The Plague of Thieves Affair

by Marcia Muller

  “What in heaven’s name does that mean?”

  He ignored her. “Shall we proceed?” he said.

  There were a few more protests, but eventually they all allowed themselves to be herded to the wall behind the food buffet and to remain there in a group. All except Sabina, the crackbrain, Carreaux, and Rayburn, who held a conference some distance away.

  “I don’t see how searching everyone will turn up the bag,” the gallery owner said, nervously stroking his shoelace mustache. “Surely the thief wouldn’t have it on his person.”

  The Frenchman concurred. “Mais oui. The clasp alone would make it impossible to conceal.”

  “Everyone will have to be searched nonetheless,” Charles the Third insisted.

  “Perhaps the thief has hidden it somewhere in this room, with the intention of returning for it at a later time.”

  “Or in the storeroom or my office,” Rayburn added.

  “Not likely in either of those places, Mr. Rayburn. It is a certainty no one other than you left this room while the lights were out, nor has left it since you turned them on again.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “We shall conduct our searches of their persons now and have done with that chore first.” Charles the Third turned to the Frenchman. “Sooner or later, in one place or another, M’sieu le conservateur, we will find the missing article.”

  “We had better find it,” Carreaux said portentously. “If I were to return to Paris without it, I would no longer be assistant conservateur at the Louvre Museum.”

  To be thorough before the searches began, Sabina and Charles the Third probed all possible hiding places in the storeroom and Rayburn’s office. They found nothing. Then, while she watched over the women, the crackbrain ushered the male guests, Eldredge, and Holloway into the office, and with Rayburn’s help searched each of them. Carreaux apparently insisted that his and Rayburn’s persons also be searched and, when that was done, that Charles also submit to a search.

  The chatelaine bag remained missing.

  Sabina took her turn with the half-dozen women guests, the sausage-curled dowager still angry and making dire threats of a lawsuit against all parties concerned. If a muzzle had been close at hand, Sabina would cheerfully have used it to still her yapping.

  None of the women possessed the bag, either.

  So it must be hidden somewhere in the gallery. Either by design, in which case the thief believed himself to be more cunning than he was; or because he had realized belatedly that he couldn’t get away with the bag and stashed it to avoid being revealed as the guilty party.

  Guests and employees were herded into the storeroom, with Carreaux on guard, after which Sabina, Rayburn, and Charles the Third commenced a careful exploration of the gallery. Every possible hiding place was examined—the undersides of the exhibit display table, chairs, the settee by the entrance; the insides of antique vases, jars, and urns; the backs of paintings mounted on the walls; the buffet tables and the food, bottles, plates, and glassware atop them; and every conceivable nook and cranny.

  The Marie Antoinette was nowhere to be found.

  15

  SABINA

  “Sacrebleu!” Carreaux exclaimed in exasperation. He had been summoned to join Sabina, Rayburn, and Charles the Third after the gallery search was finished. “You are certain, M’sieu Holmes, that the thief could not have departed during the blackout?”

  “Unless he or she has the power to walk through the solid walls, I am. Most assuredly.”

  “Then why have we not found the Marie Antoinette? No hiding place has been overlooked. C’est impossible!”

  Charles the Third smiled his enigmatic smile. “So it would seem. But we have eliminated the impossible, and it is an old maxim of mine that when this has been done, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

  “Why do you say we have eliminated the impossible?”

  “We have established, have we not, that no one could have left the premises after the theft. Also that the thief could not have hidden the missing reticule anywhere in this or the other rooms. Therefore, as improbable as it might seem, the chatelaine is still in his possession.”

  “But everyone has been searched. How could the voleur still possess it?”

  “The answer to that lies in the observation of trifles. The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes.”

  “Well? What trifles?” Rayburn demanded waspishly.

  “Patience, my dear sir. Patience.”

  “Patience, my foot. Do you know or don’t you?”

  “I do,” Sabina said.

