to locate him when his father, Charles P. Fairchild the Second, the noted industrialist, died recently.” The aquiline nose twitched again. “My cousin is sole heir to the estate.”

“I see. Are you the deceased Mr. Fairchild's attorney?”

“For the estate? No. Merely an emissary acting on their behalf as a member of the family.”

“You have reason to believe your cousin is in San Francisco?”

“That he was here, yes, and hope still is. If so, you and your partner, Mr. Quincannon, are uniquely qualified to locate him.”

“Uniquely qualified? I don't understand.”

“You have had business dealings with Charles before, so I've been reliably informed. On more than one occasion.”

“I'm afraid I don't recall a client named Charles Fairchild—”

“He was not a client. And you know him by a different name.” Still another nose twitch. Roland Fairchild then withdrew a photograph from an inside pocket of his sack coat, reached across the desk to lay it faceup in front of Sabina. “Charles is the poor daft chap who fancies himself to be the late British detective Sherlock Holmes.”

 

3

SABINA

Sabina was, to put it mildly, taken aback. And temporarily rendered mute. She realized her jaw had hinged open, closed her mouth, and sat staring down at the photograph.

It appeared to be a professional head-and-shoulders portrait taken sometime within the past five years, and the likeness was unmistakable. The lean, hawklike face and piercing eyes that peered up at her was in fact the bogus Sherlock—bogus Englishman, too, evidently—who had during the previous year insinuated himself into three cases of hers and John's with rather amazing results; who had a conjurer's habit of appearing and disappearing at will; who possessed an uncanny knack for ferreting out information about all sorts of goings-on in San Francisco's underworld; who drove John to distraction and bewildered and irritated her, yet had demonstrated a surprising kindliness the last time she saw him by presenting her with the kitten she'd named Eve.

She found her voice. “My Lord,” she said. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Ah. You do recognize him, then.”

“Yes. Oh, yes.”

“Do you know his present whereabouts?”

“No. Neither my partner nor I have seen or heard from him since last October.”

“If he is still lurking about San Francisco, have you any idea where he might be found?”

She shook her head. “His last known address was the Old Union Hotel on Geary Street, but that was several months ago. And he lodged there only a short time.”

“Do you think you could manage to track him down, wherever he might be now?”

“I don't know. Possibly.”

“Would you make the effort for a mutually agreeable fee?”

Sabina stared down at the photograph again. Charles Percival Fairchild III. The name certainly suited the man, though it would be a while before she thought of him as other than the self-proclaimed Mr. Holmes. “He is heir to his late father's estate, you said?”

“Sole heir. Quite a substantial estate it is, too. My uncle amassed a fortune in Chicago's meatpacking industry.” Roland Fairchild leaned forward confidentially. “Cousin Charles stands to inherit slightly more than three million dollars.”

If John had been present, he might well have whistled at the amount. Sabina managed not to blink.

“That is, of course,” Fairchild said, “if he can be found, is willing to return to Chicago, and once there, is not judged incompetent by a court-appointed alienist.”

“And if he were? Would you stand to inherit in his stead?”

The young dandy's smile quirked at the corners. “You mustn't think I have ulterior motives, Mrs. Carpenter.”

“I have no such thoughts,” Sabina fibbed. “I was merely asking a question.”

“The answer to which is yes.”

“Do you believe he's incompetent?”

“Well, a man who has assumed the identity of a rather famous and deceased individual can hardly be considered sane, can he?” Nose twitch. “Charles always was a bit queer. Quite intelligent, well read, well spoken, but nonetheless lacking in mental stability.”

“How did he become obsessed with Sherlock Holmes? Do you know?”

“Specifically, no. My uncle sent him to England when he was in his early twenties, to be educated at Oxford. Our family has British forebears, you see. Charles the Second's father was born in England.”

“Did he complete his studies there?”

“Yes, with honors. And developed into a confirmed Anglophile in the process. He came home to Chicago for a time, at my uncle's urging, but then skipped off again to England.” Twitch. “A generous monthly stipend, overly generous to my way of thinking, allowed him to live quite well in London.”

“Where he was exposed to the genuine Holmes's exploits and grew to admire him to an irrational degree.”

“Yes. He also bears a physical resemblance to the genuine article, I understand. He wrote of this in one of his early letters, claiming the resemblance to be so uncanny that they might have been twins.”

“He made no secret of his obsession, then?”

“On the contrary. He reveled in it. Though at first it seemed more a case of uncontrolled hero worship than actual impersonation.”

“When did he come to believe that he was Holmes? Was it when the detective died in Switzerland?”

