Bill Pronzini - The Bughouse Affair

The evening parade had yet to begin when Quincannon alighted from the Market Street trolley at O’Farrell Street, his pockets empty now of the stolen loot; he had stopped off at the agency to lock it away in the office safe. Above him, as he strolled along the wooden sidewalk, sundry flounced undergarments clung to telephone wires, another form of advertisement tossed out by the inhabitants of the shuttered houses lining the route. This, too, had scandalized and provoked the blue-nose reformers.

Midway in the third block, he paused before a plain shuttered building that bore the numerals 244 on its front door. A small, discreet sign on the vestibule wall said FIDDLE DEE DEE in gilt letters.

A smiling colored maid opened the door in answer to his ring and escorted him into an ornately furnished parlor, where he declined the offer of refreshment and requested an audience with Miss Lettie Carew. When he was alone he perched on a red plush chair, closed his nostrils to the mingled scent of incense and patchouli, and glanced around the room with professional interest.

Patterned lace curtains and red velvet drapes at the blinded windows. Several red plush chairs and settees, rococo tables, ruby-shaded lamps, gilt-framed mirrors, oil paintings of exotically voluptuous nudes. There was also a handful of framed mottoes, one of which Quincannon could read from where he sat: If every man was as true to his country as he is to his wife … God help the U.S.A. In all, the parlor was similar to Bessie Hall’s, doubtless by design, although it was neither as lavish nor as stylish. None could match “the woman who licked John L. Sullivan” when it came to extravagance.

At the end of five minutes, Lettie Carew swept into the room. Quincannon blinked and managed not to let his jaw unhinge. Miss Lettie had been described to him on more than one occasion, but this was his first glimpse of her in the flesh. And a great deal of flesh there was. She resembled nothing so much as a giant blond-haired cherub, pink and puffed and painted, dressed in pinkish white silk and trailing rose-colored feather boas and a cloud of sweet perfume that threatened to finish off what oxygen had been left undamaged by the patchouli and incense.

Even before she reached him she launched her into a practiced spiel: “Welcome, sir, welcome to the Fiddle Dee Dee, home of an array of bountiful beauties from exotic lands. I am the proprietress, Miss Lettie Carew.”

Quincannon blinked again. The madam’s voice was small and shrill, not much louder than a mouse squeak. The fact that it emanated from such a mountainous woman made it all the more startling.

“What can I do for you, sir? Don’t be shy … ask and ye shall receive. Every gentleman’s pleasure is my command.”

“How many Chinese girls are employed here?”

“Ah, you have a taste for the mysterious East. Only one at present, Ming Toy, from far-off Shanghai. And most popular she is, sir, most popular. However, she is currently engaged.”

“How long has she been engaged?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Only a short while? Or for a longer period? It is possible to engage the services of one of your ladies by day as well as by hour, I’m sure.”

“Oh, yes. For as long as a gentleman requires. Ming Toy has been entertaining since yesterday and may continue to do so for the rest of today. Would you like to make a reservation?”

“What I’d like,” Quincannon said, “is to know if the lad she’s entertaining is young, slight, with thinning brown hair and a fondness for red wine?”

Lettie Carew raised one artfully plucked eyebrow. “And why would you want to know that?”

“Answer my question, please.”

“Our customers are entitled to privacy-”

“Balderdash.” Quincannon hardened his voice and his expression. “Is Ming Toy’s customer the gent I described?”

“And if he is? What’s your interest in him?”

“Professional. The lad’s a wanted felon.”

Lettie Carew’s subservient pose evaporated. “Oh, lordy, don’t tell me you’re a copper.”

He allowed his stern expression to convince her that he was. Identifying himself would have served no purpose; parlor house madams were terrified of the police, but not of detectives who had no official standing.

“Bloody hell!” she said.

“How long has he been here, Lettie?”

“Since yesterday afternoon.”

“But he did leave for a time in the evening?”

“He may have, I don’t know. Ask him or Ming Toy.”

“He’s here now, is he?”

“Upstairs. Will you let me roust him out so you can make your arrest outside? I have other customers. I run a quiet house and I paid my graft this week, same as always.…”

“No. Which room is Ming Toy’s?”

The madam muttered a naughty word. “There won’t be any shooting, will there?”

“Not if it can be avoided.”

“Well, if there’s any damage, the city will pay for it or I’ll sue. That includes bloodstains on the carpet, bedding, and furniture.”

“Which room, Lettie?”

She impaled him with a long smoky glare before she squeaked, “Nine,” and turned and flounced out of the room.

In the front hallway, a long carpeted staircase led to the second floor. Quincannon mounted it with his hand on the Navy Colt under his coat. The odd-numbered rooms were to the left of the stairs; in front of the door bearing a gilt-edged 9, he stopped to listen. No discernible sounds issued from within. He drew his revolver, depressed the latch, and stepped into a room decorated in an ostentatious Chinese-dragon style, dimly lighted by rice-paper lanterns and choked with incense and wine vapors.

He had no need for the Navy. Dodger Brown was sprawled supine on the near side of the four-poster bed, dressed in a pair of soiled long johns, flatulent snoring sounds emanating from his open mouth.

The girl who sat beside him was no more than twenty, delicate-featured, her comeliness marred by dark eyes already as old as Eve in the garden. She hopped off the bed, pulling a loose silk wrapper around her thin body, and hurried to where Quincannon stood. If she were aware of his weapon, it made no apparent impression on her.

“Busy,” she said in a singsong voice, “busy, busy.”

“Not anymore, Ming Toy. It’s the lad there I’m after, not you.”

“So?” The young-old eyes blinked several times. “Finished?” she asked hopefully.

“Finished,” he agreed. “He’ll spend this night in jail.”

She bobbed her head as if the prospect pleased her, then aimed a disgusted look at the snoring Dodger. “Wine,” she said.

“He won’t be drinking anything but water from now on.”

“Good-bye, Ming Toy?”

“Not until you answer my questions. What time did he leave last night?”

“Leave?”

“Yes, and what time did he return?”

“Not leave. Here all day, all night.”

“He never left at all? You’re sure he didn’t slip out while you were asleep?”

“I not sleep, he sleep. Drink, hump, sleep, snore. Drink, hump, sleep, snore. All day, all night.” Ming Toy wrinkled her nose. “Phooey,” she said.

“All right. Good-bye now.”

She went, vanishing as swiftly and silently as a wraith.

Quincannon padded to the bedside. Four rough shakes, and Dodger Brown stopped snoring and his eyes popped open. For several seconds he lay inert, peering up blearily at the face looming above him. Recognition came an instant before he levered himself off the bed in a single convulsive lunge.

The movement was so sudden, so swift, Quincannon had no time to straighten or set himself. Or to avoid the lowered head that thudded into his midsection and sent him staggering backward into a bamboo screen. The screen folded up with a clatter and he went down on top of it. Before he could untangle himself, Dodger Brown had the door open and was stumbling out into the hallway.