A smiling colored woman opened the door in answer to his ring and escorted him into an ornately furnished parlor, where he declined the offer of refreshment and requested an audience with Miss Lettie Carew. When he was alone he sat on a red plush chair, closed his nostrils to a mingled scent of incense and patchouli, and glanced around the room with professional interest. Patterned lace curtains and red velvet drapes at the blinded windows. Several red plush chairs and settees, rococo tables, ruby-shaded lamps, gilt-framed mirrors, oil paintings of exotically voluptuous nudes. There was also a handful of framed mottoes, one of which Quincannon could read from where he sat: “If every man was as true to his country as he is to his wife—God help the U.S.A.” In all, the parlor was similar to Bessie Hall’s, doubtless by design, though it was neither as lavish nor as stylish. None could match “the woman who licked John L. Sullivan” when it came to extravagance.
At the end of five minutes, Lettie Carew swept into the room. Quincannon blinked and managed not to let his jaw unhinge; Miss Lettie had been described to him on more than one occasion, but this was his first glimpse of her in the flesh. And a great deal of flesh there was. She resembled nothing so much as a giant cherub, pink and puffed and painted, dressed in pinkish white silk and trailing rose-hued feather boas and a cloud of sweet perfume that threatened to finish off what oxygen had been left undamaged by the patchouli and incense.
“Welcome, sir, welcome to Fiddle Dee Dee, home of many bountiful beauties from exotic lands. I am the proprietress, Miss Lettie Carew.”
Quincannon blinked again. The madame’s voice was small and shrill, not much louder than a mouse squeak. The fact that it emanated from such a mountainous woman made it all the more startling.
“What can I do for you, sir? Don’t be shy—ask and ye shall receive. Every gentleman’s pleasure is my command.”
“How many Chinese girls are here?”
“Ah, you have a taste for the mysterious East. Only one—Ming Toy, from far-off Shanghai, and most popular she is, sir, most popular. Unfortunately, she is engaged at present.”
“How long has she been engaged?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Since yesterday, perhaps? By the same man—young, slight, black-haired, whose tipple is red wine?”
Lettie Carew said suspiciously, “How did you know that?”
“Is he still here now?”
“Suppose he is. What’s your interest in him?”
So he’d been right: the Dodger was still elevating. He managed not to smile. “Professional,” he said. “The lad’s a wanted felon.”
The madame’s subservient pose evaporated. “Oh, Lordy, don’t tell me you’re a copper.”
He didn’t; he let her believe it from his stern expression.
“Bloody hell!” she said. “Can’t you wait until he leaves before you arrest him? I have other customers upstairs. And I paid my graft this week, same as always …”
“Which room is Ming Toy’s?”
“There won’t be shooting, will there?”
“Not if it can be avoided.”
“If there’s any damage, the city will pay for it, or I’ll sue. That includes bloodstains to the carpet, bedding, and furniture.”
“What room, Lettie?”
She impaled him with a long smoky glare before she squeaked, “Nine,” and flounced out of the parlor.
In the hallway outside, a long, carpeted staircase led to the second floor. Quincannon climbed it with his hand on the Navy Colt under his coat. The odd-numbered rooms were to the left of the stairs; in front of the door bearing a gilt-edged 9, he stopped to listen. No discernible sounds issued from within. He drew his revolver, depressed the latch, and stepped into a room decorated in an ostentatious Chinese dragon style, dimly lighted by rice-paper lanterns and choked with incense spiced with wine vapors.
An immediate skirmish, he was pleased to note, was unnecessary. Dodger Brown sprawled supine on the near side of the four-poster bed, dressed in a soiled union suit, flatulent snoring sounds emanating from his open mouth. The girl who sat up beside him was no more than twenty, delicate-featured, her comeliness marred by dark eyes already as old as Cain. She hopped off the bed, pulling a loose silk wrapper around her thin body, and hurried over to where Quincannon stood. If she noticed his drawn weapon, it made no apparent impression on her.
