Sherlock Holmes: The Hidden Years

by Michael Kurland

  “John,” she said, “you’re not going to suggest …”

  Ignoring her, he said to the Englishman, “There are a number of operatives I could call upon; but I wonder, given your interest in this case and your eagerness to return to the game, if you might be willing to join me at the task?”

  Another noxious cloud erupted from Holmes’s pipe. “Splendid suggestion! I would be honored. As for payment for my services, I ask only that you acquaint me with the Barbary Coast as you know it.”

  If Holmes hadn’t suggested this, Quincannon would have. Now the additional fee would fatten the agency’s coffers in its entirety. He said, “Agreed. You’ll see the Coast as few ever have.” Or would want to.

  Holmes smiled.

  Quincannon smiled.

  Sabina sighed and looked from one to the other as if she thought they were both daft as church mice.

  7

  During Quincannon’s two-year attempt to drown his conscience in Demon Rum, Hoolihan’s Saloon on Second Street had been his favorite watering hole. Its clientele consisted mainly of small merchants, office workers, tradesmen, drummers, and a somewhat rougher element up from the waterfront. No city leaders came there on their nightly rounds, as they did to the Palace Hotel bar, Pop Sullivan’s Hoffman Cafe, and the other first-class saloons along the city’s Cocktail Route; no judges, politicians, bankers—Samuel Truesdale had likely never set foot through its swinging doors—or gay young blades in their striped trousers, fine cravats, and brocaded waistcoasts. Hoolihan’s had no crystal chandeliers, fancy mirrors, expensive oil paintings, white-coated barmen, or elaborate free lunch. It was dark and bare by comparison, sawdust thick-scattered on the floor and the only glitter and sparkle coming from the shine of its old-style gaslights on the ranks of bottles and glasses along the back bar. Its hungry drinkers dined not on crab legs and oysters on the half shell, but on corned beef, strong cheese, rye bread, and tubs of briny pickles.

  Quincannon had gravitated there because Hoolihan’s was a short cable car ride from his rooms on Leavenworth and because staff and clientele both respected the solitary drinker’s desire for privacy. Even after taking the pledge, he continued to patronize it because it was an honest place, made for those who sought neither bombast nor trouble. Far fewer lies were told in Hoolihan’s than in the rarified atmosphere of the Palace bar, he suspected, and far fewer dark deeds were hatched.

  He had arranged to meet Sherlock Holmes there at seven o’clock. He arrived a few minutes earlier, claimed a place at the bar near the entrance. Ben Joyce, the head barman, greeted him in his mildly profane fashion. “What’ll it be tonight, you bloody Scotsman? Coffee or clam juice?”

  “Clam juice, and leave out the arsenic this time.”

  “Hah. As if I’d waste good ratsbane on the likes of you.”

  Ben brought him a steaming mug of Hoolihan’s special broth. Quincannon sipped, smoked, and listened to the ebb and flow of conversation around him. Men came in, singly and in pairs; men drifted out. The hands on the massive Seth Thomas clock over the back bar moved forward to seven o’clock. And seven-oh-five. And seven-ten …

  Annoyance nibbled at Quincannon. Where the devil was he? He’d considered himself a sly fox for his conscription of Holmes, but mayhap he’d outsmarted himself. If the fellow was untrustworthy …

  Someone moved in next to him, jostling his arm. A gruff Cockney voice said, “Yer standing in me way, mate.”

  Quincannon turned to glare at the voice’s owner. Tall, thin ragamuffin dressed in patched trousers and a threadbare pea jacket, a cap pulled down low on his forehead. He opened his mouth to make a sharp retort, then closed it again and took a closer look at the man. Little surprised him anymore, but he was a bit taken aback by what he saw.

  “Holmes?” he said.

  “At yer service, mate.”

  “What’s the purpose of that getup?”

  “It seemed appropriate for the night’s mission,” Holmes said in his normal voice. His eyes, peering up from under the brim of his cap, were mischievous. “Disguise has served me well during my career, and the opportunity has not presented itself in some time. I must say I enjoy playacting. It has been said, perhaps truly, that the stage lost a consummate actor when I decided to become a detective.”

