The Plague of Thieves Affair

by Marcia Muller

  “Indeed. San Francisco has many attractions for the visitor, but a marvelous exhibit such as this comes along but once in a lifetime. I felt I must see it at least one more time. It drew you again for the same reason, I trust?”

  “Yes.”

  He patted his corporation. “I must admit,” he said with a chuckle, “I also find the buffets to be splendid as well. A superb selection of food and drink, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” Sabina lied, remembering the dreadful anchovy and olive canapé she’d tasted the previous evening.

  “I believe I’ll partake now. Will you join me?”

  “Thank you, no. I’ve already eaten.”

  Bakker bowed again and moved away to the food buffet. No sooner had he done so than Andrew Rayburn approached her. He gestured toward the fat man, who was circling the buffet with an empty plate, taking his time about making a selection from the trays. “Who is that man you were talking to?” he asked. “He was at the opening and now he’s back again. You seem to know him, but I don’t.”

  “Only since last evening. His name is Thaddeus Bakker. Of the Sacramento Bakkers. An art connoisseur.”

  “Ah. Well, that’s all right then.” Rayburn smoothed his shoelace mustache. Then he frowned twitchily and gestured again. “I don’t know that fellow, either—the one in front of the display. He seems to be taking an inordinate interest in the Marie Antoinette centerpiece.”

  Sabina looked. It was the slight man with the pince-nez. “Just admiring it, apparently, like everyone else.”

  “He was at the opening as well. Do you know him?”

  “No. But there is nothing suspicious about him. Another connoisseur, most likely.”

  “I believe I’ll introduce myself. To Thaddeus Bakker as well. I am always interested in making the acquaintance of connoisseurs.”

  Especially those who might be in the market for the overpriced art works you sell, Mr. Rayburn.

  The evening progressed. Guests came and went, ate and drank, engaged in animated conversations, and admired the antique reticules. Sabina’s feet and lower back began to ache from the constant moving about; she would have liked to rest for a time on the velvet settee by the entrance, but Charles the Third’s dire warning kept her from doing so. She tried to maintain a central location where she could keep watch on both the display and the entrance, but that wasn’t always possible because of the shifting of the crowd.

  She passed near the exhibit, where Andrew Rayburn was now standing, when a rather overdressed middle-aged dowager with great sausage-shaped curls hurried up to the gallery owner. The woman said in irritated tones, “Mr. Rayburn, I must protest. This is a refined gathering, after all.”

  “Protest, Mrs. Delahunt? For what reason?”

  “That a suspicious individual who quite obviously does not belong among ladies and gentlemen of culture and breeding has been allowed to enter the premises and piggishly stuff himself at the buffet.”

  Sabina glanced toward the food buffet, but the clutch of guests nearby obscured her view. She stepped forward. “Did you say suspicious, madam?”

  “I did.” Mrs. Delahunt peered at her through her lorgnette. “Who are you, young woman?”

  “One of my, ah, employees,” Rayburn said.

  “Indeed. Well, I suggest you have this … person removed immediately. Lord knows what he might be up to besides decimating the hors d’oeuvres. He reminds me of those dreadful Australian hooligans, the Sydney Ducks, that infested the city when I was a girl.”

  Sabina made her way through the knot of guests until she could see the food buffet and the man standing there filling a plate with a variety of canapés. Martin Holloway, Rayburn’s clerk, was speaking to him in a low voice. A few of the remaining guests stood peering at the newcomer askance, murmuring among themselves.

  Sabina had been away from the door when the man slipped inside; she hadn’t seen him until now. He was dressed in a rolled-brim derby, a long-tailed broadcloth coat with red velvet collars, and baggy trousers; his hair was long, shaggy, and of an unnatural inky black color, and he wore snaky black mustaches of the sort that villains twirled in stage melodramas. A smudge of what appeared to be lampblack stained one unshaven cheek.

  Her heart gave a small leap. No one in his right mind would come to an exhibit in a high-toned art gallery looking as he did, in such an atrocious disguise. No one except the one person she knew who was not in his right mind.

