Bill Pronzini - The Bughouse Affair

She spent the rest of the morning in the vicinity of Wilds’s rooms, asking carefully phrased questions of residents, passersby, and wandering street vendors. The pickpocket’s murder seemed to have aroused only mild interest in the neighborhood, and only two individuals acknowledged knowing her by sight. But neither knew or would say anything about Wilds’s comings and goings or any regular male visitors she might have had.

Sabina’s perseverance finally produced results at two o’clock, when she knocked on the door of a home across the carriageway that ran behind Wilds’s boarding house.

The woman who answered the door seemed more inquisitive than any of the other neighbors. When she admitted to having seen Wilds on several occasions and to being shocked by the murder, Sabina decided that the best way to gain her confidence was to identify herself-something she had avoided doing elsewhere in the neighborhood. She presented her card, and explained her interest in Clara Wilds in vague terms, saying that Wilds was “the subject of an investigation for an important client.” The neighbor, whose name was Mrs. Anthony Marcus, seemed thrilled to be in the presence of a lady detective; she invited Sabina into a tidy parlor free of the usual gimcracks for further conversation.

Mrs. Marcus was a large individual of some forty years who wore her age and weight well. Her graying hair was dressed close to the head with curled fringe at the forehead and fairly high buns on top, her rather plain face open and eager, her eyes bright as a bird’s. Not exactly a busybody or a gossip, Sabina thought, but nonetheless a woman who took a much keener interest in her surroundings than most.

“Ever since that woman moved in across the way,” Mrs. Marcus said, “I’ve thought there was something … well, furtive about her. The circumstances of her death certainly seem to confirm it.”

“In what ways did you think her furtive?”

“Her comings and goings were extremely irregular. Early mornings to very late nights, and as often as not she would approach her rooms along the carriageway below. Her dress was … how shall I put it … eccentric and varied greatly, as if she were trying to disguise her real person.”

Sabina nodded. “Please, go on.”

“Not that I’m the sort to spy on my neighbors, you understand. It’s just that my kitchen windows overlook the end corner of the boarding house where she had her rooms. My husband claims I spend too much time in the kitchen, day and night, but I believe in cleanliness and careful preparation of meals-”

“Is there anything else you can tell me about her? Did she have many visitors?”

“Well, the times I saw her leave and return she was alone. Except one evening, that is, when she was accompanied by a man who entered her rooms with her. That dreadful Barbary Coast isn’t far from here. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that she spent much of her time there. She wasn’t a … soiled dove, was she?”

“No.”

“Something just as wicked, though?”

“I’m not at liberty to say. Did you have a clear look at the man?”

“Yes, fairly clear.” Mrs. Marcus sniffed. “It was still light and they came strolling up the carriageway arm in arm.”

Sabina described Dodger Brown. “Is he the one?”

“Oh, no. The man was … let me see … in his forties, stocky. Bushy black hair. And rather well-dressed.”

Victor Pope.

“How long ago was it that you saw them together, Mrs. Marcus?”

“Just last week.”

“Did you happen to see Clara Wilds yesterday?”

“No. No, the last time was the day before.”

“Or anyone else in the vicinity of her rooms?”

“The person who took her life? No. If I had, I would certainly have informed the police.”

It was fortunate that Mrs. Marcus hadn’t been at her kitchen window when Sabina arrived or when she’d left a short time later. Not that she was particularly well known by sight to the city detectives, but Mrs. Marcus was an observer with a sharp eye for detail. A description of Sabina might have led to a certain amount of unpleasant questioning about her presence in the murdered pickpocket’s rooms.

“Oh, but there is one thing I did see yesterday, Mrs. Carpenter. I don’t know if it means anything or not, but it did seem a bit odd at the time.”

“And what would that be?”

“There was a buggy parked in the alley below, behind the boarding house. A rather nice one that I’ve never seen before or since. That’s why I noticed it-buggies like that are uncommon in this neighborhood.”

“What time was this?”

“Midafternoon, shortly before I left to do my marketing. It was gone when I returned … Oh! You don’t suppose…?”

“Possibly. In which direction was it facing?”

“Toward Columbus Avenue.”

“Was there any sign of the driver?”

“No, none.”

“Can you describe the buggy?”

“Well, it was black, with its top up.”

“Distinctive trim of any sort?”

“No … Wait, yes. The wheel spokes were a faded gold color.”

“Faded. The rig wasn’t new, then?”

“No, I don’t believe it was.”

“Did you recognize the manufacturer?”

Mrs. Marcus shook her head. “I’m afraid I know nothing at all about equipages.”

“One horse or two?”

“One. A brown one.”

“Bay, sorrel, chestnut?”

“I really couldn’t say. Brown is brown to me.”

Sabina thanked the woman and rose to leave. At the door Mrs. Marcus asked if she should notify the police about the buggy. Sabina said no, that wasn’t necessary, she would attend to the matter herself, and asked that her visit and investigation be kept in the strictest confidence as well. The less her confidante had to do with the blue coats, the better.

Outside again, she made her way to the carriageway that bisected the block. At the approximate place behind Wilds’s boarding house where the horse and buggy had been parked, she briefly examined the ground in the small hope of finding a footprint or some other clue. But there was nothing in the matted-down grass and weeds except meaningless bits of litter and unidentifiable wheel marks. After a time she continued on down the carriageway to where it intersected with Columbus Avenue across from Washington Square.

A flower seller’s stand occupied the corner of the square directly opposite: a great showy splash of red and green, yellow and blue, pink and purple. A young man with a flowing mane of blond hair was urging a bouquet of multicolored carnations upon an older man, who finally succumbed and departed, looking dubiously at his purchase. Sabina took his place at the stand.

“Roses for you, miss?” the vendor asked. “Pink, to match your lovely complexion?”

A pink rose for the former Pink Rose. Well, why not? “I’ll buy one in exchange for some information.”

“Only one?”

“Only one.”

“A half dozen is a much better value.”

She was in no mood to haggle. “A half dozen, then.”

As he set about choosing and wrapping them, she described the buggy and the approximate time it had been parked and asked if he had happened to see it entering or leaving the carriageway. He handed her the cone-shaped package, rubbed his chin in thought, and then nodded.

“I did see a rig like that come by around that time. Black one-Concord, I think it was. Big old bay in the traces. Reason I noticed it, it almost collided with a brewer’s dray just up the block.”

“Did you have a clear look at the driver?”

“Fair look. Small fellow, wore dark clothes and a cloth cap.”

Dodger Brown, Sabina thought. But what would a common yegg like the Dodger be doing driving an expensive Concord buggy, even an old one?