The barn was of the small, utilitarian type painted a peeling white, adequate for the housing of a single carriage and the supplies necessary for its maintenance. A narrow shedlike attachment and a small, empty corral stretched along one side.
The double-sided gate that gave access to both the property and the barn was closed and latched, but it hadn’t been locked last night, John had told her, and it wasn’t locked now. Sabina paused with her hand on the latch to satisfy herself that she was still alone and unobserved, then opened one half of the gate and slipped inside, closing it again behind her.
The barn was set a few feet beyond the gate. She hurried across to the closed double doors, which also proved to be unlocked. The half she opened creaked and squeaked, but not loudly enough for the sounds to carry. It also bound up slightly at the bottom so that she had to tug and lift to open it.
Semidarkness redolent with the odors of hay and manure folded around her as she stepped inside. She left the door half ajar and took out the old flint lighter she carried for such occasions as this. When she snapped it alight, its pale flame showed her the buggy that filled most of the interior, and the horse munching hay in a side stall.
The rig’s body, traces, and calash folding top were all black, showing signs of wear and neglect. But on closer inspection she saw that it was a Studebaker and that its wheel spokes were unpainted. The horse placidly munching hay in its stall was a chestnut roan.
Drat!
Sabina hesitated, then on impulse leaned inside the buggy. There was nothing on or under the wide leather seat, or on the floorboards. She ran her fingers into the crack between the two seat cushions, felt a thin piece of metal wedged there. At first she thought it was a coin, but the lighter flame revealed it to be made of brass-a token of some sort. Slot-machine token? Slot machines proliferated in San Francisco, and while tokens had not yet come into widespread use, there was a move afoot by the city fathers to disallow legal tender in the machines.
But no, this wasn’t a slot-machine token. Nor the kind that had such phrases as “good for one drink” or “good for 5c in trade” etched into the metal. One side bore a triangle with HOFC in its center; the other side was blank. The initials were unfamiliar to her. A meaningless discovery, probably, but Sabina slipped it into her pocket anyway. John might know what it signified and from where it had come.
Sabina returned to the door half, doused her light before opening it and stepping out. At the outer gate, she peered into the carriageway to make sure it was still empty before going through, closing up, and resuming her saunter to the end of the block.
So much for the notion that the buggy parked behind Clara Wilds’s rooming house had belonged to and been driven by Andrew Costain, and that Costain was her murderer. It had been a stab in the dark in the first place. What motive could Costain have had for killing the pickpocket? Surely not the recovery of the silver money clip.
Now Sabina was back to where she’d been before, with no leads except for Dodger Brown.
Or was she?
The door was locked when she arrived at the agency. She was in the process of using her key when footsteps sounded on the stairs behind her and a somewhat breathless voice called out, “Mrs. Carpenter-finally.”
The voice belonged to Jackson Pollard, Great Western Insurance’s chief claims adjustor. It was after five o’clock and he had apparently just left his office for the day; he wore a greatcoat and top hat, carried his gold lion’s head cane, and approached her in a cloud of the bay rum he liberally applied for his evenings’ excursions along the Cocktail Route. Either that, or as John had once surmised, Pollard had a wife or mistress who liked her man to smell as if dunked in a vat of the stuff.
Nonetheless, his stop-off here was a mild surprise. Usually he conducted his business with Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, by telephone or summons to his office. One look at his frowning visage and pinched mouth told Sabina he was not the bearer of good tidings. Pollard confirmed it in irritable tones as soon as they were inside.
“I thought it was you I saw entering the building just now,” he said. “I was beginning to think you had closed for business today.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Why indeed. I expected a report, in person or at least by telephone of last night’s catastrophe, and I’ve had neither. I telephoned three times.”
“I’ve been out all day,” Sabina said. “John didn’t come by to see you? He told me he intended to.”
“Well, he didn’t.”