  Charles the Third had returned after all.

  Holloway said, “Oh, Mrs. Carpenter. This … person claims you know him and that he has a right to be here.”

  “Of course she does and I do,” Charles the Third said. “Good evening, dear lady. I should have come straight to you, I know, but I daresay I’m famished. I have had no opportunity to dine the entire day.”

  Rayburn had joined them, looking fussily nonplussed. The crackbrain’s disguise was effective enough so that the gallery owner didn’t recognize him as the same man who had attended the opening in a much less ridiculous outfit. “Do you know him?” he asked Sabina.

  “I do.” Unfortunately.

  “I am Mrs. Carpenter’s assistant, as it happens.”

  “Assistant? But…” Rayburn appealed to Sabina. “But the way he’s dressed…”

  “I must apologize for that,” Charles the Third said before she could speak. “I also had no opportunity to change my present costume for more appropriate attire.” He smiled disarmingly at Sabina. “I must say, you have exquisite sartorial taste. Your gown this evening … charming, quite charming.”

  Sabina, caught between relief and exasperation, took hold of his arm and firmly guided him away from the buffet. On their stroll across the room he nibbled one of the canapés from his plate. “These are reasonably palatable despite an excess of mayonnaise. Wild cold-water lobster from Alaskan waters, I should say.”

  She could think of nothing to say. Once again, he had her at a loss for words. She steered him behind one of the low partitions, where she released his arm and shook her head to clear it.

  Lord, he can be infuriating!

  “I must also apologize for my tardiness,” he said. “I intended to arrive promptly at six o’clock, but in the words of the commendable Scotsman Bobbie Burns, the best laid plans o’ mice and men gang aft agley.”

  “I didn’t expect you to be here at all tonight.”

  “And why not, pray tell?”

  “Well, after our conversation last evening, and the way you dashed off…”

  He made a dismissive gesture with his free hand. “I have decided that issue is of no consequence. Merely a matter of mistaken identity, to be cleared up at a later time.”

  “Cleared up how?”

  “In a satisfactory manner.”

  “Satisfactory to whom?”

  “To all concerned, naturally.”

  “Then you intend to meet with your cousin Roland?”

  “I do not have a cousin Roland. I have a brother Mycroft, and he is my only living relative. As I will most assuredly make clear to this Roland Fairchild person.”

  “You still insist you’re not Charles Percival Fairchild the Third?”

  “Of course I do. The notion is absurd. You of all individuals in this metropolis should know that I am Sherlock Holmes, the world’s foremost consulting detective.”

  Sabina opened her mouth, then closed it. Once more she could think of nothing to say. A cold draft led her to glance around the partition. Several of the guests had already departed and others were leaving, at least in part because of the incident with Charles the Third. The remaining visitors numbered no more than a dozen, all grouped in the middle of the room.

  The crackbrain finished his last canapé, dabbed at his lips with a cocktail napkin, set the plate on a pedestal on which a bronze statuette of a nude woman rested, dusted his hands, and said, “Now then. To the matter of immediate importance to both of us. Quite obviously nothing out of the ordinary has occurred this evening.” />
  “Only your arrival in that ridiculous disguise. Why did you claim to be my assistant?”

  “I am temporarily acting in that capacity, am I not? As a result of having brought you the information I uncovered of the planned attempt to pilfer the Marie Antoinette handbag? Indeed. I spent much of today in an effort to learn the thief’s identity, but without success. Perhaps tomorrow I shall have better fortune.” He consulted his timepiece. “Less than half an hour until closing. Let us hope the blackguard waits until the last night of the exhibit to—”

  All the lights went out.

  The sudden darkness was nearly absolute. There were no street lamps in the immediate vicinity outside the gallery; the only light that penetrated the windows came from the lamps of hacks and carriages passing on Post Street.

  A woman’s voice cried out in fright. Other voices rose and there was a confused milling about.

