The Plague of Thieves Affair

by Marcia Muller

  The safe was not positioned in plain view, but it took Rigsby, whose long experience had given him a sixth sense not unlike that of a hound on the scent, less than a minute to locate it—hidden behind a pair of doors beneath shelves on the wall next to a massive cherrywood desk. He opened the lantern’s eye halfway in order to examine it. It had a rotary dial, Quincannon was relieved to see. Slick Fingers peered at the manufacturer’s name in gold leaf on its black-painted front, then rotated the dial several times before turning his head and offering up a snaggle-toothed grin.

  “Piece of cake,” he said.

  Quincannon watched him take a doctor’s stethoscope from the pocket of his coat, fit the earpieces into his jumbo ears, place the chestpiece against the safe door just above the dial, and then set to work. Lock manipulation was a simple enough process in principle: the lock was used against itself in order to discover the combination, by feel and by the sound of the tumblers falling into place in proper sequence as the dial was slowly rotated. But it took a highly skilled cracksman with a clear understanding of the mechanical actions of locks, plus years of practice, to do the job properly and swiftly.

  It took Slick Fingers less than fifteen minutes to crack this box. In his high-road world, the job had indeed been a piece of cake.

  As soon as he had the door open, Quincannon knelt beside him and began to sift through the contents. The safe contained all sorts of documents, a banded packet of greenbacks—and in an unmarked manila envelope, two pages of hen-scratch jottings that were clearly the ingredients and measurements for the manufacture of steam beer.

  “That what you’re after, Mr. Quincannon?”

  “It is.”

  Slick Fingers looked longingly at the sheaf of greenbacks. “Sure there’s nothing else you want?”

  “I’m sure. Close the safe now and we’ll be on our way.”

  They encountered no trouble leaving the building or the neighborhood. On Market Street, before they parted to take early-morning trolleys in opposite directions, Quincannon reassured Rigsby that he would be paid his $250 on the morrow, and made the cracksman even happier by adding that he would also receive a bonus for a job well done. With Otto Ackermann’s recipe safely in his possession, Quincannon could afford—or rather, James Willard could afford—to be magnanimous.

  On his way home for a few hours of much-needed sleep, Quincannon’s spirits were high. The irony in tonight’s successful mission was a pleasure to contemplate. He might not be able to prove that Cyrus Drinkwater was behind the original theft of the recipe, but once the old scoundrel discovered it was missing from his safe, neither would he be able to prove that Quincannon was responsible. Ordinarily such a potential stalemate would have meant the job he’d been hired to do was left unfinished. Not so in this case. He had solved the murders of Otto Ackermann and Caleb Lansing, ranged far in order to yaffle the perpetrator, and recovered the stolen property which he would soon place in James Willard’s hands.

  No detective could have done more to satisfy his client, earn his fee, and serve the interests of justice.

  25

  SABINA

  The envelope was mixed in with several others that had been pushed through the slot in the agency door. But it had not been delivered by the postman; it bore no stamp or address, only Sabina’s name. The penmanship told her immediately whom it was from.

  At her desk she slit open the envelope. Inside were two sheets of good-quality vellum paper, both completely filled with writing in the same familiar Spencerian hand.

  My dear Mrs. Carpenter:

  I must apologize for my failure to return after summoning the police yesterday, thus leaving you and Mr. Boone the task of rendering explanations. You may have considered my disappearance, as it were, to be a cowardly act, and in a sense so it was. However, I simply could not countenance a long interrogation in which my lineage would have yet again been questioned by police officials and representatives of the legal profession. The possibility that I might be forcibly shipped off to Chicago and entangled in a pointless legal rumpus over the estate of a stranger was also a factor in my decision. Protection of both my good name and my good works must take precedence over all other considerations.

  For the same reason, I have concluded that I must with all dispatch finally take my leave of your fair city. The publicity I have received regarding this odious Fairchild affair, as well as that of the incident at the Rayburn Gallery, makes it extremely difficult if not impossible to continue my private inquiries here. By the time you receive this missive, I shall have pulled up stakes, as you Americans so quaintly put it, and sped upon my way.

