The Plague of Thieves Affair

by Marcia Muller

  The lot was overgrown with tall grass, weeds, shrubs, a scattered few stunted trees. Chill wind stung Quincannon’s face as he plowed into and through the wet vegetation, drawing his sidearm as he went. The footing was slippery, forcing both him and Corby to slow their headlong flight. Halfway across he saw the fugitive stumble, lurch, nearly fall; this allowed him to gain enough ground to cut the distance between them by half. He lengthened his stride, mowing down some sort of tall flowering bush.

  A gnomish tree loomed up on the far side, its skeletal branches clicking and rattling in the wind. He started to veer around it—and his boot sole slid on the slick grass, then his toe stubbed against something unyielding, a tree root or rock, hidden there. He lost his balance and went down hard on his belly, skidding sideways to fetch up against the bole of the tree.

  He clawed his way up the tree, panting, and got his feet under him. He still had hold of the Navy; a bloody wonder it hadn’t gone off when he smacked the ground, with him on top of it. With his free hand he pawed wetness out of his eyes. Corby, he saw then, had managed to remain upright and therefore increased his lead to what it had been before. He had now almost reached the far end of the lot.

  By the time Quincannon got to that point, Corby was dashing diagonally across the next street. Moments later he disappeared into a narrow alleyway between a butcher’s shop and an emporium that sold carriage accessories. The number of pedestrians abroad made it prudent for Quincannon to holster the Navy before rushing free of the lot’s confines. When he plunged recklessly ahead onto the cobblestones, he risked life and limb by cutting so close past a rumbling dray wagon that the driver had to swerve and yank on his brake. A string of profane oaths followed him onto the opposite sidewalk and into the mouth of the alley.

  Sparse grass grew there; the rest of its narrow expanse was bare earthen ruts that the rain had turned into a quagmire. The muddy surface had impeded Corby’s flight, slowing him enough so that Quincannon, heedless of the threat of another fall, had closed the gap between them to a few rods when the fugitive emerged into an equally muddy wagon yard.

  The yard belonged to a business housed in a ramshackle wooden building, a sign above its wide double doors proclaiming it to be THOMAS VAIL AND SONS, COOPERAGE. Corby slid to a halt, looking for a way out of the yard. But it had no exit or entrance other than the alley. With his pursuer now almost within clutching distance, he stumbled to the doors which had been closed against the rain, dragged one half open, and hurled himself inside.

  Quincannon slogged in after him. The interior of the cooperage was weakly lighted, inhabited by a trio of men in leather aprons working with hammers, saws, and lathes. Barrels and kegs of various sizes rose in stacks along one wall. The rest of the space was cluttered with tools, lumber, staves, forged metal rings.

  Corby was over by the stacks, hopping back and forth in such a frenzy that spray came from his sodden clothing, searching frantically—and futilely—for a way out of the trap he’d blundered into. One of the coopers shouted something that Quincannon paid no attention to. He advanced implacably.

  Corby looked at him with eyes the size of half-dollars, then dodged sideways in among the barrels. Quincannon lunged, caught the sleeve of his raincoat, but his fingers were too wet and stiff to maintain the grip. He took another step forward, brushing against one of the barrels in his haste—and in the next second, a shove from Corby sent the stack toppling over on him with a thunderous clatter.

  Quincannon ducked, throwing up his arm to protect his head, just in time to keep the tumbling barrels from braining him. Nonetheless they knocked him flat to the sawdust-covered floor, and an edge of one fetched him a crack above his right ear. The blow was not sufficient to render him senseless, but it scrambled his thinking and weakened his struggles to free himself. Around him was more clattering noise, more shouting, but it all seemed to come from far off, muted by a painful buzzing in his ears.

  The coopers dragged the barrels off him, helped him sit up. He had his wits and his hearing back by then. He blinked rapidly until his vision cleared. One of the coopers asked him if he was all right, a question he overrode with a growled one of his own. “Where is he, damn his eyes?”

  “Gone,” the cooper said. “Ran out before we could stop him.”

  Gone, and nowhere to be found by now. Quincannon said, “Hell, damn, and blast!” and followed this with a string of more flavorful oaths. After which he gathered himself and gained his feet without assistance.