  Quincannon, with an effort, forebore comment. Quickly he ushered Holmes outside and into a hansom waiting nearby. The Englishman had no more to say on the subject of disguises, but as the hack rattled along the cobblestones to Mission and on toward Rincon Hill, he put forth a slew of questions on the night’s venture, the history and habits of Dodger Brown, and the various methods employed by burglars in the United States. The man was obsessed with details and minutiae on every conceivable subject. Quincannon answered as best he could at first, then lapsed into monosyllabic replies in the hope that Holmes would wind down and be quiet. That was not to be. The Englishman kept up a running colloquy on a variety of esoteric topics from the remarkable explorations of a Norwegian named Sigerson to the latest advances in chemistry and other sciences to the inner workings and possible improvements of horseless carriages. He even knew (though Quincannon could not for the life of him figure how, and Holmes refused to elaborate) that an ex-burglar living in Warsaw, Illinois, manufactured burglar tools, advertised them as novelties in the Police Gazette, and sold them for ten dollars the set.

  His monologue ceased, mercifully, when they departed the hack two blocks from Andrew Costain’s home. It was another night made for prowling, restless streamers of cloud playing peekaboo games with stars and the scythe-blade moon. The neighborhood, the first of San Francisco’s fashionable residential districts, had fallen into disfavor in ’69, when Second Street was carved through the west edge of Rincon Hill to connect downtown with the southern waterfront. Now it was on the shabby side, though far from the “new slum, a place of solitary ancient houses and butt ends of streets,” as it had been unfairly dubbed by that snooty writer fellow, R. L. Stevenson.

  Many of the homes they passed showed light, but the Costain house, near South Park, was dark except for a porch globe. It was not as large as the Truesdale pile, but its front and rear yards were spacious and contained almost as many plants, trees, and shadowy hiding places.

  Holmes peered intently through the row of iron pickets into the front yard as they strolled by. “Which of us will be stationed here?” he asked.

  “You will. I’ve a spot picked out at the rear.”

  “Splendid. The mucronulatum, perhaps. Or … ah yes, even better. A Juniperus chinensis Corymbosa Variegata, I do believe.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Shrubbery.”

  “Eh?”

  “Mucronulatum is the species more commonly known as rhododendron. Quite a healthy specimen there by that garden bench.”

  “And what, pray, is Jupiter chinchin thrombosa?”

  “Juniperus chinensis Corymbosa Variegata,” Holmes corrected sententiously. “One of the more handsome and sturdy varieties of juniper shrub. Its flowers are a variegated creamy yellow and its growth regular, without twisted branches and generally of no more than ten feet in height. I thought at first that it might be a chenisis corymbosa, a close cousin, but the chinensis corymbosa grows to a greater height, often above fifteen feet.”

  Quincannnon had nothing to say to that.

  “I’ve decided the corymbosa variegata will afford the best concealment,” Holmes said. “Without obstructing vision, of course. But I should like to see the rear of the property as well, if you have no objection. So that I may have a more complete knowledge of the, ah, lay. That is the American term?”

  “It is.”

  “I find your idiom fascinating,” Holmes said. “One day I shall make a study of American slang.”

  “And write a monograph about it, no doubt.”

  “Or an article for one of the popular London journals.”

  They reached the end of the block and circled around into a deserted carriageway. When th
ey came to the rear of the Costain property, Holmes peered in as intently as he had in front, then asked where Quincannon would station himself. “That tree there on your left,” Quincannon lied. “I don’t happen to know its Latin or its English name, but I expect you do.”

  “Taxus brevifolia,” Holmes said promptly, “the Pacific yew.”

  Quincannon ground his teeth. The prospect of two or three more nights in the Englishman’s company, not to mention a day trip to the low dives of the Barbary Coast, was about as appealing as having teeth pulled without benefit of nitrous oxide. Uncharitably he decided that Holmes’s biographer and alleged good friend, Dr. Watson, must be either a saint or a long-suffering, hero-worshipping twit.

  He said, “If you’ve seen enough, we’ll take our positions now.”

  “Quite enough. A long low whistle if our man should appear, and we’ll then join forces at the fountain in the side yard. Yes?”

  “Your memory is as keen as your conversation.”