  I do not yet know my next destination. Perhaps I shall return directly to England and my Baker Street lodgings, put the good Doctor Watson’s mind at rest as to my welfare, and openly resume my practice as a consulting detective. On the other hand, perhaps I shall take up temporary residence in another American city (though not, of course, Chicago), or in a European metropolis such as Paris or Vienna.

  My only regret in leaving so precipitately is that I cannot inform you of my decision, gaze one last time upon your charming personage, and bid you adieu in person. Perhaps this letter, too, is an act of cowardice, but it nonetheless prevents any attempt on your part to dissuade me, as well as any recriminations and tears. We must both console ourselves with the possibility, however remote at this point in time, that I will return to San Francisco one day in future and have the distinct pleasure of once again joining forces with you and the estimable Mr. Quincannon.

  Until that day, should it ever come, I wish you continued success in our shared and noble profession, good health, and safe passage wherever you may go.

  With respect and admiration,

  Your obedient servant,

  S. Holmes, Esq.

  Sabina set the letter down. Tears! As if she would shed even one over the sudden departure of a delusional individual who was neither British nor a famous detective. Or console herself with the thought that she might be subjected to his interfering ways again! The unmitigated gall of the man, making such ridiculous statements after having left her to the none-too-tender mercies of Lieutenant McGinn and stuffy Harold Stennett, who had been summoned to act on behalf of the Fairchild family’s attorneys, in order to pull the addlepate’s chestnuts out of the fire. She was glad he was gone, glad he would never again pop up unexpectedly at some inopportune time to make her life and her work more difficult with his foolish disguises, his insufferable ego.

  And yet—

  And yet there was no gainsaying the fact that he also possessed a number of laudable qualities. He’d saved her from being shot by the wild-eyed Octavia Fairchild, hadn’t he? And always treated her in a cordial, even courtly fashion, with as much respect for her sleuthing abilities as his assumed Sherlockian arrogance would allow—more respect than McGinn and Stennett had demonstrated, certainly. And brought her the kitten Eve as a companion for Adam. And helped her and John solve more than one difficult case …

  Oh, drat! The truth was she didn’t know quite how she felt about Charles Percival Fairchild III, whether she liked or disliked him, whether she was more delighted or more sorry to have him gone from her life, and the ambivalence was bothersome in the extreme. Appropriately enough, given his tendency to be bothersome in the extreme.

  One thing she did know for certain: John would be ecstatic when he learned that the aggravating thorn in his side had finally removed itself. He had never forgiven S. Holmes, Esquire, for providing much of the solution to the Bughouse Affair, thereby stealing his thunder. At times his ego could become as inflated as that of his nemesis, though it never quite swelled to an objectionable degree.

  And where was John? He hadn’t been to the agency in three days now, nor left her any kind of message to explain his absence. Sabina had begun to feel pricklings of concern. If anything had happened to him …

  Nothing had. Her fears were alleviated shortly past eleven-thirty when he burst into the office, rather like a b
ewhiskered bull entering a china shop, waving a handful of newspapers and looking both vexed and bleary-eyed. “I’ve just seen these!” he half shouted. “What in heaven’s name have you been getting yourself into?”

  “Nothing I couldn’t get myself out of,” she said calmly, managing to conceal her relief that he was unharmed. “As the accounts in those sheets plainly state.”

  “Not the one by Homer Keeps in last night’s Evening Bulletin. He as much as accuses you of harboring a fugitive lunatic.”

  “A pox on Homer Keeps. The Fairchild misadventure has been satisfactorily resolved.”

  “Charles Percival Fairchild the Third. An appropriate moniker for a crackbrain. Heir to a Chicago manufacturer’s fortune … bah! Why didn’t you tell me you’d been hired to track him down?”

