Bill Pronzini - The Bughouse Affair

The troll turned abruptly and stepped through the drapery. Quincannon vaulted the counter, followed him into an incredibly cluttered office lighted by an oil lamp. A farrago of items covered the surface of a battered rolltop desk; boxes and wrappings littered the floor; piles of curios teetered precariously on a pair of claw-foot tables. In one corner was a large and fairly new Mosler safe. Duff glanced back, noted Quincannon’s expression, and reluctantly proceeded to open the safe. He tried to shield the interior with his body, but Quincannon loomed up behind to peer over the troll’s shoulder as his hands sifted through the contents.

“If I find out you’ve withheld so much as a collar stay,” Quincannon warned him, “I’ll pay you a return visit that won’t be half so pleasant as this one.”

Duff shuddered again and brought forth a chamois pouch, which he handed over with even greater reluctance. Quincannon holstered the Navy, shook the contents of the pouch into his palm. One sapphire brooch, two pairs of sapphire earrings, and a large gold-nugget watch fob.

“This is only a small portion of the Dodger’s recent acquisitions. Where’s the rest?”

“I swear this is all he brought me yesterday!”

“Then he’s planning to return with the rest. When? Today?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

“The truth now.”

“That is the truth, I swear it.”

“How much did you give him for these baubles?”

“Two hundred dollars. He … ah … seemed to think they were worth more, but he took the cash. He seemed in a hurry.”

“Yes? Frightened, was he?”

“No. Eager, excited about something. All in a lather.”

“Did he give you an idea of what had raised his blood pressure?”

“No. None.”

“Or happen to mention Clara Wilds?”

“Who? I don’t…”

“Luther.”

“No. No, we only discussed business.”

“But he is still consorting with her, isn’t he?”

“I have no idea. He’s never brought her here, never spoken of her to me. Someone else … ah…”

“Fences her ill-gotten gains. Yes, I know.”

Quincannon was satisfied that Duff hadn’t withheld anything important to his investigation. He returned the items of jewelry to the pouch and tucked the pouch into his coat pocket.

“Here, now!” the troll cried. “You can’t … that’s my property!”

“No, it isn’t. Not yours and not Dodger Brown’s. These sparklers belong to Judge Adam Winthrop and his wife, two of the Dodger’s recent victims. Don’t worry, I’ll make certain they’re returned to their rightful owners safe and sound, with your compliments.”

Duff looked as if he were about to burst into tears.

“Gahh,” he said.

QUINCANNON

A trolley car delivered Quincannon to the Ferry Building at the foot of Market Street. Ferries for the East Bay left every twenty to thirty minutes, and he arrived just in time to catch one of the Southern Pacific boats. A chilly half hour later, he disembarked with the other passengers and made his way up the Estuary to the Oakland City Wharf.

The place was an amalgam of the colorful and the squalid. Arctic whalers, Chinese junks, Greek fishing boats, Yankee sailing ships, disreputable freighters, scows, sloops, shrimpers, oyster boats, houseboats; long rows of warehouses crowded here and there by shacks fashioned from bits and pieces of wreckage or from dismantled ships; long barren sandpits.

He approached three men in turn to ask the whereabouts of an oysterman named Salty Jim, owner of a boat with “oyster” in the name. The first two either didn’t know or wouldn’t say, but the third, a crusty old sailor with a Tam-o’-Shanter pulled down over his ears, who sat propped against an iron cleat with a half-mended fishnet across his lap, knew Salty Jim well enough. And clearly didn’t like him.

“Salty Jim O’Bannon,” he said, “ain’t no oysterman.”

“No? What is he?”

The oldster screwed up his face and spat off the wharf side. “A damn pirate, that’s what.”

Involved in the oyster trade, indeed, Quincannon thought sardonically. He’d had a run-in with oyster pirates once and did not relish a repeat performance. They were a scurvy lot, the dregs of the coastal waters-worse by far than Chinese shrimp raiders or Greek salmon poachers. At the first flood tide in June, an entire fleet of them would head down the bay to Asparagus Island to set up raiding parties on the beds. And much of the harvest would be stolen despite the efforts of the Fish Patrol and privately hired agencies such as Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services. The only thing that kept the pirates from taking complete control of the bay waters was their own vicious behavior. Regular consumption of alcohol and opium combined with general cussedness had led to many a cutting or shooting scrape and many a corpse in the sandpits.

“How come you’re lookin’ for the likes of Salty Jim O’Bannon?” the old sailor asked. “Not fixin’ to join up with him, are you?”

“No chance of that. It’s not him I’m after.”

“Who, then?”

“A cousin of his, Dodger Brown. Know the lad?”

“Can’t say I do. Don’t want to know him, if he’s as black-hearted a cuss as Salty Jim.”

“He may be, at that.”

“What’s his dodge? Not another pirate, is he?”

“Housebreaker.”

“And what’re you? You’ve got the look and questions of a nabber.”

“Policeman?” Quincannon was mildly offended. “Manhunter on the scent is more like it. Where does Salty Jim O’Bannon keep his boat? Hereabouts?”

“Hell. He wouldn’t dare.” The oldster spat again for emphasis. “He anchors off Davis Wharf. Don’t tie up for fear of one of his pirate pals slippin’ on board at night and murderin’ him in his sleep.”

“What’s her name?”

“ Oyster Catcher . Now ain’t that a laugh.”

“He lives aboard, does he?”

“He does. Might find him there now-I ain’t seen nor heard of him puttin’ out into the bay yet today. If you’re fixin’ to go out and see him, I hope you’re carryin’ a weapon and ain’t shy about usin’ it. Salty Jim ain’t exactly sociable to strangers.”

Meaningfully Quincannon patted the holster where his Navy Colt rested. The old sailor’s rheumy eyes brightened at the gesture. “Why, then, I hope you find that son of a bitch, mate. I purely hope you do.”

He provided directions to Davis Wharf. When Quincannon arrived there, he saw that sloops and schooners were anchored in the bay nearby, so many that he wasted no time in trying to pick out the Oyster Catcher . A ragged youth who was fishing with a hand line off the wharf side made the identification for him. The youth also agreed to rent out his own patched skiff beached in the tidal mud fifty rods distant. The boy seemed impressed that Quincannon was intent on visiting Salty Jim, the oyster pirate, but not for the same reason as the old sailor; the shine of hero worship was in his eyes.

Quincannon repressed the urge to shake some sense into the lad. You couldn’t hope to make everyone walk the straight and narrow. Besides, a new generation of crooks meant continued prosperity for Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, well into his and Sabina’s dotage.

He stowed his grip in the skiff, rowed out to the Oyster Catcher. She was a good-size sloop with a small cabin amidships, her mainsail furled, her hull in need of paint, but otherwise in reasonably good repair. No one was on deck, but from inside the cabin he could hear the discordant strumming of a banjo-an instrument for which he held an active dislike. He shipped his oars until he was able to draw in next to a disreputable rowboat tied to a portside Jacob’s ladder. He tied the skiff’s painter to another rung, drew his Navy, and climbed quickly on board.