“Then he must have a good reason.” Which wasn’t necessarily true; he might have simply avoided the inevitable unpleasantness-a mistake in judgment, if that was the case.
“He had better have a good reason.” Pollard had been to the agency before, but he looked about the office now with an air of disapproval, as if seeing it for the first time and finding it lacking in some way. He was a fussy, sometimes crusty little man with sparse sandy hair and sideburns that resembled miniature tumbleweeds. His faded blue eyes, magnified by thick-lensed spectacles, seemed about to pop from their sockets when he was as upset as he was now. “When did you see him last?”
“Early this morning.”
“And you haven’t seen him since?”
“No.” Nor had John returned to the office in her absence. If he had, he would have left a message, as was their long-established practice when investigations were in progress. The top of her desk was bare of any such note.
“And where was he bound when he left, if not to Great Western?” Pollard asked.
“To continue his investigation into the burglaries, naturally.”
“Still proceeding blind, I suppose.”
“As a matter of fact, John believes he knows the identity of the burglar and expects to have him in custody shortly.”
The little claims adjustor was neither mollified nor reassured. “He expected to have the man in custody at the Truesdales’, and should have but didn’t.”
“Through no fault of his.”
“And I suppose what happened at the Costain home was no fault of his, either?”
“It was not. If the newspapers implied it was, they’re quite wrong.”
“I did not find out about it from the newspapers, any more than from you or your partner. Do you realize how embarrassing it can be to be caught completely unawares by news such as this?”
“Yes, and you have my apologies. It wasn’t the police who told you?”
“Mrs. Penelope Costain. She came to see me this afternoon.”
Sabina raised an eyebrow. “For what reason, so soon after her husband’s death?”
“For what reason do you suppose? To file a pair of claims, one of which we’ll have to honor even if the burglar is caught and the stolen valuables recovered.”
“I assume one is for the assessed value of her stolen jewelry. And the other?”
“Life insurance policy. Double indemnity. Fifty thousand dollars.”
Sabina managed to conceal a wince.
“According to Mrs. Costain,” Pollard said, “Quincannon and a British detective named Holmes were at her home last night supposedly guarding it against invasion. The widow said this man Holmes was in the employ of your agency. I didn’t authorize any such extra expense.”
“And none will be charged to you.” Fortunately Pollard seemed not to have read any of the real Holmes’s investigations as recorded by Dr. Watson, or Ambrose Bierce’s diatribe in the Examiner. If he had, he’d be even more up in arms. “Andrew Costain also retained John to guard his home, a task which required a second man for the surveillance.”
“Two detectives, and neither able to prevent blatant murder and robbery.”
“It happened under peculiar and still unexplained circumstances no detective could have foreseen.”
“So you say. Mrs. Costain seems to think otherwise.”
“Mrs. Costain is hardly an impartial witness.”
“Perhaps not. But if I find o
ut she’s correct, your agency will get no more business from Great Western Insurance.”
“You needn’t threaten me, Mr. Pollard. John and I have always maintained cordial relations with you, and we’ve never yet failed to carry out an assignment to mutual satisfaction.”
“Never before has so much been at stake. Don’t forget, Mrs. Carpenter-even if Quincannon recovers most or all of the stolen goods, which is by no means a certainty, Great Western is still liable for the fifty-thousand-dollar life insurance claim.”
He wished her a gruff good day and departed.
Sabina opened the window behind her desk, letting in fresh air to dissipate the too-sweet odor Pollard had left behind him. The clock on the office wall read 5:20. John might or might not return to the office at this late hour; she decided she would wait until six o’clock before closing up. There was much to be discussed with him, not the least of which was the would-be Sherlock’s claim to have solved the Costain mystery.
Fanciful nonsense, of course … wasn’t it? John would surely think so, but she couldn’t quite make up her mind whether the Englishman was a buffoon or in fact had some of the same ratiocinative brilliance as the genuine Baker Street sleuth.