  Sabina and Charles the Third both reacted immediately. In concert they stepped around the partition and strode to the entrance, where Charles barred it with his body and spread-eagled arms, and shouted in stentorian tones, “Stand clear of the door! No one is allowed to leave!”

  Andrew Rayburn’s voice also rose querulously out of the darkness: “Remain calm, ladies and gentlemen, remain calm. We will soon have the lights back on.”

  The others in the room quieted; the milling about ceased. Someone brushed up against Sabina, either by accident or in an attempt to exit; a none too gentle push from Charles the Third brought instant retreat. A match scratched and flared, then a brighter flare came from someone’s flint lighter. In the flickering glow the faces of the fifteen or so guests and employees appeared like masks of shadow. Sabina squinted toward the Reticules Through the Ages display. No one was in close proximity to it except the clerk George Eldredge.

  The sudden extinguishing of the lights might have been accidental; such blackouts were not uncommon in this new age of electricity. But Sabina distrusted coincidence, the more so when something like this happened. She made her way across the room as rapidly as she was able, her handbag open and her fingers touching the handle of the derringer inside.

  She was nearing the ropes that fronted the exhibit when the blackout ended—a period of no more than two minutes after it had begun. But when the lights came on again, George Eldredge’s voice rose in a horrified shout.

  “The Marie Antoinette bag! It’s gone!”

  14

  SABINA

  A babble of shocked exclamations followed the clerk’s outcry. Most of the remaining guests were still grouped together in the center of the gallery, all except for Eldredge, who stood pointing tremulously at the display, and Thaddeus Bakker who stood off to one side looking frightened and twitching fingers across the front of his corporation. Even from a distance, Sabina could see that the blue velvet centerpiece case was now empty.

  Marcel Carreaux and Andrew Rayburn both ran to the display table. The Frenchman was gesticulating wildly, his saturnine face mottled with a blend of outrage and anxiety; the gallery owner was so pale his face looked as if it had been dusted with talcum powder. Sabina hurried to join them, a sidelong glance telling her that Charles the Third was still guarding the door. No emotion showed on his hawkish countenance. A rattlepate he might be, but he was undeniably calm in a crisis.

  She caught hold of Rayburn’s arm. “To the front door. Quickly!”

  He blinked at her in confusion.

  “To lock it. You do have your keys?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes, right away.” He hurried off, fumbling a ring of keys from his coat pocket.

  The Frenchman was beside himself. “The Marie Antoinette, stolen! Diable! C’est incroyable!” He turned to Sabina. “Do something, madame. It was your duty to prevent such an outrage—”

  “No one could have anticipated the lights going out. Or acted to prevent theft in a blacked-out room full of people.”

  “But the Marie Antoinette, the Marie Antoinette!” One of Carreaux’s flailing hands narrowly missed Sabina’s nose. “The gendarmes, the police … we must summon them immediately.”

  “Not just yet, mon ami.”

  Those words were spoken by Charles the Third, who came striding up with Rayburn at his heels. Carreaux scowled, obviously not recognizing him. “Who are you, m’sieu? Why do you say ‘not yet’?”

  The crackbrain rattled off half a dozen sentences in rapid French. Sabina could follow just enough of it to become alarmed. Carreaux stared at him, openmouthed. “That M’sieu Holmes? No, I do not believe it. The world has been told he is dead—”

  Sabina quickly interceded. “And so he is,” she said. The glare she directed at Charles the Third plainly said that he soon would be if he persisted. This was no time for him to make his daft pretense known; it would only cause more confusion. “My assistant is inclined to take the similarity in surnames too seriously in times of stress. Isn’t that so, Charles Holmes?”

  There was a small silence. Then he shrugged, and to her relief didn’t put forth an argument. “If it pleases you to have it that way. One believes what one chooses to believe.”

  “One also believes what one sees,” Carreaux said in nettled tones. “I see a man dressed in a costume of the streets.”

  “And for a very good reason which has nothing to do with the present contretemps.”

  “Contretemps! A thief has made off with the most valuable chatelaine bag in my care and you say only it is a contretemps!”

  “Calm yourself, my good fellow. No one has made off with the Marie Antoinette.”

