Bill Pronzini - The Bughouse Affair

Quickly she related her activities of the day, ending with her discovery of the hiding place of the pickpocket’s spoils and her removal of them to the security of their office safe. John listened without interruption, tugging at his whiskers as he considered the news.

When she finished, he said, “Was there any evidence of who committed the deed?”

“None of a specific nature. But it could have been Dodger Brown.”

“Did you find anything to suggest he had been visiting Wilds in her rooms?”

“No.”

“None of the people you spoke to were able to verify whether or not she was still consorting with him?”

“Not willingly, at least.”

“Then he’s no more a suspect in her murder than anyone else.”

“Except that he does have brown hair,” Sabina said. “Do you recall if it’s fine and on the curly side?”

“I believe it is. We’ll know if he’s guilty when he’s found.”

“I take it you failed to get a line on his whereabouts?”

“In my rounds today, yes, but it’s only a matter of time. Ezra Bluefield agreed to put the word out on him.”

“I hope for your sake that it produces rapid results.”

John waved that away. “You were well advised to confiscate the swag from Clara Wilds’s crimes before the blue coats could steal it. Have you notified Charles Ackerman yet?”

“No, but I will soon. I haven’t had time to telephone for an appointment.”

“You don’t propose to tell him how and where you recovered the loot?”

“Of course not. I’ve no intention of mentioning Clara Wilds by name, or revealing the fact that she’s dead.”

“And the valuables?”

“I’ll return them to their rightful owners personally. Assuming I can identify what belongs to whom. There are some that are not on the lists of stolen items from the Chutes and Wilds’s other recent forays.”

“Let’s have a look.”

Sabina opened the safe and removed the valuables, though she left the roll of greenbacks in the drawer where she’d tucked it. John examined the silver money clip with a covetous eye. But even if she weren’t in the office with him, he would not have considered appropriating it; her partner sometimes walked the borderline between honesty and illegality, but a healthy contempt for crooks of all types was too strong for him to descend to their level. His greed, fortunately, was limited to money received for services rendered.

He sifted among the other items, then opened and looked inside Henry Holbrooke’s purse, as she’d known he would. “Empty,” he said. “Why did you bring the purse? It has no value.”

“Perhaps it does.”

“To the owner?”

“No. To the owner’s widow. Let me worry about this matter, John. You’d do well to keep your mind on Dodger Brown.”

SABINA

Before John left the office, she again argued against what he called his “evening’s entertainment with Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” To no avail. He could be infuriatingly stubborn when taken with one of his perverse notions, and this was such an instance. He simply refused to believe that using the Englishman as he was planning to do, for sport as well as for the saving of a few dollars, was both foolish and potentially dangerous.

She had learned ways to curb his more outrageous behavior, but they required considerable effort and guile and she reserved them for matters of greater importance than this. And yet, this was not necessarily a minor matter. If something went awry tonight, and serious mistakes were made and-God forbid-John or the Englishman or some innocent party were harmed, the agency’s reputation would be severely damaged. Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, was known for conducting successful investigations with discretion and a minimum of trouble and publicity. Employing a man whose faculties were suspect was a risky undertaking; if their important clients were to hear of it, some or all might decide to patronize another agency.

But it was too late now to renew her efforts to change his mind. She had several other items of business to occupy her time and her concerns. She would just have to hope for the best where John and the poor deluded Englishman were concerned.

Clara Wilds’s murder still troubled her. If Dodger Brown was the killer, he would bear the marks of Wilds’s nails when he was found and captured and a confession would be wrung from him as a result. But she was not convinced that he was guilty; there was no evidence that he was still consorting with Wilds, and the circumstances of the pickpocket’s death didn’t seem to fit either his nature or his past crimes.

If he wasn’t responsible, then the murder might well go unsolved and unpunished. The prospect didn’t set well with Sabina. She disliked loose ends, and offenses, especially violent offenses after what had happened to Stephen, that had no resolution. But what could she do about it? Mounting an investigation of her own without benefit of a client wasn’t justifiable, and there was little prospect of anyone hiring her on Clara Wilds’s behalf. Certainly not the woman’s uncle; even if Tony the Fish Monger had cared for his niece, it was unlikely that he could afford the agency’s fees. The only person Sabina had met who might have cared enough was Dippin’ Sal, and she too lacked the necessary funds.…

Sabina put these thoughts aside and turned her attention to the valuables she had recovered from the pickpocket’s rooms, which were still spread out on her desk. She checked each item against the list of Chutes victims’ losses Lester Sweeney had given her, and the information she’d obtained from Wilds’s victims on the Cocktail Route and at the Market Street bazaar. The items she was able to identify went into manila envelopes with the individual’s name written on each, then into her reticule.

When she was done, several pieces were still unaccounted for. All but one of these bore no identifying marks of any kind, so the only thing she could do was to check reports of stolen mechandise filed with police and insurance companies-a task that, with her busy schedule, would have to be done catch-as-catch-can. The one exception was the hammered silver money clip with the name of the silversmith who had made it etched into the metal.

In the city directory she found a listing for W. Reilly amp; Sons, Silversmiths-a shop that was large enough and modern enough to be a subscriber to the telephone exchange. Her call was answered by a deep-voiced man who gave his name as Wendell Reilly, the owner. Sabina identified herself and made her request, giving it weight by saying that the money clip had been stolen from its owner and would be returned once she knew to whom it belonged.

“If the clip is one of ours,” Reilly said, “I may be able to identify the customer. Many of our pieces are made to special order and this sounds as if it might be one of them. But I’ll have to see it to be sure.”

“Of course. I should be able to stop by later today. What are your hours?”

“The shop is open until five thirty, but I’m usually here until seven.”

Sabina thanked him and rang off.

There was one more task to be done before she was ready to leave. She removed two hundred dollars from the roll of confiscated greenbacks and added it to the single note remaining in the worn leather billfold. John wouldn’t approve if he knew-his view was that they were entitled to unverifiable cash sums recovered from crooks’ clutches-but she had no intention of telling him. Henry Holbrooke deserved a proper burial marker, and his widow needed whatever was left far more than Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services.

The offices of Mr. Charles Ackerman, owner of the Chutes and attorney for the Southern Pacific Railroad and the Market Street and Sutter Street railway lines, were in the Montgomery Block, a favored location for upper-echelon lawyers, physicians, and businessmen. The building, the first fireproof edifice constructed in the city, was known affectionately as the Monkey Block, but its stern gray masonry belied the nickname.