  All eyes turned to her. She had been deep in thought; now she was sure she was right in the conclusions she’d drawn from her “observation of trifles.” Had Charles the Third made the same deduction? No matter. Whether he had or not, the time had come for her to take command.

  She said to him, “Do you agree that two individuals, not just one, are involved in the theft?”

  Carreaux and Rayburn seemed surprised at the question. The crackbrain showed no reaction; his smile remained enigmatic. “Naturally,” he said. “One to loosen the fuse at a prearranged time, the other to step over the rope and lift the reticule from the display table.”

  “Mr. Rayburn. Is it likely one of the guests would know where the fuse box is located?”

  “No. Customers and guests are not allowed in the storeroom.” The gallery owner’s eyes narrowed. “Are you implying that I—”

  “Not at all, sir. You have no credible reason to have stolen the Marie Antoinette.”

  “One of my clerks then? Holloway, Eldredge?”

  “How long has each of them worked for you?”

  “Eldredge for four years, Holloway for just under one. But—”

  “The storeroom door was not under careful watch, only the display,” Sabina said. “One or the other of them could have slipped through unnoticed, loosened the fuse, then hidden himself until after you tightened it to restore the electricity.”

  Rayburn fussed with his mustache again before he said, “Yes, that’s possible. There are places in the storeroom where a man who knows it could briefly hide himself without my seeing him. My attention was on the fuse box when I entered by matchlight, then on returning to the exhibit once the lights were back on.”

  “Did you notice where Holloway and Eldredge were standing prior to the blackout?”

  “Let me think … Yes. They were both near the display table, on the side nearest the storeroom door. When the lights came on, Eldredge was in front of the table—apparently the first to notice the Marie Antoinette was missing. He’s the one who gave the alarm.”

  “And Holloway?”

  “He was at my side after I stepped out of the storeroom. I remember because he spoke my name.”

  “Could he have followed you out, walking softly?”

  “He could have, yes, if he’d been hiding somewhere near the door.”

  Martin Holloway was called to join them. The man had a habit of clasping his long-fingered hands at his waist; he stood rubbing them together in an agitated fashion. But his gaze was steady and his posture one of defensive innocence.

  He vehemently denied having been in the storeroom. “I was at the wall next to the display table,” he said, “from just before the lights went out until they were restored.”

  “Who else was near the table prior to the blackout?” Sabina asked.

  “George Eldredge. Moving about in front.”

  “Just him?”

  “In the immediate vicinity, yes.”

  “And you have no idea who snatched the bag?”

  “None. None at all.”

  Over the course of her career Sabina had developed a sharp eye for facial expressions and body movements, a sharp ear for nuances of speech; it was the rare individual who could fool her successfully. She stepped close to the small man, fixed him with her fiercest stare.

  “You lie, Mr. Holloway,” she said
. “I know you’re guilty. We all know it. Confess, identify your confederate, and perhaps Monsieur Carreaux will be inclined to be lenient with you.”

  “But yes, I will,” the Frenchman said. “My only concern is the recovery of the Marie Antoinette.”

  But the clerk foolishly clung to a misguided faith in his partner in crime and his hope for a share of the spoils. “You can’t intimidate me,” he said. “I had nothing to do with the theft. Nothing, do you hear me? And you can’t prove I did.”

  Sabina said, “I believe we can.”

  “As do I,” Charles the Third concurred.

  He escorted Holloway back to wait with the others and returned with George Eldredge, a man some years older and several pounds heavier. Eldredge was cooperative, but had nothing of importance to relate. He had stopped near the far corner of the table when the room went dark, he said, and remained there until the electric lights came on again. He couldn’t recall if Holloway had been in the room when he spied the empty blue velvet case; his attention had been riveted on that. Nor could he say who else might have been close enough to step over the ropes and snatch the chatelaine bag in the sudden darkness.

  But Sabina could.

  She said to Charles the Third, “There’s another person to be questioned, and without delay.”

  “Indeed there is. Will you name him, or shall I?”