  Holmes said, “Indeed,” and hurried on his way.

  Quincannon returned to the gate that gave access to the Costain property. He made sure he was still alone and unobserved, then stepped through into the shadows alongside a small carriage barn. The surveillance spot he had picked out on his earlier tabbing was a shed set at an angle midway between house and barn. Not only did it provide a viewpoint of the rear yard, gate, and part of the side yard, but also some shelter from the wind and the night’s chill. The thought of Sherlock Holmes shivering among the chenisis whosis in front would warm him even more.

  He made his way through heavy shadow to the shed, eased the door open and himself inside. The interior was cramped with stacks of cordwood and a jumble of gardening implements. By careful feel with his hands he found that the stack nearest the door was low enough and sturdy enough to afford a seat, if he were careful not to move about too much. He lowered himself onto the wood. Even with the door wide-open, he was in such darkness that he couldn’t be seen from outside. Yet his range of vision was mostly unimpeded and aided by starshine and patchy moonlight.

  He judged that it was well after seven. Andrew Costain had told him that his wife was due home no later than ten-thirty, and that he himself would return by midnight. The odds were long against another break-in on the heels of the Truesdale misadventure. And three and a half hours was little enough discomfort and boredom in exchange for the double fee Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, would collect for the night’s business.

  As it turned out, he was wrong on both counts.

  His wait lasted less than two hours. He was on his feet, flexing his limbs to ease them of cold and cramp, when to his startlement he spied the interloper. A shadow among shadows, moving crosswise from his left—the same silent, flitting approach he had observed on the banker’s property the previous night. Dodger Brown was evidently bolder and more greedy and foolish than experience had taught him. Bully! The sooner he nabbed the scruff, the sooner Carpenter and Quincannon would collect from Great Western Insurance. And the sooner he would be rid of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

  Quincannon rubbed his gloved hands together, watching the shadow’s progress toward the rear of the house. Pause, drift, pause again at the near end of the porch. Up and over the railing there, briefly silhouetted: same small figure dressed in dark cap and clothing. Across to the door, at work there for just a few seconds. The door opened, closed again behind the intruder.

  He spent several seconds readying his dark lantern, just in case. When one of the wind-herded clouds blotted the moon, he emerged from the shed and went laterally to the bole of tree a dozen rods from the house. He was about to give the signal whistle when a low ululation came from the front yard. What the devil? He answered in kind, paused, and whistled again. In a matter of moments he spied movement approaching. Holmes seemed to have an uncanny sense of direction in the dark; he came in an unerring line straight to where Quincannon stood.

  “Why did you whistle, man?” Quincannon demanded in a fierce whisper. “You couldn’t have seen—”

  “Andrew Costain is here.”

  “What?”

  “Arrived not three minutes ago, alone in a trap.”

  “Blasted fool! He couldn’t have chosen a worse time. You didn’t stop him from going inside?”

  “He seemed in a great hurry, and I saw no purpose in revealing myself. Dodger Brown is also here, I assume?”

  “Already inside through the rear door, not four minutes ago.”

  “Inside with us, too, Quincannon!” Holmes said urgently. “We’ve not a moment to lose!”

  But it was already too late. In that instant a percussive report came from the house, muffled but unmistakable.

  Holmes said, “Pistol shot.”

  Quincannon said, “Hell and damn!”

  Both men broke into a run. Quincannon had no need to order the Englishman to cover the front door; Holmes immediately veered off in that direction. The Navy Colt and his dark lantern were both at the ready when he reached the rear porch. Somewhere inside, another door slammed. He ran up the steps to the door, thumbed open the lantern’s bull’s-eye lens, and shouldered his way through.

  The thin beam showed him a utility porch, an opening into a broad kitchen. His foot struck something as he started ahead; the light revealed it to be a wooden wedge, of the sort used to prop open doors. Quincannon shut the door and toed the wedge tightly under the sill—a safeguard against swift escape that took only a clutch of seconds.