“Busy,” she said in a singsong voice, “busy, busy.”
“Not anymore. It’s him I’m after, not you.”
“So?” The young-old eyes blinked several times. “Finished?”
“Finished,” he agreed. “I’m taking him to jail.”
She understood the word, and it seemed to please her. She glanced over at the snoring Dodger. “Wine,” she said disgustedly.
“I’m a teetotaler myself.”
Ming Toy wrinkled her nose. “Phooey,” she said, and vanished as swiftly and silently as a wraith.
Quincannon padded to the bedside. Four rough shakes, and Dodger Brown stopped snoring, and his eyes popped open. For several seconds he lay inert, peering up blearily at the face looming above him. Recognition came an instant before he levered himself off the bed in a single convulsive movement and lunged for the door.
On this occasion, however, Quincannon was ready for him and his sly tricks. He caught hold of the union suit by the neck, and with his free hand, spun the little burglar around, deftly avoided a shin kick, flung him backward onto the rumpled bed, knelt beside him, and poked the bore of the Navy Colt squarely between his bloodshot eyeballs. “Settle down, lad,” he said. “You’re yaffled this time, and you know it.”
The Dodger, staring cross-eyed at the Colt, knew it for a fact. All the struggle and sand left him at once; he lay in a motionless puddle, an expression of painful self-recrimination rearranging his vulpine features.
“It’s my own fault,” he said in mournful tones as Quincannon handcuffed him. “After you near snagged me the other night, I knew I should’ve hopped a rattler in the Oakland yards straightaway. Gone on the lammas, ‘stead of comin’ over here.”
“Aye, and let it be a lesson to you, Dodger.” Quincannon grinned and added sagely, “The best-laid plans aren’t always the best-planned lays.”
13
The city prison, in the basement of the Hall of Justice, was a busy place that testified to the amount of crime afoot in San Francisco. And to Quincannon’s practiced eye, there were just as many crooks on the outside of the foul-smelling cells as on the inside. Corrupt policemen, seedy lawyers haggling at the desk about releases for prisoners, rapacious fixers, deceitful bail bondsmen … more of those, in fact, than honest officers and men charged with felonies, and with vagrancy, public drunkenness, and other misdemeanors.
Quincannon delivered a sullen and uncommunicative Dodger Brown there, and spent the better part of an unpleasant hour talking to an officer he knew and a booking desk sergeant he didn’t know. He signed a complaint on behalf of the Great Western Insurance Company, and before he left, made sure that the Dodger would remain locked in one of the cells until Jackson Pollard and Great Western Insurance officially formalized the charge. He knew better than to turn over any of the stolen goods; did not even mention that they were in his possession. Valuables had a curious way of disappearing from the police property room overnight.
By the time he reentered the offices of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, it was late afternoon. He told Sabina of the day’s events, embellishing a bit on his brief scuffles with Salty Jim and Dodger Brown.
“You take too many risks, John,” she admonished him. “One of these days you’ll pay dear for such recklessness. Just as your father and my husband did.”
He waved that away. “I intend to die in bed at the age of ninety,” he said. “And not alone, either.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if either boast turned out to be true.” Her mouth quirked slightly at the corners. “You had no difficulty finding your way around the Fiddle Dee Dee, I’m su
re.”
“Meaning what, my dear?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never been in a parlor house before.”
“Only in the performance of my professional duty,” he lied.
“If that’s so, as randy as you are, I pity the fair maidens of San Francisco.”
“I have no designs on the virtue of young virgins. Only on the favors of a certain young and handsome widow.”
“Then you’re fated to live out your years as celibate as a monk. Did Dodger Brown confess to his crimes?”
Quincannon sighed. Unrequited passion, especially when it was as pure as his for Sabina, was a sad and pitiable thing. “He had little to say after we left the Fiddle Dee Dee. A close-mouthed lad, the Dodger. But the loot from his burglaries will convict him.”
“The Costain valuables weren’t among the ones you recovered?”