  That, Sabina thought, may have been because he had made the same final deduction as she, or it may have been a sly bit of face-saving on his part. She was inclined toward the latter. For one thing, while he was proud of his Sherlockian powers of observation, he hadn’t spent nearly as much time as she had observing and mingling with the guests the past two nights. And for another, his ego was such that if he did have the answer, he would surely have attempted to seize the moment himself instead of allowing her to do so.

  “I will,” she said. “Thaddeus Bakker.”

  “Ah. Yes. Mr. Bakker.”

  “Fetch him, please.”

  “You suspect him of being the thief?” Rayburn asked.

  “I do.”

  “But … what makes you think so?”

  “Because he ate nothing from the buffet last night or prior to the blackout tonight. Because his neck is slender and so are his arms and legs. And because of his frilly white shirt.”

  The gallery owner gaped at her. “I don’t understand.”

  “You soon will. Now will you please fetch him.”

  Rayburn did so. Thaddeus Bakker seemed puzzled by the summons; he stood rocking slightly on his heels. “I can’t imagine why you asked to see me, Mrs. Carpenter. I know nothing whatsoever about the theft.”

  “Tell us where you were when the blackout ended.”

  “Why … I don’t recall exactly. By the liquor buffet, I believe.”

  “No, you weren’t,” Rayburn said. “I saw you standing near the wall beyond the exhibit.”

  “You must be mistaken—”

  “I saw you there as well,” Sabina said. “You were just turning around and apparently fussing with your shirtfront. But what you were actually doing was refastening the last of the buttons.”

  “What of it?” Bakker drew himself up. “Are you suggesting I stole the Marie Antoinette reticule and hid it inside my shirt?”

  “Stole the bag, yes. Hid it, yes. But not inside your shirt.”

  “The accusation is preposterous. I was searched as thoroughly as any of the others.”

  “Not thoroughly enough. The bag was not and is not in your clothing, Mr. Bakker.”

  “Then how can you claim I—”

  To the astonishment of the other three men, Sabina suddenly and with all her might punched Thaddeus Bakker in his protruding belly.

  Her closed fist must have sunk two inches into Bakker’s midriff, yet the man’s only reaction was a small startled grunt. Thus confirming her suspicions and justifying her bold action. No genuinely fat man could have absorbed such a violent blow without indications of distress.

  Rayburn gasped and Carreaux exclaimed, “Mon Dieu!” But Charles the Third understood immediately.

  “False!” he cried. “A false corporation!”

  Bakker, realizing the game was up, made a clumsy attempt to flee. Charles the Third tripped him, pounced on top, and tore open the man’s shirt to reveal exactly what Sabina expected to see—a padded convex mound wrapped in an elasticized garment resembling a woman’s corset, a false corporation so cunningly made it would look and feel genuine when the clothing that covered it was searched. The corsetlike garment fit snugly, but not so snugly as to prevent it from being pulled up along one side. Which Charles quickly proceeded to do. A moment later he removed the Marie Antionette from among wads of cotton padding inside.

  His bright gaze rested on Sabina as he held the prize up for all to see. “Capital brainwork, my good woman,” he said with a hint of jealousy. “And the end game well played!”

  A good deal of confusion ensued. Monsieur Carreaux seized the chatelaine bag, examined it, and then, with a Gallic flourish, he threw his arms around Sabina and bestowed moist kisses on each cheek. Charles the Third, with Rayburn’s assistance, was busy lifting a weakly struggling Thaddeus Bakker, or whatever his real name was, onto his feet. Some of the guests had spilled out of the storeroom to look on, chattering in excited voices. Martin Holloway, realizing his partner had been captured and the theft ploy foiled, ran to the front door in a panicked effort to escape; Eldredge and the man with the pince-nez restrained him, after which he and Bakker were locked away in Rayburn’s office. Eldredge was then sent to summon the police.