  Another of the coopers demanded in irate tones, “What’s the meaning of all this? Look at the damage that’s been done to these barrels.”

  “There was greater damage done than that. The blackguard I was after is a thief and twice a murderer.”

  “The hell you say. What are you, a nabber?”

  “Detective.”

  “So who’s going to pay for the damage? The city?”

  No, Quincannon thought, James Willard by way of the expense account. He fished a pair of double eagles from his vest pocket, pressed them into the cooper’s hand, and then walked away from them and out into the rain, more or less steadily.

  His head ached where the barrel had struck him. And the blow had opened a small cut at the hairline; his fingers came away with a smear of blood when he touched it. Otherwise, except for a few bruises, the only wounds he’d suffered were to his dignity and his pride. Losing a prisoner he’d had twice in his grasp was a humiliation that put the taste of bile in his mouth and a fever in his blood. He’d find Corby, he vowed grimly, and when he did, by Godfrey, the son of a bitch would not get away again.

  10

  SABINA

  The opening of Reticules Through the Ages drew the anticipated large crowd to the Rayburn Gallery. If the hard rain of earlier in the day had persisted, there might have been fewer attendees, but it had moderated into a fine mist that promised to give way soon to clearing skies. Most of the guests were wealthy couples from Rincon Hill and Nob Hill, the women bejeweled and outfitted in the latest fashion finery, the men in silk hats and evening clothes; many would go on from here to dine at one of the more elegant restaurants and thence to various entertainments. While the ladies examined and gushed over the Marie Antoinette and other chatelaine bags on display, the men in large part stood availing themselves of the liquor and food buffets Andrew Rayburn and his staff had provided.

  Sabina, dressed in her best evening gown, an embroidered Nile-green brocade trimmed with lace, her silver mesh wrist bag concealing her .41-caliber pearl-handled derringer, alternated between wandering the room and taking up a position near the entrance to make note of new arrivals. Electric light from old gasoliers fitted with incandescent bulbs made the large room bright as day and observation that much easier. She saw no one who looked the least bit suspicious.

  The gallery itself was secure to her satisfaction. She’d made sure of this during the hour prior to the opening. It consisted of one very large room, a portion of which had been partitioned into small open cubicles where some of the objets d’art Andrew Rayburn specialized in—paintings, sculptures, and the like—were displayed. Others had been moved into the storeroom at the rear, to make sufficient room for the exhibit. The only entrance other than the main one in front was a thick storeroom door through which deliveries were made; this was bolted and chained from the inside. There were no other ways in or out. The storeroom was windowless, and the only windows in the main section were two large plate-glass ones that flanked the entrance.

  Among the early-arriving guests were her cousin Callie French and husband Hugh, and a few individuals of both sexes that she’d met through Callie and occasionally socialized with. Some of the others, all eminently respectable, she knew by name and reputation. Marcel Carreaux presided over the exhibit, answering questions for the curious; Rayburn circulated among the guests, while his two clerks, Martin Holloway and George Eldredge, took turns welcoming the guests, replenishing the buffets, and manning the sales counter. None of the antique reticules w
as for sale, of course, but the various art objects that remained on display wore prominently placed price tags. Sabina was no expert on fine art, but based on what she did know of it, she considered Rayburn’s prices exorbitant. Which was likely the reason no one was buying or even paying attention to those items.

  She was passing near the exhibition again when Callie, resplendent in a blue organdy gown with extravagantly puffed sleeves, her blond hair intricately coiled as usual, approached her. “Oh, my dear, it’s such a magnificent collection! The Marie Antoinette … why, I’ve never seen anything quite so breathtaking.”

  Her cousin had a tendency to gush when she was excited. Sabina smiled and agreed that the Marie Antoinette was a remarkable historical piece.

  Callie drew her aside, into an unoccupied spot near one of the pedestal-displayed sculptures. “I really do wish you’d limit your professional activities to this type of endeavor, Sabina. It’s much more befitting a lady, even a lady detective, and considerably less dangerous.”

  “So you’ve said before.”

