Bill Pronzini - The Bughouse Affair

“No, my mother and my brother were also there. But they didn’t see what happened.”

“Tell me what you saw, please.”

“We were near the merry-go-round. It was very crowded, children waiting to board and parents watching their children on the ride. Allen, my brother, was trying to persuade me to ride with him. He’s only ten years old, so a merry-go-round is a thrill for him, but I’m sixteen, and it seems so very childish.…”

“Did you ride anyway?”

“No. But Allen did. We were watching him when suddenly my father took hold of his middle, groaned, twisted round, and staggered a few paces. Mother and I both thought he’d had a seizure. We managed to keep him from falling, and when we’d righted him he found all his money was gone.”

“What caused him to take hold of his middle?”

“He didn’t know. Gastric distress, he supposed.”

“Does he normally suffer from digestive problems?”

Ellen Anderson shook her dark ringlets. “But earlier we’d eaten hot sausages at the refreshment stand.”

“Did his distress continue afterward?”

“Father’s not one to talk about his ailments, but … no, I don’t believe so. We assumed the sausages were what affected him and that the thief had taken advantage of the moment.”

Not so, Sabina thought. And definitely not a coincidence that the dip’s victims had all suffered sharp pains before being relieved of their valuables. There was little doubt now that the woman’s method of operation was to inflict physical pain on her victims, as well as the kind caused by the loss of their valuables.

Two more fruitless stops left her with a final name on the list: Henry Holbrooke, on Jessie Street. Jessie was something of an anomaly as the new century approached-a mostly residential street that ran for several blocks through the heart of the business district, midway between Market and Mission. Old, crabbed houses and an occasional small business establishment flanked it, fronted by tiny yards and backed by barns and sheds.

The muslin curtains in the bay window of Henry Holbrooke’s house were open, but Sabina’s ring was not immediately answered. She twisted the bell again, and after a few moments she heard shuffling footsteps and the door opened. The inner hallway was so dark that she could scarcely make out the person standing there-a thin woman of upper middle age dressed entirely in black.

“Mrs. Holbrooke?”

“Yes.” The woman’s voice cracked, as if rusty from disuse.

Sabina gave her name and explained her mission. The woman made no move to take the card she extended.

“May I speak with your husband?” Sabina asked.

“My husband is dead.”

“My condolences. May I ask when he passed on?”

“Ten days ago.”

That would have been less than a week after he was robbed of his billfold at the Chutes. He had been one of the pickpocket’s first victims.

“May I come in, Mrs. Holbrooke?”

“I’d rather you didn’t. I’ve been … tearful. I don’t wish for anyone to see me after I’ve been grieving.”

“I understand. But could you tell me the cause of your husband’s death?”

Mrs. Holbrooke hesitated before answering. Then, with a sigh, “An internal infection.”

“Had he been ill long?”

“He had never been ill. Not a day in his life.”

“What was the cause of the infection?”

“The doctor didn’t know. He really wasn’t a very good physician, but we couldn’t afford a better one after the two hundred dollars was stolen. My husband died here, in my arms. I was forced to sell my jewelry-what little I had left-so he could have a decent burial.”

“I’m so sorry,” Sabina said sincerely. “May I ask why he carried so much money on an outing at the amusement park?”

“My husband never went anywhere without our cash reserves in that old beaded leather billfold of his. He was afraid to leave the money at home-this neighborhood is not what it once was. And he distrusted banks.”

Sabina was in sympathy with the former reason but not the latter. Henry Holbrooke would still be alive if he had kept their funds in a bank.

The older woman leaned heavily on the doorjamb; like Jessie Street, she gave the impression of slow disintegration. “If you apprehend the thief, is there any chance you’ll recover the money?”

Most likely it had already been spent, but Sabina said, “I’ll make every effort to do so.”

“If you do recover any of it, will you please return it to me? I ask not so much for myself, but for Henry’s memory. It pains me that I’m not able to purchase a decent marker for his grave.”

“Of course.”

Sabina took her leave. It would have been cruel to share her grim thoughts with Henry Holbrooke’s widow, but it seemed probable that the infection her husband had died from had been caused by the deep jab of a sharp and unclean hatpin. In which case the woman responsible was not only a pickpocket but a murderess.

* * *

It was just one o’clock when Sabina dismissed the hansom driver near the gates to the Chutes Amusement Park. The place was not quite as crowded as the day before, she found, either because word of the thefts had spread or because the afternoon was cloudy and there was a chill breeze swirling in from the ocean. If the hatpin dip appeared again today, she ought to be relatively easy to spot.

But she didn’t appear. At least Sabina saw no one who employed the woman’s methods of picking her marks. She may have come early and left early, or come briefly and found no potential victim to her liking during the three hours Sabina roamed the grounds. Or stayed away entirely because of the weather. In any event there was no report of a robbery at the Chutes that day. A brief conversation with Lester Sweeney in his office confirmed it.

Shortly past four by the small gold watch she kept pinned to the bodice of her shirtwaist, Sabina left the Chutes and hired another hansom to take her downtown. She was tired, and stuffed uncomfortably full of sausage, ice cream, and cotton candy, having overindulged out of frustration during her wanderings. She didn’t relish another long walk along the Cocktail Route, but since the pickpocket had successfully preyed there last night, it seemed likely to be one of her regular haunts.

Perhaps so, but Sabina saw no sign of the woman anywhere between Sutter Street and the Palace Hotel, or on the crowded Ambrosial Path where last night’s robbery had taken place. There were far more men abroad, and the women among them were noticable, but the pickpocket was adept at costume disguise. Sabina might easily have missed her in the streams of businessmen, gay blades, nymphes du pave, and adventuresome young ladies who packed the sidewalks.

At six o’clock, as weary and chilled as she was, Sabina considered going home to Russian Hill. But Stephen had instilled tenacity of purpose in her during her time with the Pinkertons, and the fact that she was after a murderess as well as a pickpocket was an added incentive to continue her search awhile longer. Her quarry, for reasons of her own, might have decided against prowling anywhere today or tonight. But she might also have decided to ply her trade in yet another place that afforded profitable pickings, such as the nightly bazaar on Market Street opposite the Palace Hotel-a place worth investigating.

SABINA

The open field at dusk was brightly lit by lanterns and torchlights, and packed with gaily colored wagons presided over by an array of pitchmen; phrenology and palmistry booths; the usual hodgepodge of temperance speakers, organ grinders, balloon and pencil sellers, beggars, and ad carriers passing out saloon handbills for free lunches; and a constant flow of gawkers and curiosity seekers, which Sabina joined. Music filled the air from many sources, each competing with the other. The loudest was the Salvation Army band pouring forth its solemn repentance message.