  * * *

  It was two hours before the plainclothesmen in charge finished their officious duties and allowed everyone to leave. Two facts resulted from their interrogation of the sullen culprits. Thaddeus Bakker’s real name was Horace Binder and he was indeed from Sacramento, where he had been twice arrested and once convicted for jewel robbery. And Martin Holloway was his brother-in-law.

  Sabina had little opportunity to speak to Charles the Third while this was going on. He blustered a bit to anyone who would listen, insisting that he was in fact and indeed Sherlock Holmes, “the last and highest court of appeal of detection,” and that he, too, had deduced the clever method by which Bakker/Binder had secreted the Marie Antoinette bag. “If my splendid associate had not acted as quickly and in the fashion she did,” he said, “I would have done so myself.”

  Sabina smiled wryly to herself when she overheard this. Horsefeathers, she thought.

  When permission was given for them to leave, she sought out Charles the Third, took hold of his arm, and asked if he would mind escorting her home to her flat. He consented gallantly, as she had thought he would. She needed no escort, of course, but she didn’t want him slipping away from her again, at least not until she’d had a chance to talk to him privately. Sharing a hansom gave her that opportunity.

  Once they were alone together in the cab, he said, “A trying evening, to be sure. But a rather exhilarating one nonetheless. It is always gratifying to unmask thieves and render them their just deserts.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Bakker, or Binder, is a clever fellow, but his plan was doomed to failure pitted against not one but two brilliant minds. Once again the observation of trifles and the application of logic have proven my long-held theory that they are the most successful methods of detection.”

  He paused to produce and light his long, curved clay pipe. Sabina wrinkled her nose; his choice of tobacco was even worse than John’s. “I must congratulate you, Mrs. Carpenter,” he said then, “on the manner in which you utilized the furniture in your little brain attic tonight. Most detectives on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean, I have found, take in all the lumber of every sort that they come across, so that the knowledge which might be useful to them gets crowded out, or at best is jumbled up with a lot of other things, and they have difficulty in laying hands on it. That is certainly not true of you. Or, for that matter, your erstwhile pa
rtner. You are both skillful workmen who are careful, indeed, as to what you take into your brain attics. As of course am I.”

  Sabina smothered both a sigh and a yawn, and thanked him for the compliment. Then, with deliberate flattery, “You and I do make a rather effective team, don’t we?”

  “We do indeed.”

  “Perhaps we can work together again. Assuming, that is, that you plan to remain in San Francisco?”

  “At least for the nonce, I do. Though I must return to London fairly soon and ease poor Doctor Watson’s mind about the state of my well-being. Meanwhile, I should very much enjoy another commingling of the furniture in our brain attics.”

  “Tell me, then. Where can I reach you?”

  “Why, dear lady, you need only place another newspaper advertisement as you did in this case.”

  “Yes, but what if I should need to call upon you quickly? And sooner than later? Surely you don’t mind revealing your current address to me?”

  He was silent for a time, puffing noisily on his pipe, apparently mulling on the advisability of confiding in her. At length he said, “You’ll share the information with no one, not even your associate? If the knowledge were to reach the wrong ears, it would have a dire effect on the investigation that required my present disguise.”

  “You have my word.”

  “Very well. I am temporarily lodged at a small residential hotel on Stevenson Street.”

  “Stevenson. That would be Tar Flat.”

  “I believe that is what the area is called, yes.”

  Tar Flat was an Irish workingman’s neighborhood south of Market, not the sort of place she would have expected Charles the Third to hang his hat. But then he could always be counted on to do the unexpected and often inexplicable. “Which hotel?”

  “The Dubliner. Room eleven.”

  “Under what name?”

  “Seamus O’Leary. Though I’m not often to be found there.”

  “Is there someplace else you can be reached on short notice?”

  He hesitated again. Then, “Two blocks south of the hotel there is a pub, or saloon in your American parlance, unimaginatively named the Tam O’Shanter that serves a palatable free lunch as well as alcoholic beverages. It is also the gathering place of certain individuals, thus serving me well as a listening and observation post.”