  “Yes, and perhaps one day you’ll heed my words.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You certainly won’t have any trouble in these genteel surroundings, I’m sure of that.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Of course I am. Oh … I see Hugh gesturing this way, I think he wants me to meet someone. We’ll talk again later.” Callie patted her arm and flounced away.

  Sabina had known her since her childhood in Chicago, and their friendship had blossomed again after she discovered that Callie, too, had moved to San Francisco. Her cousin had married Hugh French, a protégé of her banker father, in a lavish wedding that had cost the princely sum of fifty thousand dollars, and Hugh had in turn built himself a considerable fortune in stock market speculation; they had been Sabina’s entry into the sphere of the city’s elite, which had led to more than one discreet job for Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services.

  But Callie constantly fretted over the hazards of detective work, and longed to see Sabina “settle down” to home, hearth, and motherhood. An inveterate matchmaker, she had been instrumental in promoting Sabina’s brief liaison with Carson Montgomery. She approved of John as a potential mate, too, though warily because of his work and because of what happened to Stephen. She would be ecstatic to know that her cousin was considering even a mild dalliance with her business partner, which was why Sabina had no intention of confiding in her.

  She made her way over to the food buffet. If one could call cheese, crackers, nuts, skewered pieces of fruit, and a variety of canapés food. On impulse she sampled one of the canapés.

  Wrong choice. Olive and anchovy paste. Blah!

  A man whose large corporation strained the buttons of his lacy white shirt stepped past her and stood studying the offerings. This fellow has never missed a meal, she thought—words her late mother had been prone to utter in public in embarrassingly loud tones. And every one of those meals seemed to have expanded his stomach while leaving the rest of him more or less normal size. Then she chided herself for being unkind. He didn’t partake of any of the food, possibly because none of it appealed to him or perhaps because he was on a diet.

  He caught Sabina’s eye, smiled, and chose to compliment the table. “A sumptuous buffet, is it not?”

  “Very nice.”

  The corpulent man persisted. “Allow me to introduce myself. Thaddeus Bakker, of the Sacramento Bakkers. Quite a prominent family, if I do say so myself. Perhaps you’ve heard of us?”

  “Of course,” she said politely, although she had not.

  “May I ask your name?”

  “Sabina Carpenter.”

  “A pleasure, Miss Carpenter. Or is it missus?”

  “Missus.” She didn’t add that she was a widow.

  “Ah. A most excellent exhibit, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes. Are you a connoisseur, Mr. Bakker?”

  “Of antique handbags and reticules?” The idea seemed to amuse him. “No, no, merely an art lover and a student of history in all its forms. And you, Mrs. Carpenter? A connoisseur?”

  “You might say that, yes.”

  The lack of encouragement in her voice for further dialogue wasn’t lost on him. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll have another look at the exhibit.” He moved away ponderously toward the display table.

  One of the clerks, Martin Holloway, a small man with delicate features and taffy-colored hair, appeared with a plate of creamy cheese wedges—French Brie, evidently. He directed a brief and somewhat harried smile at Sabina before hurrying off. One of the guests, a man with a tortoiseshell pince-nez, stepped out to squint through its lens at the Brie wedges as if he found them suspect. “Harrumph!” he exclaimed three times in succession, as though something were lodged in his throat. One of the olive and anchovy canapés, perhaps, Sabina thought wryly. The portion of the one she’d eaten had not gone down well.

  She started back to her observation point near the gallery entrance, only to be approached again by Callie. The velvet-cushioned settee there was unoccupied; she perched on it, not because she was tired but as a respite from the jostling crowd. The large number of bodies and the gallery’s steam heat made the atmosphere close. Every time the door opened and someone entered or exited, there were welcome breaths of cold night air.

  Her day had been an uneventful one. She’d heard nothing from Madame Louella or Slewfoot, nor had she had any sort of response from Charles Percival Fairchild III, alias Sherlock Holmes. Not that she’d expected or even hoped for a quick response to her personals ad; it might take days, and she might never receive any communication at all. Likely she would hear from an impatient Roland W. Fairchild again before she had any news of his elusive relative.