“That may well have been what tipped him over. In his last letter, more than two years ago, he wrote that rumors of ‘his' alleged death were false and ‘he' was very much alive and intended to continue ‘his' inquiries, as he called them, elsewhere. He signed it ‘S. Holmes, Esquire.'”

“What did his father think of this?”

“He was upset, of course. He sought to bring Charles back to Chicago for treatment by an alienist, but his letters and cables went unanswered. The old gentleman's health was too poor to permit him to travel to England. Through his attorneys he hired investigators in London, but they found no trace of Charles there or anywhere else. He simply disappeared.”

“Did he indicate in his last letter that he might travel to San Francisco?”

“No,” Fairchild said. “It was only after my uncle's death that we—the attorneys for the estate and I, that is—discovered that Charles had come here and was posing as Holmes.”

“How did you find out?”

“By happenstance. My uncle's law firm is one of Chicago's largest and they have had dealings with a San Francisco firm—Stennett, Tyler, and Dubois. Perhaps you've heard of them?”

Sabina nodded. They were respected corporate attorneys.

“Harold Stennett was in Chicago on a business matter,” Fairchild said. “He met with my uncle's attorney, Leland Hazelton, and chanced to mention that a man claiming to be Holmes had been involved in a rather sensational murder case with a pair of genuine private investigators. Mr. Stennett provided your and your partner's names. He also offered to contact your firm upon his return, but Mr. Hazelton and I decided it would be best if I undertook the task myself. In the event Charles is found, I stand a better chance than anyone else of convincing him to return to Chicago. As a member of the family and because we have always had a reasonably cordial relationship.”

“I see. Is there anything else I should know?”

“I don't believe so. You'll conduct a search, then? Or will you need to consult with your partner before committing?”

“That won't be necessary,” Sabina said, having no intention of doing so. She had been taking notes; she laid down her fountain pen, brushed a stray wisp of her seal-black hair off her forehead, and sat back. “You may rest assured every effort will be made to locate your cousin wherever he may be. There are no guarantees, of course.”

“Will you be able to begin immediately?”

“I don't see why not.”

“And how will you go about it?”

“Our methods are private by necessity, as I'm sure you can understand. But you have my assurance that you will be immediately notified of any pertinent developments.”

“That is satisfactory. What are your fees?”

She named a retainer figure, an amount somewhat less than John surely would have asked.

“Also satisfactory. Shall I write you a check now?”

“If you like.” But she wouldn't deposit it in the agency account until she checked to make absolutely sure Roland W. Fairchild was who and what he claimed to be.

While he was writing the check with a gold fountain pen of his own, Sabina asked, “Where can you be reached, Mr. Fairchild?”

“We have a suite at the Baldwin Hotel.”

“We?”

“My wife Octavia and I. Like me, she has always longed to visit the ‘Paris of America' and all its charming attractions.”

Fairchild's smile turned wistful as he spoke, as if he secretly wished he'd come alone to the “Paris of America”—a city as famous for its sinful attractions as for its charming ones. A roving-eyed gay blade like Roland Fairchild, if he were here untethered and unsupervised, would have had himself a grand time in the flesh palaces and gambling halls of the Barbary Coast and Uptown Tenderloin. His wife must be a forceful woman, and a perceptive one, to have convinced him to bring her with him.

Sabina said, keeping her voice free of irony, “I hope you'll both enjoy the many available pleasures during your stay.”

“I'm sure we will.” Fairchild stood. “And I hope I shall hear from you soon with positive news.”

“Soon in any case, Mr. Fairchild. Good day.”

A reply in kind, followed by another small raffish smile, and he was gone. The strong scent of his bay rum remained, however; Sabina opened the window facing on Market Street to let in breaths of cold fresh air.

Had she been a little too hasty in accepting his proposition and his check? Not because of her dislike of the dandified Mr. Roland Fairchild, and not because she doubted her ability to locate his delusional cousin if such were possible; the undertaking was worthwhile if only to give Charles Percival Fairchild III the option of returning to Chicago to attempt to claim his inheritance. No, the concern lay in the prospect of dealing with him again in his vainglorious and vaguely sinister Sherlock Holmes role.

Their last meeting had been an amicable one, but his secretive involvement with Carson Montgomery's past and present troubles had left her with further doubts about his sanity. There was no question that he was shrewd and his deductive powers considerable—he had proved that on more than one occasion—but last October he'd given her reason to suspect that his methods were not quite as cerebral and nonviolent as those of the genuine Mr. Holmes. She wasn't afraid of him, but her uncertainty as to the exact nature of his instability was unsettling.