Bill Pronzini - The Bughouse Affair

She raised the sash and looked more closely at the box. One of the plants was tipped slightly against the other. She thrust her hand into the dirt between the two, felt roots and, toward the bottom, the object that Clara Wilds had hidden there-a small sack of dark blue velvet tied with a drawstring.

Sabina emptied the sack onto the bed. A diamond stickpin, two gold pocket watches, a large ivory watch fob, a hammered silver money clip with an intricate design, a handful of similarly valuable items, and a thick roll of greenbacks bound with a rubber band. Literally buried treasure. Clara Wilds’s murderer had fled the scene of his crime empty-handed.

Or had he? There was no way of telling.

Sabina flipped through the greenbacks, found the total to be in excess of two hundred dollars. Then she gathered up all the items, returned them to the blue velvet sack, and tucked the sack into her reticule. After a moment’s reflection, she added the cracked leather purse. There had been no question that she should confiscate everything herself; if she left the items for the police to find, they would never be returned to their rightful owners.

She had been here long enough. At the door she peered out to make sure the carriageway was still deserted, then stepped out and away.

QUINCANNON

Andrew Costain’s offices were in a brick building on Geary Street that housed a dozen attorneys and half as many other professional men. The anteroom held a secretary’s desk but no secretary; the bare desktop and dusty file cabinets behind it suggested that there hadn’t been one in some while. A pair of neatly lettered and somewhat contradictory signs were affixed to one of two closed doors in the inside wall. The upper one proclaimed PRIVATE, the lower invited KNOCK FOR ADMITTANCE.

Quincannon knocked. There were a few seconds of silence before Costain’s whiskey baritone called out, “Yes? Who is it?”

“John Quincannon.”

Another few seconds vanished, as if the lawyer were finishing up business at hand before moving on to the business that required the services of a private investigative agency. Then, “Come in, Mr. Quincannon. Come in.”

Costain was sitting behind a cluttered desk set before a wall covered with what appeared to be a full set of Blackstone, writing in a leather-bound notebook slightly larger than a billfold. More books and papers were scattered on dusty pieces of furniture. On another wall, next to a framed law degree, was a lithograph of John L. Sullivan in a typical fighting pose.

The lawyer motioned to Quincannon to wait while he finished whatever notations he was making. After a few moments he closed the notebook and consigned it to a desk drawer, then sat back with his fingers twiddling an elk’s tooth attached to a thin gold watch chain.

His person was somewhat more tidy than his office, though not as tidy as he’d been in evening dress at the Axminster home. The successful image, however, was belied by the rumpled condition of his expensive tweed suit and striped vest, the frayed edges of his shirt cuffs and collar, his rum-blossom nose and flushed features, and the perfume of forty-rod whiskey that could be detected at ten paces or more. If Quincannon had been a prospective client, instead of it being the other way around, he would have thought twice about entrusting legal matters to Mr. Andrew Costain.

“Thank you for coming,” Costain said. He seemed even more nervous today than he had last night; the fluttering tic on his cheek gave the false impression that he was winking and his hands continued to twitch over the elk’s tooth fob. “You didn’t stop by earlier, by any chance?”

“No, I had other business to attend to.”

“Good, good. I asked because I had to leave the office for a short time-an urgent summons from a client.”

More likely, Quincannon thought cynically, the “urgent summons” had involved a visit to whichever nearby saloon he frequented.

“Have a seat. Cigar? Drink?”

“Neither.”

“I believe I’ll have a small libation, if you don’t mind. It has been something of a trying day.”

“It’s your office, Mr. Costain.”

While Quincannon moved a heavy volume of Blackstone from the single client’s chair and replaced it with his backside, Costain produced a bottle of rye whiskey and a none-too-clean glass from his desk drawer. His idea of a “small one” was three fingers of rye, half of which he tossed off at a gulp. The rum blossom glowed and the flush deepened, but the lawyer’s hands continued their restless roaming.

“Your message mentioned a financial advantage. For what service?”

“That’s rather obvious, isn’t it, in light of recent events. Have you caught the burglar yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“Identified him?”

“To my satisfaction. A man named Dodger Brown.”

“I don’t recognize the name.”

“No reason you should as a civil attorney,” Quincannon said. “It’s only a matter of time until he’s locked away in the city jail.”

“How much time?”

“Within forty-eight hours, if all goes well.”

“How do you plan to catch him? While in the act?”

“If not before.”

“Don’t be ambiguous, man. I have a right to know what you’re up to.”

“Indeed? My client is the Great Western Insurance Company. I need answer only to them.”

Costain drained his glass, looked yearningly at the bottle, wet his lips, and then with a steadfast effort returned both bottle and glass to the desk drawer and pushed it shut. “My name is on that list of potential victims, you said so last night. Naturally I’m concerned. Suppose this man Brown wasn’t frightened off by his near capture at the Truesdales’? Suppose he’s bold enough to try burgling my home next, even this very night? My wife and I can ill afford to have our house ransacked and our valuables stolen. The damned insurance companies never pay off at full value.”

“A legitimate fear.”

“I want you to see to it that we’re not victimized. Hire you to keep watch on my home tonight and every night until you’ve caught this man Brown.”

Quincannon said, “There are other alternatives, you know, which would cost you nothing.”

“Yes, yes, I know. Move our valuables to a safe place and simply stay home nights until the threat is ended. But we have too many possessions to haul away willy-nilly and too little time to undertake the chore. Even if we did remove everything of value, Brown might still break in and if he found nothing worth stealing, vandalize the premises. That has been known to happen, hasn’t it?”

“It has, though not very often.”

“I don’t like the idea of my home being invaded in any case,” Costain said. “And it well could be since it’s on that list of yours. My wife and I have separate appointments tonight and a joint one tomorrow evening that we’re loath to cancel. The house will be empty and fair game from seven until midnight or later both nights.”

“You have no servants?”

“None that live in. And it would be useless to ask for help from the city police without certain knowledge of a crime to be committed.”

Quincannon nodded, considering. If Costain wanted to pay him for the same work he had been engaged to do by Great Western Insurance, there was neither conflict of interest nor any other reasonable argument against it. The notion of another night or two hiding in shrubbery and risking pneumonia had no appeal, but minor hardships were part and parcel of the detective game.

“You’ll accept the job, then?”

“I will,” Quincannon said blandly, “provided you’re willing to pay the standard rate for my time plus an additional fee.”