  “You know the answer to that, John, given the way you feel about the man.”

  “How did you find him? Why did you let him involve you in two crimes in two days including a homicide? There’s little enough in these rags to explain any of that.”

  “It’s a long story. Sit down and I’ll recount it to you.”

  “I haven’t time now for a long story. I’m on my way to pay a debt and to deliver the stolen steam beer formula to James Willard.”

  “But when you saw the newspaper headlines you had to rush up here to chastise me and make sure I haven’t gotten into any more trouble.”

  “No, no. To make sure you’re all right, and to find out what the devil—”

  “I’m fine, and so, I see, are you. I take it you’ve wrapped up the Golden State case?”

  “I have. Yes. Naturally.”

  “Very well, then,” Sabina said. “We can regale each other with our triumphs later. For now, suffice it to say that neither of us will have any more trouble with Charles Fairchild the Third, alias Sherlock Holmes. As a result of all the publicity, he has left San Francisco with no intention of returning.”

  “He has? Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  That mollified John enough to put an end to his fulminating. His only remark, at least for the present, was a relatively mild, “Good riddance to the blasted nuisance.”

  When he was gone, Sabina reread Charles’s letter. Good riddance, nuisance? she thought when she laid it down again. Or good-bye, comrade?

  26

  QUINCANNON

  “A plague of thieves,” Quincannon said.

  Sabina looked at him questioningly.

  “That is what you and I have been dealing with the past several days. You with the Fairchild woman and the crafty pincher from Sacramento and his brother-in-law at the Rayburn Gallery. And I with Lansing, Corby, Jones, and Cyrus Drinkwater.” He might have added his name and that of Slick Fingers Sam Rigsby to the list, though of course he didn’t; their nocturnal escapade in Drinkwater’s office would remain his secret, thus sparing him Sabina’s disapproval. “Thieves, the lot of them. A plague of thieves.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but of course you’re right. We were fortunate to have brought them all to justice.”

  “Not quite all. Drinkwater is still free as a bird, at least for the nonce. But if I have my way, he’ll pay for this and his other crimes one day.”

  They had just been seated in an intimate booth in the Tadich Grill, a landmark establishment known as San Francisco’s “Cold Day” restaurant. The appellation had nothing to do with the city’s weather; it stemmed from a boast a politician named Alexander Badham had made there, to the effect that it would be a cold day when he was defeated for reelection, shortly before he was soundly trounced at the polls. Both Quincannon and Sabina wore evening clothes, for after dinner they would attend one of Charles Hoyt’s farcical sketches at the New Bush Theater. Quincannon had no particular liking for drawing room comedies, but since Sabina did he was perfectly willing to accommodate her—in this and anything else on their social evenings together. And with no ulterior motives in mind. The pleasure of her company and the prospect of more evenings to come were satisfaction enough.

  He favored her with a toothsome smile. She had dressed well for him tonight, as he had for her in his best tailcoat suit, a light-colored waistcoat, and a white tie. Her gown was of ruby-red brocade with a lace-trimmed bodice and a fluffy, floor-length skirt. Pendant ruby earrings, a wedding gift from her late husband, made a fiery complement to her sleek dark hair. Even more to his liking was the shell brooch at her breast—a gift from her doting partner and would-be swain the previous Christmas.

  She allowed him to openly admire her without comment. As a matter of fact, unless he was very much mistaken, she seemed to bask in his attention, something she had never done in the offices of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, and only to a minimal degree on their previous social engagements. She truly did seem to be weakening toward him, he thought. No, “weakening” was the wrong word. Mellowing. Returning his affection in kind, if still a bit warily.

  A waiter brought their libations, a glass of Chablis for her and a cup of warm clam juice for him, and took their dinner selections. Sabina opted for crab cakes, Quincannon for the oyster and bacon frittata known as Hangtown Fry, both Tadich specialties.

