The Plague of Thieves Affair

by Marcia Muller

  “As I indicated during our previous meeting,” Rayburn said, “the exhibit will be open during evening hours only, from five until nine o’clock. How many men will you supply, Mrs. Carpenter? Properly attired, of course.”

  “None.”

  “How’s that? None?”

  “I’ll attend to the duties myself.”

  He blinked at her owlishly. “With no male assistance?”

  Sabina bit back a sharp retort. The man was something of a pompous, self-serving ass and she would have liked to tell him so, but it would never do for the watchdog to bite the hand that was feeding it. She said only, “One guard should be sufficient, and I assure you I am quite competent,” and then turned her attention to the Frenchman. “I trust you have no objection to my giving this matter my personal attention, Mr. Carreaux.”

  “I have heard only praise of your abilities, not only from M’sieu Rayburn but others as well. Mais oui, I am quite comfortable with the arrangement you suggest.”

  “Well, if you are, Marcel, then so am I,” Rayburn said, though he didn’t sound convinced. He gave his mustache another fussy stroking. “Though I still think the presence of two detectives is preferable to one.”

  “At twice the fee per evening,” Sabina reminded him.

  A tendency toward penny-pinching evidently was another of the gallery owner’s less than endearing qualities. He made no further protest, saying only, “Mm, yes, well,” in a vague sort of way.

  A signed contract and a retainer check concluded the arrangements. Sabina promised to present herself at the Rayburn Gallery at four P.M. the following afternoon, one hour before the grand opening, and the two men took their leave, M. Carreaux once again gallantly bowing and bestowing a kiss on her hand. A courtly and quite likable man. The opposite of Andrew Rayburn in that respect, too.

  Alone at her desk, busy with routine paperwork, she found herself wondering how John was faring with his investigation into the death of Golden State Steam Beer’s brewmaster. As usual, her partner had been reticent about discussing a case in progress, but from his good humor yesterday afternoon she presumed that he was close to a satisfactory resolution. Well, in any event it was fortunate that just a single operative, her, would be providing security for Reticules Through the Ages. Even if John were free on any of the evenings, he would have protested vehemently against joining her at the Rayburn gallery. She could just hear his response if it were suggested to him. “Handbags! Reticules! Bah!” Had M. Carreaux and Andrew Rayburn insisted that a male operative also be present, she would’ve had to bring in one of the agency’s part-time operatives.

  Still, she found herself picturing John in evening clothes, as she’d seen him wear on a few previous occasions. With his broad shoulders and luxuriant beard, he cut a handsome figure in both a dark tailcoat, striped trousers, and ruffled shirt, and a dinner jacket with a shawl collar and silk facings. As handsome a figure, she admitted on reflection, as Carson Montgomery had presented during their brief relationship.

  Carson. She hadn’t seen him since they had said good-bye outside the Palace Hotel last October, after she’d confronted him with her discoveries about his somewhat checkered past. Nor had he attempted to contact her. Fortunately they didn’t travel in the same social circles; it might have been awkward if their paths had happened to cross. She wished him the best, but thought of him less and less and had no regrets that their brief liaison failed to develop along more intimate lines.

  Her time with him, however, had wrought a certain change in her, perhaps even a profound change—one that might be labeled “Not Enough.” One of the traits that her late husband, Stephen, had most valued in her was her flexibility, her capacity for dealing with life’s adversities and then moving forward. He would have understood, though not approved, of her temporary plunge into depression after the outlaw’s bullet took his life, but he would have been proud when she’d finally dragged herself out of the depths and plunged back into her work as a Pink Rose. And he would have applauded, she was sure, her move to San Francisco, her partnership with John, and her new life here.

  But while that new life had been fulfilling, it no longer seemed to be complete enough. Much as she enjoyed her friendships with women she’d met through her cousin Callie French, much as she loved her cats, Adam and Eve, they were not adequate substitutes for meaningful male companionship. The interlude with Carson had reminded her that she was a healthy, attractive woman in the prime of life; that she did not have to remain a celibate widow for the rest of her days. Nor would Stephen have wanted her to. Sometimes when she viewed the cats as they played or slept curled together, she thought: They have each other. Whom do I have?

  Well, she could have John if she chose. He had made it plain from the beginning that he yearned for a personal relationship, but she had been convinced that his motive was nothing more than seduction, despite his protestations to the contrary. For that reason, and because of the pain of Stephen’s loss, she’d kept him firmly at arm’s length. As she’d kept all other men at arm’s length before Carson. Lately, however, she had begun to think that John’s feelings for her as a woman went well beyond mere sexual conquest.

  For five years now she had steadfastly maintained, to him and to herself, that a personal relationship would not mix with the professional. But wasn’t that merely an excuse to avoid intimacy? She and Stephen had shared both in Chicago and in Denver, with no adverse effects on their work or their marriage; if anything, the sharing had made their bond stronger. Of course Stephen had been the love of her life; she could never love another as deeply. Still, and she might as well admit it, what she had come to feel for John was something more than just a sisterly affection.

  He was an attractive man, no question of that. A good man, too, with a keen intelligence and a strong moral sense beneath his occasionally reckless and acquisitive behavior. He could be pompous, moody, critical, but more often he was kind and courtly and jocular; inside his crusty shell, she suspected, he was as soft and perhaps as sweet as custard. Stephen had been a gentle, considerate, doting husband and lover. Despite John’s faults, wasn’t it possible he would be the same?

  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. O
f 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 o
ne 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.”