Bill Pronzini - The Bughouse Affair

Neither man had anything more to say to the other. It was as if a gauntlet had been thrown down, a tacit challenge issued-which the bughouse Sherlock seemed to think was the case. Two bloodhounds on the scent, no longer working in consort, but as competitors in an undeclared contest of wills. Quincannon would have none of that nonsense. As far as he was concerned, there was only one detective at work here, only one sane man qualified and capable of answering the challenge.

The blue coats arrived in less than half an hour, what for them was swift dispatch. They were half a dozen in number, accompanied by a handful of reporters representing Fremont Older’s Call, the Daily Alta, and San Francisco’s other newspapers, who were made to wait outside-half as many of both breeds as there would have been if the murder of a prominent attorney had happened on Nob Hill.

The inspector in charge was a beefy, red-faced Prussian named Kleinhoffer, whom Quincannon knew slightly and condoned not in the slightest. Inspector Kleinhoffer was both stupid and corrupt, a lethal combination, and a political toady besides. His opinion of flycops was on par with Quincannon’s opinion of him.

His first comment was, “Involved in another killing, eh, Quincannon? What’s your excuse this time?”

Quincannon explained, briefly, the reason he was there. He omitted mention of Dodger Brown by name, using the phrase “unknown burglar” instead and catching the Englishman’s eye as he spoke so the lunatic would say nothing to contradict him. He was not about to chance losing a fee-small chance though it was, the police being such a generally inept bunch-by providing information that might allow them to stumble across the Dodger ahead of him.

Kleinhoffer sneered. “Some fancy flycop. You’re sure he’s not still somewhere in the house?”

“Sure enough.”

“We’ll see about that.” He gestured to a burly red-faced sergeant, who stepped forward. “Mahoney, you and your men search the premises top to bottom.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kleinhoffer’s beady gaze settled on the Englishman, ran over his face and his ridiculous disguise. “Who’re you?” he demanded.

“S. Holmes, of London, England. A temporary associate of Mr. Quincannon’s private inquiry agency.”

Quincannon was none too pleased at the last statement, but he offered no disclaimer. Better that false assertion than a rambling monologue on what a masterful detective Holmes fancied himself to be.

“A limey, eh?” Kleinhoffer said. Then, to Quincannon, “Picking your operatives off the docks these days, are you?”

“If I am, it’s no concern of yours.”

“None of your guff. Where’s the stiff?”

“In the study.”

Kleinhoffer gave Andrew Costain’s remains a cursory examination. “Shot and stabbed both,” he said wonderingly. “You didn’t tell me that. What the hell happened here tonight?”

Quincannon’s account, given in detail, heightened the inspector’s apoplectic color and narrowed his beady eyes to slits. Any crime more complicated than a Barbary Coast stabbing or coshing invariably confused him, and the evident facts in this case threatened to tie a permanent knot in his cranial lobes.

He shook his head, as if trying to shake loose cobwebs, and snapped, “None of that makes a damned bit of sense.”

“Sense or not, that is exactly what took place.”

“You there, limey. He leave anything out?”

“Tut, tut,” Holmes said with dignity. “I am an Englishman, sir, a British subject … not a ‘limey.’”

“I don’t care if you’re the president of England-”

“There is no president of England. My country is a monarchy.”

Kleinhoffer gnashed his yellowed teeth. “Never mind that. Did Quincannon leave anything out or didn’t he?”

“He did not. His re-creation of events was precise in every detail.”

“So you say. I say it couldn’t have happened the way you two tell it.”

“Nonetheless, it did, though what seems to have transpired is not necessarily what actually took place. What we are dealing with here is illusion and obfuscation.”

The inspector wrapped an obscene noun in a casing of disgust. After which he stooped to pick up the Forehand amp; Wadsworth revolver. He sniffed the barrel, broke it open to check the chambers as Quincannon had done, then dropped the weapon into his coat pocket. He was squinting at the empty valuables case when Sergeant Mahoney entered the room.

“No sign of anybody in the house,” he reported.

“Back door still wedged shut?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then he must’ve managed to slip out the front while these two flycops weren’t looking.”

“I beg to differ,” Holmes said. He mentioned the heavy chair. “It was not moved until your arrival, Inspector, by Mr. Quincannon and myself. Even if it had been, I would surely have heard the scraping and dragging sounds. My hearing is preternaturally acute.”

Kleinhoffer said the rude word again.

Mahoney said, “Mrs. Costain is here.”

“What’s that?”

“The dead man’s wife. Mrs. Penelope Costain. She just come home.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so? Bring her in here.”

The sergeant did as directed. Penelope Costain was stylishly garbed in a high-collared blouse, flounced skirt, and fur-trimmed cloak, her brunette curls tucked under a hat adorned with an ostrich plume. She took one look at her husband’s remains, shuddered violently, and began to sway as if about to faint. Mahoney caught one arm to steady her. Quincannon took hold of the other and together they helped her to one of the chairs.

She drew several deep breaths, fanned herself with one hand. “I … I’m all right,” she said after a few moments. Her gaze touched the body again and immediately away. “Poor Andrew. He was a brave man.… He must have fought terribly for his life.”

“We’ll get the man who did it,” Kleinhoffer promised foolishly.

“Can’t you … cover him with something?”

“Mahoney. Find a cloth.”

“Yes, sir.”

Penelope Costain nibbled at a torn fingernail, her head tilted to one side as she peered up at the faces ringed above her. “Is that you, Mr. Holmes? What are you doing here, dressed in such outlandish clothing?”

“He was working with me,” Quincannon said.

“With you? Two detectives in tandem failed to prevent this … this outrage?”

“None of what happened was our fault.”

She said bitterly, “That is the same statement you made two nights ago. Nothing, no tragedy, is ever your fault, evidently.”

Kleinhoffer was still holding the empty valuables case. He extended it to the widow, saying, “This was on the floor, Mrs. Costain.”

“Yes. My husband kept it in his desk.”

“What was in it?”

“Twenty-dollar gold pieces, a dozen or so. And the more expensive pieces among my jewelery … a diamond brooch, a pair of diamond earrings, a pearl necklace.”

“Worth how much, would you say?”

“I don’t know … several thousand dollars, I should think.” She looked again at Quincannon, this time with open hostility.

Kleinhoffer did the same. He said, “You and the limey were here the entire time, and still you let that yegg murder Mr. Costain and get away with the swag … right under your noses. Well? What’ve you got to say for yourselves?”

Quincannon had nothing to say.

Neither did the bughouse Sherlock.

QUINCANNON

It was well past midnight when Quincannon finally trudged wearily up the stairs to his rooms. After Kleinhoffer had finished with him, the newspapermen had descended-on him but not on the Englishman, who managed to slip away unnoticed. Quincannon had taken pains to keep Holmes well in the background; in his comments to the reporters, he referred to him as a “temporary operative” and an “underling.”