“No,” he said. “But I’ll find them soon enough.”
“There’s still time to take the lot to Great Western and turn it over to Mr. Pollard,” Sabina said. “Shall I ring him up?”
“No. Best wait until the morrow.”
“Why? Pollard came by earlier, all in a dither. Two more claims have taxed his patience to the limit.”
“Two more?”
“Both filed today by Penelope Costain.”
“One for the amount of her missing jewelry. The other?”
“The Costains also have a joint life insurance policy with Great Western. In the sum of twenty-five thousand dollars.” Sabina’s smile was wry. “The widow wasted little time.”
“That she did.”
“I managed to smooth Pollard’s feathers, but the sooner he knows Dodger Brown is in custody and the loot has been recovered, the better for us. Do you expect to find the Costain valuables tonight? Is that why you want to wait?”
“It’s one of the reasons,” Quincannon said, though it wasn’t.
“Another wouldn’t concern Sherlock Holmes, would it?”
“What makes you think that?”
“I know you, John, much better than you think I do.”
“Bosh,” he said, and changed the subject. “What did you learn in your investigations today?”
By the time Sabina had finished her report, his freebooter’s beard was split in a crooked smile. “Bully! Just as I suspected.”
“Does that mean you’ve solved the puzzle?”
“It does. All I lack now are a few minor details.”
“Well? How was Andrew Costain murdered? How was Dodger Brown able to escape from the house?”
“Not until tomorrow morning, my lady. Meet me at Pollard’s office at nine-thirty. You’ll hear the full explanation then.”
“You’re being exasperating again, John Quincannon. Why can’t you just give me the jist of it now?”
He said, “Nine-thirty, sharp,” teased her further with a fiendish wink, and took his leave.
On Market Street he hailed a cab. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast and his hunger was fierce, but there was an important errand that needed doing first. He gave the hack driver Dr. Caleb Axminster’s Russian Hill address.
Some thirty minutes later, an owl-eyed housekeeper opened the Axminsters’ front door and informed him that the doctor had not yet returned from his surgery. From behind her, somewhere in the house, Quincannon could hear the cheerful, somewhat fantastic plucking of violin strings—no melody he had ever heard before. He said, “It’s Mr. Sherlock Holmes I’ve come to see,” and handed the housekeeper one of his business cards. She took it away with her. Soon the violin grew silent, and shortly after that, the housekeeper returned to show him to a sitting room off the main parlor.
Holmes was sprawled comfortably in an armchair, his violin on a table beside him. In his lap was a small bottle of clear liquid and a morocco case. He greeted Quincannon, asked him to wait a moment. With long, nervous fingers he then produced a hypodermic syringe from the case, filled it from the bottle, adjusted the needle, and rolled up his left shirt cuff. On the sinewy forearm and wrist Quincannon spied innumerable puncture marks. As he watched, Holmes thrust the needle into his arm, pressed the plunger, then sank back with a long sigh of satisfaction.
“What’s in the bottle, Holmes?”
The Englishman smiled. “A seven-percent solution,” he said, “courtesy of Dr. Axminster.”
Quincannon did not have to ask the exact nature of the seven-percent solution. He shrugged and let the matter drop. Each man to his own vice.
“Well, my esteemed colleague,” Holmes said, “I must say I’m glad you’ve come. I intended to call on you earlier, but I’ve had rather a busy day. You’ve saved me the necessity of going out again this evening.”
“I’ve had a busy day myself. And a highly productive one.”
“You’ve located Dodger Brown?”
“Located and arrested him. And recovered the burglary loot.”
“My dear Quincannon, you surpass yourself!”
“That news is not the only reason for my visit,” Quincannon said silkily. “I’ve also brought you an invitation.”
“Invitation?”
“To a meeting in the offices of Jackson Pollard, head of the claims department for the Great Western Insurance Company, at nine-thirty tomorrow morning. If you’ll consent to attend, I guarantee you’ll find it edifying.”