  Andrew Rayburn appeared in front of her. Here in his gallery he seemed less fussy and more cheerful; the large turnout obviously pleased him, despite the fact that no one was buying any of the expensive art works on display. “All seems to be going quite well, Mrs. Carpenter. Quite well indeed. You’ve seen nothing, ah, out of the ordinary, I trust?”

  “Nothing whatsoever.”

  “Splendid.” He rubbed his hands together. “Splendid,” he said again, and vanished among the guests.

  Sabina stifled a yawn. Nothing out of the ordinary, nor would there be, she felt sure, the rest of this evening or either of those to follow.

  The door opened and she looked up to see a tall, spare gentleman with a long mane of gray hair and a flowing beard to match, dressed in evening clothes and top hat and carrying a blackthorn walking stick. Her first impression was that he resembled photographs she’d seen of Southern military officers. But that walking stick didn’t fit the image. In fact it seemed familiar—

  Abruptly she stood as the newcomer turned toward her. Half hidden in the whiskers was a thin, hawklike nose and a pair of piercing eyes that regarded her alertly and with a hint of amusement. He bowed and said, “Good evening, my dear Mrs. Carpenter.”

  Nothing out of the ordinary? Days before I had any news of Charles the Third, if at all? How wrong I was! For there he stands, popped up like a bad penny and wearing one of his silly disguises.

  “My apologies for the tardiness of my arrival,” he said in his perfect imitation of a British accent. “I was unavoidably detained.”

  “Tardiness?”

  “I trust, given the atmosphere of pleasant camaraderie in the room, there has been neither incident nor suspicious activity.”

  “No, there hasn’t, but…”

  He peered keenly at her. “I daresay you seem surprised to see me, dear lady. Surely you knew I would come tonight in answer to your summons.”

  “Summons? You mean the personals ad in the newspapers? I hoped you’d respond, yes, but … here, tonight?”

  “Indubitably. I peruse the newspapers daily, as a private inquiry agent of stature must and as you correctly intuited I would.”

  “You believed the ad was a request for
you to attend Reticules Through the Ages?”

  “Not merely to attend the exhibition, but to offer my expertise in identifying the malefactor and preventing a bold attempt at theft. The rumors, I venture to say, are quite true.”

  “Malefactor? Rumors?”

  “That a cunning prig after a pogue … excuse me, cunning thief after a prize of great value will attempt to steal the Marie Antoinette chatelaine handbag.”

  Sabina thought she’d banished the last remnants of her surprise and confusion, but she hadn’t. Drat him, he had the infuriating knack of befuddling her—something no other man had ever been able to do. “Who? Who is going to attempt such a theft?”

  “I have been unable to learn his name, or the details of his plan though it is bound to be as canny as it is bold. Have you any inklings of whom he might be?”

  “No. I’ve not even heard those rumors you alluded to.”

  “You haven’t? But then why did you call upon me? Surely not to assist you in routine security precautions?”

  “No. I had another reason entirely.”

  “And that reason is?”

  Before she could respond, Marcel Carreaux appeared at her side. The Frenchman hadn’t heard any of their conversation, which had been conducted in low tones; his smiling, slightly flushed countenance radiated pleasure. “Ah, Madame Carpenter, all is well, eh? Ah, bon.” He made a sweeping Gallic gesture. “So many ladies and gentlemen have come tonight, it is most gratifying.”

  Charles the Third stepped forward. “Vous devez être Monsieur Carreaux, le conservateur de cette exposition splendide,” he said. “C’est un grand plaisir de vous rencontrer, monsieur.”

  “Ah! Vous parlez français! Oui, je suis Marcel Carreaux. Et vous êtes?”

  “S. Holmes, Esquire.”

  Sabina flinched. Please don’t tell him the S. stands for Sherlock!

  He didn’t, thankfully. He said only, “Je suis le plus heureux de faire votre connaissance aussi.”

  They shook hands, beaming at each other, and continued speaking together in rapid French, with the crackbrain doing most of the talking. Sabina’s command of the language was limited, but she understood enough to determine that he was saying he had been to Paris many times, “a city perhaps as grand as my native London,” considered the Louvre to be the world’s finest museum, and M. Carreaux blessed to have achieved the position of assistant curator.