Bill Pronzini - The Bughouse Affair

“Adam?” John said suspiciously. “Who the deuce is Adam?”

“My roommate.”

“Your … what ?”

“You needn’t look so horrified. Adam is a cat.”

“A young cat, in point of fact,” the Englishman said. “No older than six months.”

“Cat? You never told me you had a cat.”

The look she gave him reaffirmed the fact that there were many things about herself and her personal life she had never told him. “Adam only recently came to live with me.”

Sherlock Holmes, for want of another name, puffed out another great cloud of acrid smoke. “Rather a curious mix of Abyssinian and long-haired Siamese,” he announced.

“Mr. Holmes was able to deduce that from a few wisps of fur on the hem of my skirt. Adam’s approximate age, as well.”

“Remarkable fellow,” John said sourly. “Have you written a monograph on breeds of cat as well as tobacco ash?”

“No, but perhaps one day I shall.” The Englishman once again assumed his pontifical air. “Remarkable creatures, felines. As one of our more famous philosophers once wrote, ‘God made the cat so that man could have the pleasure of caressing the tiger.’”

Sabina had to admit that was an apt assessment, but John was not impressed. He demanded of Holmes, “What brought you here, pray tell?”

“An abiding interest in the inner workings of an American private inquiry agency. As I told your charming associate, I occupied much of yesterday studying accounts of the various investigations you’ve conducted. Excellent detective work, sir and madam. Most commendable.”

“You’ll find no better anywhere.”

“No better anywhere in America, perhaps.”

John bristled at that, but made no comment.

Holmes adjusted his deerstalker at a rakish angle and leaned back comfortably in the chair. “May I ask how your investigation into the residential burglaries is progressing? Have you caught your pannyman yet?”

“What business is that of yours?”

“Now that I’ve finished my researches in your admirable city, I fear I’ve grown bored with conventional tourist activities. San Francisco is quite cosmopolitan for an American city in its infancy, but its geographical, cultural, and historical attractions have decidedly limited appeal in comparison to my native London.”

“Bah. What researches?”

“They are of an esoteric nature, of no interest to the average person or even to fellow sleuths.”

John’s curled lip said he found that to be another addlepated statement. He shed his Chesterfield and went to sit glowering behind his desk.

“The time of my self-imposed exile has almost ended,” Holmes was saying. “Soon I shall return to England and my former pursuits. Crime and the criminal mind challenge my intellect, give zest to my life. I’ve been away from the game too long.”

“I can’t imagine leaving it in the first place.”

“I daresay there were mitigating factors.”

“Not for any reason, with or without mitigating factors.”

Their gazes locked, seemed to strike a spark or two. Sabina sighed, and said, “If you’ll excuse us now, Mr. Holmes, my partner and I have business to discuss.”

“Pray, don’t let my presence stop you. Perhaps I might be of some assistance.”

“Not likely,” John growled.

The Englishman ignored this. He remained seated, his eyes agleam, and said through another cloud of smoke, “Doctor Axminster provided a brief tour of your infamous Barbary Coast shortly after my arrival, but it was superficial and hardly enlightening. I should like to see it as I’ve seen Limehouse in London, from the perspective of a consulting detective. Foul dives, foul deeds! My blood races at the prospect.”

John rolled his eyes and fluffed his beard.

“Would you permit me to join you on your next excursion? Introduce me to the district’s hidden intrigues, some of its more colorful denizens-the dance-hall queen known as The Galloping Cow, Emperor Norton, the odd fellow who allows himself to be assaulted for money?”

“The Galloping Cow has slowed to a bovine walk. Emperor Norton is long dead, and Oofty Goofty soon will be if he allows one more thump on his cranium with a baseball bat. Besides, I’m a detective, not a tour guide.”

“Tut, tut. It is knowledge I’m interested in, not sensation. In return, I offer the benefit of my experience in tracking down your pannyman and his ill-gotten gains.”

“The only experience I need to call on is my own. I have no intention-”

John broke off abruptly, and Sabina saw his expression alter and a wicked light brighten his hazel eyes. She knew that look all too well. It meant a devious notion had come to him and his wily brain was busy concocting mischief.

He said through a wolfish smile, “I had a message from Andrew Costain this morning requesting a meeting. I’ve just come from his offices.”

“Ah. A matter pertaining to the burglaries?”

“Yes. He’s afraid of being the burglar’s next victim and wants his home put under surveillance until the yegg is caught.”

Sabina said, “You didn’t accept?”

“I did, and why not? There is no conflict of interest in accepting payment from more than one client to perform the same task, as Costain himself pointed out.”

“Still, it’s not quite ethical.…”

“Ethics be damned. A fee is a fee for services rendered, and that includes providing peace of mind to nervous citizens. Eh, Holmes?”

“Indubitably.”

“We’re to begin tonight. Costain’s home is near South Park, not as large a property as banker Truesdale’s but nonetheless substantial, and with both front and rear entrances. I explained to the lawyer that proper surveillance will require two operatives, and he agreed to the extra fee.”

Now Sabina understood the nature of the mischief he’d hatched. She said his name warningly, but he pretended not to hear. He continued to address the Englishman.

“There are a number of operatives I could call upon, but I wonder, given your interest in this case and your eagerness to return to the game, if you might be willing to join me at the task?”

Another noxious cloud erupted from Holmes’s pipe. Sabina smothered a cough and turned her head toward the window for fresh air.

“Splendid suggestion!” Holmes said. “I would be honored. In return for my services, I ask only that you acquaint me with the Barbary Coast as you know it.”

“Agreed. You’ll see the Coast as few ever have.”

Holmes smiled.

John smiled.

Sabina grimaced.

The two men made arrangements to meet at Hoolihan’s Saloon at seven o’clock, after which Holmes finally departed. When she and John were alone, Sabina let her exasperation with his cavalier and less-than-scrupulous behavior bubble to the surface. “You’ve taken leave of your senses, John Quincannon. You’re as daft as the Englishman.”

“Daft? Sly as a fox, you mean. Now there’s no need to pay another operative for the work of an evening or two. Andrew Costain’s fees belong entirely to us.”

“Holmes only believes himself to be a trained detective. He could do more harm than good on a night’s surveillance.”

“Poppycock. I’ll see to it he doesn’t interfere if Dodger Brown comes skulking again tonight.”

“The way you didn’t let him interfere two nights ago?”

John looked pained. “That won’t happen again.”

“Don’t be too sure. Dodger Brown may be more dangerous than you think.”

“A scrawny yegg like him? Faugh.”

“Not only a yegg-possibly a murderer.”

“What’s that? Who would he have murdered?”

“Clara Wilds. I found her dead in her rooms earlier this afternoon. Stabbed in the throat with her hatpin.”