25
QUINCANNON
The city prison, in the basement of the Hall of Justice at Kearney and Washington streets, was a busy place that testified to the amount of crime afoot in San Francisco. And to Quincannon’s experienced eye, there were just as many crooks on the outside of the foul-smelling cells as on the inside. Corrupt policemen, seedy lawyers haggling at the desk about releases for prisoners, rapacious fixers, deceitful bail bondsmen … more of those, in fact, than honest officers and men charged with felonies or with vagracy, public drunkenness, and other misdemeanors.
Quincannon delivered a sullen Dodger Brown there, and spent the better part of an unpleasant hour in conversation with a plainclothesman he knew slightly and a booking sergeant he neither knew nor wanted to know. He made no mention of Andrew Costain in his statement; it would only have complicated matters and subjected himself and Dodger Brown to the questioning of that lummox, Kleinhoffer, an ordeal to be avoided at all costs in the present circumstances.
He signed a complaint on behalf of the Great Western Insurance Company, and before leaving, made sure that the Dodger would remain locked in one of the cells until Jackson Pollard and Great Western officially formalized the charge. He knew better than to turn over any of the stolen goods, did not even mention that they were in his possession.
His first stop after leaving the Hall’s gray-stone pile was the insurance company’s offices on Merchant Street just east of the Montgomery Block, his intention being to report his success to Jackson Pollard. The claims adjustor, however, was not there. He had vacated the premises a short while before and was not expected to return.
Quincannon’s mood was still on the dour side when he entered the agency office. Sabina, seated at her desk, regarded him with her usual sharp eye. “Bad news, John?”
“Some bad, some good.”
“Mine as well. Dodger Brown?”
“Yaffled and in police custody. That’s the good news.” He sketched the day’s events for her, embellishing a bit on his brief skirmishes with Salty Jim O’Bannon on the oyster boat and the Dodger at Lettie Carew’s.
“You take too many risks, John,” she admonished him. “One of these days you’ll pay dearly for such recklessness-just as your father and my husband did.”
He waved that away. “I intend to die in bed at the age of ninety,” he said. “And not alone.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if either boast turned out to be true.” Her generous mouth quirked slightly at the corners. “You had no difficulty finding your way around the Fiddle Dee Dee, I’m sure.”
“Meaning what?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never been in a parlor house before.”
“Only in the performance of my duties,” he lied.
“If that’s so, I pity the city’s maidens.”
“I have no designs on the virtue of young virgins.” He added with a wink, “Young and handsome widows are another matter.”
“Then you’re fated to live out your years as celibate as a monk. Did you wring a confession from Dodger Brown?”
“Of the first three burglaries, yes.”
“But not the one of the Costain home?”
“That’s the bad news. The Dodger was cozied up at the Fiddle Dee Dee all of last night with bottles of wine and a Chinese strumpet named Ming Toy. She and Lettie Carew vouch for the fact.”
“They could have been paid to lie.”
“Could have been, but weren’t. Whoever broke into the Costain home and shot our client, it wasn’t Dodger Brown.”
“A copycat burglar?”
“A possibility.”
“Do you put much stock in it?”
“No. I can’t abide another coincidence.”
“Nor can I. I don’t suppose Dodger Brown is guilty of Clara Wilds’s murder any more than that of Andrew Costain?”
“Evidently not,” Quincannon said. “He claims he hasn’t seen her in months, since they parted company over her involvement with Victor Pope. And he has no claw marks anywhere on his person, as I had the distasteful task of confirming.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“Could Pope have stabbed the pickpocket?”
“No,” Sabina said. “He had neither the time nor the means. You may find this far-fetched, John, but for a time today I had the notion her murderer might have been Andrew Costain.”
Quincannon paused in the process of charging his pipe with tobacco. “Yes? Why would you think that?”
“Grasping at straws, perhaps.”