  When the waiter departed, they toasted each other’s good health. After which Sabina said, “You know, John, there’s one thing about the murder of Caleb Lansing you neglected to explain to me. Not on purpose, I trust.”

  “I would never knowingly withhold pertinent information from you, my dear.” A prevarication, but a harmless one. “If I neglected to explain something, it was purely an oversight. What was it?”

  “How Elias Corby managed his escape from the brewery’s utility room and storeroom. Usually you trumpet your clever deductions.”

  “Trumpet? Well … perhaps. I did tell you about my discovery of the lupulin, didn’t I?”

  “The powder residue from freshly picked hop flowers, yes, and how you found it in both the storeroom and Corby’s office. But not how he was able to miraculously escape from two locked rooms.”

  “I must have been distracted in some way or other … Ah, the telephone. It rang while I was finishing up my account and you spent several minutes talking with our new client, Mr. Friedlander.”

  “Yes, and we were both so eager to discuss his troubles that we failed to continue with the Corby matter. I only realized it as I was dressing earlier tonight.”

  Quincannon hadn’t realized it at all until she’d brought it up—the result, no doubt, of the prospect of a substantial fee from a land baron as wealthy as J. M. Friedlander. Still, he was surprised at himself. Ordinarily he derived considerable pleasure from elucidating the details of one of his deductions. And would again … now.

  He fluffed his well-groomed whiskers and temporarily adopted a brisk professional air. “The dried lupulin was the essential clue,” he said, “along with two others. The fact that Corby appeared in the storerooms so soon after we discovered Lansing’s body. And the man’s stature.”

  “What do you mean, his stature?”

  “Just that. He was the only Golden State employee who could have been guilty.”

  Sabina nudged his ankle with the toe of her slipper. “Don’t be cryptic, John. Please get to the point before the food arrives. You know I dislike discussing business while dining.”

  “The short and sweet of it, then. Once Corby fired the fatal shot, for the reasons I outlined previously—self-protection and Lansing’s share of the money from the theft of the formula—he placed the revolver near Lansing’s hand and rifled his pocket for the storeroom key. In different circumstances he would have simply unlocked the storeroom door and slipped out at the first opportunity. But he’d heard the sounds I made at the door, knew the shot had been heard and the passage was blocked and he was therefore trapped there with a dead man. What could he do?”

  “Well? What did he do?”

  “He had two options,” Quincannon said. “Hold fast and bluff it out, claim that he’d tried and failed
to stop Lansing from shooting himself. But he had no way of knowing how much I knew and must have feared that such a story would not be believed. His second option was to hide and hope his hiding place would be overlooked in the first rush.

  “Corby was quick-witted, I’ll give him that. He had less than five minutes to formulate and implement his plan and he must have used every second. His first act would have been to lock the utility room door; the key that operates the storeroom door lock works on that one as well. The purpose being to create more confusion and solidify the impression that Lansing had committed suicide. He then entered the room containing the sacks of malt and hops and established his hiding place.”

  “Where?” Sabina asked. “You said you looked into that room immediately after the door was unlocked and there was no place for a man to hide.”

  “No obvious place. Corby counted on the fact that the first inspection would be cursory, and he was quite right, it was. If there had been time for a careful search then, I would have found him quickly enough. But I and the others were intent on finding out what had happened to Lansing.”

  “Well? Where was he?”

  “When I first looked into the storage area, I registered a single sack of hops propped against the end wall. When I returned later, the sack was no longer there; it had been moved back into the tightly wedged row along the side wall. That and the pile of empty sacks gave me the answer.”

  “Ah! Corby hid inside one of the empty sacks.”

  “Just so,” Quincannon said. “He dragged a full sack from the end of the row, climbed into an empty one or pulled it down over him, and wedged himself into the space. When he heard the locked door being opened and the group of us rushing in, he held himself in such a motionless position that he resembled the other sacks in the row. Now you see what I meant by his stature being an essential clue to his guilt. Only a pint-sized man could have fit inside a fifty-pound hop sack.”