  “Eh? What’s that you say?”

  “Mrs. Carpenter and I rushed to the entrance the moment the lights were extinguished and I proceeded to barricade it with my body. No one could possibly have slipped past me.”

  “Nor did anyone escape through the rear door,” Rayburn said. “I entered the storeroom immediately to find out what happened to the lights. A fuse had come loose—I screwed it back in. Then I checked to make certain the door was secure. It was.”

  “Does anyone other than yourself have a key to it?”

  “No. I keep the only one on the ring in my pocket.”

  “Did anyone else enter the storeroom while you were there?”

  “No. Nor could they have afterward without arousing attention. The same is true of my office.”

  Charles the Third shifted his hawkish gaze to the Frenchman. “So you see, M’sieu Carreaux? Everyone who was in the gallery before the period of darkness is still present. Ergo, both the thief and the missing reticule are still present as well.”

  “Ah! Yes, this must be so. But who is he and where is the Marie Antoinette?”

  “Fear not. The answers to those questions shall not long remain a mystery to Mrs. Carpenter and myself.”

  Charles the Third seemed bent on taking charge. Sabina did not like the idea of their positions being reversed; such a male-dominant act rankled her as a woman and suffragette as well as the detective hired to protect Reticules Through the Ages. John might have done the same, but at least she knew him well and trusted his judgment. Under different circumstances she would have quickly wrested control from the addlepate, but she had to admit that thus far he had done the right things, asked the right questions, made the right assumptions and decisions. She had already forestalled one potential disruption; there was nothing to be gained in starting another.

  Very well, then, let him continue his Sherlockian role for the time being. But if he overstepped himself, or made a false move, she would put an immediate end to his assumed authority—if necessary by boxing his ears or thrusting the muzzle of her derringer under his prominent nose.

  The sausage-curled dowager had stepped forward. “Just who are these individuals, Mr. Rayburn?” she demanded. “What gives them the right to take charge of this abominable situation?”

  “They’re detectives. Mr. Carreaux and I engaged Mrs. Carpenter to provide security for the exhibit. This man is her assistant.”

  There were murmur
s from the assemblage. The gentleman with the pince-nez seemed still to be trying to dislodge an obstruction in his throat; a series of “Harrumph!”s overrode the other voices. The dowager said in disbelieving tones, “Detectives? A woman and this … this person?”

  “And why not, madam?” Charles the Third asked her.

  She sniffed. “You’re dressed like a refugee from the Barbary Coast. How can we be sure you are not the one who pinched the missing bag?”

  A few mutters and grumbles followed this. Sabina, who would have liked to box the dowager’s ears as well as those of Charles the Third, sought to reassure everyone that not only was her “assistant” innocent of the theft, but that Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, was the city’s most reputable detective agency. One of the guests whom she knew by sight, but whose name she couldn’t recall, vouched for the veracity of her statement. Order was then restored, though not for long.

  The crackbrain rubbed his hands together briskly. “To repeat my earlier statement, ladies and gentlemen, whoever nicked the chatelaine bag is still in this room. A careful search will turn it up.”

  A heavyset gentleman in a top hat said, “Do you intend to search each of us?”

  “If necessary, sir. Indeed, if necessary.”

  “Outrageous!” This from the dowager. “I refuse to be treated like a common thief—”

  “Whether or not you’re a thief, madam, common or otherwise, remains to be determined.”

  “What? How dare you!”

  Once again Sabina hurriedly interceded. “If a search of your person is necessary, it will be done in private and with the utmost prudence. No one will be unduly inconvenienced.”

  “I, for one, have no objection to being searched,” Thaddeus Bakker said. “No innocent person should have.”

  “Just so, Mr. Bakker.”

  “Searched by whom?” the dowager said, waving her lorgnette. “These two alleged detectives? Why not the police? Summon the proper authorities, I say.”

  Charles the Third said, “They shall be once we have both thief and reticule in hand. There is no need for their services at this juncture. Too many cooks spoil the broth, eh?”