  Two or three additional sounds reached his ears as he plunged ahead, none distinguishable or close by. The beam picked out an electric switch on the kitchen wall; he turned it to flood the room with light. Empty. Likewise the adjoining dining room. His twitching nose picked up the acrid smell of burnt gunpowder, led him into a central hallway. He flooded the hall with more electric light, eased past two closed doors to a third at the end, where another hallway intersected this one. The powder smell was strongest there.

  He paused to listen. Heavy, crackling silence. He moved ahead to where he could see along the intersecting hall, found it deserted, and stepped up to the third door to try the latch. Locked from within: there was no key on his side.

  He rapped sharply on the panel, called out, “Costain? John Quincannon. It’s safe for you to come out now.”

  No response. But more sounds came from the front of the house—a heavy dragging noise, as of a piece of furniture being moved.

  “Costain?” Louder this time.

  Silence from behind the door.

  Movement at the corner of his eye swung him around and brought the Navy to bear on the intersecting hallway. Sherlock Holmes was but a short distance away, approaching as noiselessly as a cat stalking prey. Quincannon lowered his weapon, said as Holmes hurried up, “A sign of either man?”

  “None.”

  “One or both must be on other side of this door. Locked from the inside.”

  “If the intruder is elsewhere and attempts to leave by way of the front door, he’ll first have to move a heavy oak chair, and we’ll hear him.”

  “I wedged the rear door shut for the same reason.”

  Quincannon holstered the Navy, then backed off two steps and flung the full weight of his body against the door panel. This rash action succeeded only in bruising flesh, jarring bone and teeth. Fortunately for Sherlock Holmes, he made no comment; he was standing with his head cocked in a listening attitude. Grumbling, Quincannon gathered himself and drove the flat of his foot against the wood just above the latch. Two more kicks were necessary to splinter the wood, tear the locking mechanism loose, and send the door wobbling inward.

  Only a scant few inches inward, however, before it bound up against something heavy and inert on the floor.

  Quincannon shoved hard against the panel until he was able to widen the opening enough to wedge his body through. The room was dark except for faint patches that marked uncurtained windows at the far end. He swept his hand along the wall, located a switc
h, turned it. The flood of electric light revealed what he’d expected to find on the carpeted floor just inside the door.

  The body was that of Andrew Costain, sprawled facedown, both arms outflung, the one visible eye wide-open. Dead, and no mistake. Blood stained the back of his cheviot coat, the sleeve of his left forearm. Scorch marks blackened the sleeve as well.

  The room, evidently Costain’s study, was otherwise empty. Two drawers in a rolltop desk stood open, another had been yanked out and upended on the desktop. Papers littered the surface, the floor around the desk. Also on the floor, between the corpse and the desk, were two other items: a new-looking revolver, and a brassbound valuables case that appeared to have been pried open and was now plainly empty.

  Holmes crowded in. Both men swept the room with keen gazes, after which Quincannon crossed to examine the windows. Both were of the casement type, with hook latches firmly in place; Dodger Brown hadn’t gotten out that way. Still hiding somewhere in the house, or possibly gone by then through another window.

  When Quincannon turned, he was confronted by the sight of Sherlock Holmes on one knee, hunched over the corpse like a strange, lank bird, peering through a large magnifying glass at the wound in Costain’s back. His lean hawk’s face was darkly flushed, his brows drawn into two hard black lines. A small smile appeared as he lifted his head. His eyes showed a steely glitter.

  “Interesting,” he said. “Quite.”

  “What is?”

  “Andrew Costain was stabbed to death.”

  “Stabbed? Not shot?”

  “Shot, too. Two separate and distinct wounds. The superficial one in his forearm was made by a bullet. The fatal wound was made by an instrument at least eight inches in length and quite sharp. A stiletto, I should say. The blow was struck by a right-handed person approximately five and a half feet tall, at an upward angle of perhaps fifteen degrees.”

  Blasted know-it-all!

  Quincannon located the lead pellet that had passed through Costain’s arm, in the cushion of an armchair near the desk, then picked up the revolver. It was a Forehand & Wadsworth .38 caliber, its nickel-plated finish free of marks of any kind. He sniffed the barrel to confirm that it had been recently fired, opened the breech for a squint inside. All of the chambers were empty. He was about to return the weapon to the carpet when Holmes stepped up, took it from his hand, and commenced to peer at it through his glass.