Sabina went on to explain about the buggy that had been parked in the carriageway behind Clara Wilds’s rooming house, and her investigation of the carriage barn on the Costain property. While she spoke, she removed a circlet of brass from her skirt pocket and handed it to him, saying, “I found this wedged between the buggy’s seat cushions. Do you recognize it?”
He turned it over in his fingers. “Yes. A gambling token from Charles Riley’s House of Chance, a high-toned establishment on Polk Street. Good for one dollar in play. Riley gives them to favored customers.”
“Andrew Costain being one?”
Quincannon said thoughtfully, “Perhaps. If it belonged to him. I’ll just keep it, if you don’t mind.” He pocketed the token when Sabina nodded her consent. “Did you find anything else in the buggy?”
“No.”
“Do you still consider Costain a suspect in Clara Wilds’s murder?”
“I don’t know,” Sabina admitted. “He doesn’t seem to have had any plausible motive. Nor any way to have identified Wilds as the woman who robbed him.”
“It’s also unlikely that he would have had time to change into old clothing, drive from his office to her lodging house, commit the crime, and then return to Geary Street, change back into his business attire, and be waiting when I arrived. If that was his plan, he wouldn’t have sent his message to me when he did. Or admitted, as he did, to being away from the office at all.”
Sabina nodded. “I’m sure you’re right. But I do still believe the two cases are connected somehow. Don’t you?”
“Possibly. Though at the moment I don’t see how.”
“Nor do I.” Sabina paused to tuck away a stray wisp of her dark hair before saying, “There are some other things you should know, John.”
“Yes?”
“For one, Jackson Pollard was here not long before you returned, all in a dither. And not just because of what happened last night. Two more claims, he said, have taxed his patience to the limit.”
“Two more?”
“Both filed today by Mrs. Costain. One for the assessed value of her missing jewelry.”
“And the other?”
“The Costains also have a joint life insurance policy with Great Western, for the double indemnity sum of fi
fty thousand dollars.”
“So the widow wasted little time, did she,” Quincannon said. “What did you say to Pollard?”
“That you knew the identity of the burglar, and expected to have him in custody and the stolen goods recovered soon. He should be somewhat mollified when he hears that you’ve accomplished that part of your mission.”
“But not completely until the Costain matter is cleared up.”
“No. And if that isn’t done soon to his satisfaction, we may well lose one of our best clients. He threatened as much.”
“It’ll be done, never fear.”
“Is that bluster, John? Or do you have some idea of the explanation for the Costain puzzle?”
“I never bluster,” Quincannon said, which earned him one of Sabina’s raised-eyebrow looks. “Of course I have some idea. No muddle, no matter how mysterious it might seem, has ever baffled me for long.”
“Not even the one of how Andrew Costain was murdered and his assailant managed to escape from a locked room and then a sealed house under close observation?”
“Pshaw. I know how that was done.” Which wasn’t true. Glimmerings of the truth, yes, now that Dodger Brown had been exonerated of the crime, but the exact details were still unclear. Soon, however. Soon.
“Do you, now?” Sabina said in tones that he chose not to construe as dubious. “And how was it done, pray tell?”
“All in good time, my dear. All in good time.”
“You may not have as much time as you think. You’re not the only one investigating the Costain murder.”
“If you mean that dolt Kleinhoffer-”
“No. I mean our ‘employee,’ thanks to you.”
“Employee? The bughouse Sherlock? I thought we were rid of him.”
“Not hardly. While Mrs. Costain was out making funeral arrangements today, he entered the house illegally. She caught him prowling around when she returned, and was in the process of evicting him when I arrived.”
“What the devil was he looking for?”
“He wouldn’t tell me when I met him outside,” Sabina said, “or when I suffered through his invitation to tea a short while later. But he seemed very pleased with his search.” Sabina paused again before continuing. “Now don’t get upset, John, but I overheard him tell Mrs. Costain that he was acting on our behalf.”
The Bughouse Affair q-2 Page 17