“In what regard?”
“I intend to explain the mystery surrounding the death of Andrew Costain.”
“Ah! So your sleuthing has reaped additional rewards, has it?”
“It has.”
“And now there is to be a public unveiling,” Holmes said. “Splendid. You and I are more alike than either of us might care to admit, Quincannon. Often enough a touch of the artist wells up in me, too, and calls insistently for a well-staged performance.”
“Then you’ll be there?”
“Oh, by all means.” Holmes’s eyes were bright; he seemed not at all nonplussed to have been outdone. “I shall be most interested to hear your deductions. Most interested indeed!”
14
The San Francisco offices of Great Western Insurance were housed in the Montgomery Block, the largest of the city’s buildings at Montgomery and Merchant Streets. It was just nine-thirty of another cold, gloomy morning when Quincannon entered the anteroom. He found Sabina and Sherlock Holmes already present, along with two other principals he hadn’t expected to see—Penelope Costain and Dr. Caleb Axminster. Holmes had invited both of them, it turned out, because Mrs. Costain had a vested interest in the proceedings and Axminster was a “concerned party.” Quincannon had no objection in either case. If he hadn’t been so involved in his competition with Holmes, he would have thought of it himself.
In a body they were shown into Jackson Pollard’s private sanctum. The claims adjustor was a fussy, bespectacled little man with sparse sandy hair and sideburns like miniature tumbleweeds. He demanded, frowning, “What’s the meaning of this, Quincannon? Why are all these people here?”
“As witnesses, you might say.”
“Witnesses to what?”
“That will soon become evident. Will you have chairs brought in to accomodate everyone?”
That was done, and all sat down except Quincannon. Holmes lit his oily clay pipe and sat in a relaxed posture, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Sabina sat quietly with hands clasped in her lap; patience was one of her many virtues. Penelope Costain was less at ease, fidgeting in her chair, fingers toying with a tiger-eye and agate locket at her throat. Axminster sucked on horehound drops, wearing the bright-eyed, expectant look of a small boy on Christmas morning.
Pollard said, “Well, Quincannon? Get on with it.” He had no patience at all. “And what you have to say had better be to my liking.”
“It will be. First of all, Dodger Brown is in custody awaiting formal charges. I tracked him down and arrested him yesterday.”
“Yesterday? Why didn’t you notify me immediately?”
“I had my reasons.�
�
“Yes? What about all the items he stole? Did you recover them?”
“I did.”
Quincannon had stopped by the agency offices on his way there; he drew out the sack of valuables and, with a flourish, placed it on Pollard’s desk blotter. The little man’s eyes glowed pleasurably as he spread the contents out in front of him, but the glow faded a bit once he’d sifted through the lot. “All present and accounted for from the first three burglaries,” he said. “But none of Mrs. Costain’s losses is here.”
“I haven’t recovered those items as yet.”
“But you do have an idea of what Brown did with them?”
“He did nothing with them. He never had them.”
“Never had them, you say?”
“Dodger Brown didn’t burgle the Costain home,” Quincannon said. “Nor is he the murderer of Andrew Costain.”
Pollard blinked owlishly behind his spectacles. “Then who did burgle it?”
“No one.”
“Come, come, man, speak plainly, say what you mean.”
“It was Andrew Costain who planned the theft, with the aid of an accomplice. And it was the accomplice who punctured him and made off with the contents of the valuables case.”
This announcement brought forth an “Ahh!” from Dr. Axminster. Sabina arched one of her fine eyebrows. Even Sherlock Holmes sat up straight in his chair, his expression intent.
Penelope Costain said icily, “That is a ridiculous accusation. Why on earth would my husband conspire to rob his own home?”
“To defraud Great Western Insurance Company. In order to pay off his substantial gambling debts. Surely you know he was a compulsive gambler, Mrs. Costain. And that his finances had been severely depleted and his law practice had suffered setbacks as a result of his addiction.”
Sherlock Holmes: The Hidden Years Page 23