Marcia Muller - The Plague of Thieves Affair

He clawed his way up the tree, panting, and got his feet under him. He still had hold of the Navy; a bloody wonder it hadn’t gone off when he smacked the ground, with him on top of it. With his free hand he pawed wetness out of his eyes. Corby, he saw then, had managed to remain upright and therefore increased his lead to what it had been before. He had now almost reached the far end of the lot.

By the time Quincannon got to that point, Corby was dashing diagonally across the next street. Moments later he disappeared into a narrow alleyway between a butcher’s shop and an emporium that sold carriage accessories. The number of pedestrians abroad made it prudent for Quincannon to holster the Navy before rushing free of the lot’s confines. When he plunged recklessly ahead onto the cobblestones, he risked life and limb by cutting so close past a rumbling dray wagon that the driver had to swerve and yank on his brake. A string of profane oaths followed him onto the opposite sidewalk and into the mouth of the alley.

Sparse grass grew there; the rest of its narrow expanse was bare earthen ruts that the rain had turned into a quagmire. The muddy surface had impeded Corby’s flight, slowing him enough so that Quincannon, heedless of the threat of another fall, had closed the gap between them to a few rods when the fugitive emerged into an equally muddy wagon yard.

The yard belonged to a business housed in a ramshackle wooden building, a sign above its wide double doors proclaiming it to be THOMAS VAIL AND SONS, COOPERAGE. Corby slid to a halt, looking for a way out of the yard. But it had no exit or entrance other than the alley. With his pursuer now almost within clutching distance, he stumbled to the doors which had been closed against the rain, dragged one half open, and hurled himself inside.

Quincannon slogged in after him. The interior of the cooperage was weakly lighted, inhabited by a trio of men in leather aprons working with hammers, saws, and lathes. Barrels and kegs of various sizes rose in stacks along one wall. The rest of the space was cluttered with tools, lumber, staves, forged metal rings.

Corby was over by the stacks, hopping back and forth in such a frenzy that spray came from his sodden clothing, searching frantically — and futilely — for a way out of the trap he’d blundered into. One of the coopers shouted something that Quincannon paid no attention to. He advanced implacably.

Corby looked at him with eyes the size of half-dollars, then dodged sideways in among the barrels. Quincannon lunged, caught the sleeve of his raincoat, but his fingers were too wet and stiff to maintain the grip. He took another step forward, brushing against one of the barrels in his haste — and in the next second, a shove from Corby sent the stack toppling over on him with a thunderous clatter.

Quincannon ducked, throwing up his arm to protect his head, just in time to keep the tumbling barrels from braining him. Nonetheless they knocked him flat to the sawdust-covered floor, and an edge of one fetched him a crack above his right ear. The blow was not sufficient to render him senseless, but it scrambled his thinking and weakened his struggles to free himself. Around him was more clattering noise, more shouting, but it all seemed to come from far off, muted by a painful buzzing in his ears.

The coopers dragged the barrels off him, helped him sit up. He had his wits and his hearing back by then. He blinked rapidly until his vision cleared. One of the coopers asked him if he was all right, a question he overrode with a growled one of his own. “Where is he, damn his eyes?”

“Gone,” the cooper said. “Ran out before we could stop him.”

Gone, and nowhere to be found by now. Quincannon said, “Hell, damn, and blast!” and followed this with a string of more flavorful oaths. After which he gathered himself and gained his feet without assistance.

Another of the coopers demanded in irate tones, “What’s the meaning of all this? Look at the damage that’s been done to these barrels.”

“There was greater damage done than that. The blackguard I was after is a thief and twice a murderer.”

“The hell you say. What are you, a nabber?”

“Detective.”

“So who’s going to pay for the damage? The city?”

No, Quincannon thought, James Willard by way of the expense account. He fished a pair of double eagles from his vest pocket, pressed them into the cooper’s hand, and then walked away from them and out into the rain, more or less steadily.

His head ached where the barrel had struck him. And the blow had opened a small cut at the hairline; his fingers came away with a smear of blood when he touched it. Otherwise, except for a few bruises, the only wounds he’d suffered were to his dignity and his pride. Losing a prisoner he’d had twice in his grasp was a humiliation that put the taste of bile in his mouth and a fever in his blood. He’d find Corby, he vowed grimly, and when he did, by Godfrey, the son of a bitch would not get away again.

The opening of Reticules Through the Ages drew the anticipated large crowd to the Rayburn Gallery. If the hard rain of earlier in the day had persisted, there might have been fewer attendees, but it had moderated into a fine mist that promised to give way soon to clearing skies. Most of the guests were wealthy couples from Rincon Hill and Nob Hill, the women bejeweled and outfitted in the latest fashion finery, the men in silk hats and evening clothes; many would go on from here to dine at one of the more elegant restaurants and thence to various entertainments. While the ladies examined and gushed over the Marie Antoinette and other chatelaine bags on display, the men in large part stood availing themselves of the liquor and food buffets Andrew Rayburn and his staff had provided.

Sabina, dressed in her best evening gown, an embroidered Nile-green brocade trimmed with lace, her silver mesh wrist bag concealing her.41-caliber pearl-handled derringer, alternated between wandering the room and taking up a position near the entrance to make note of new arrivals. Electric light from old gasoliers fitted with incandescent bulbs made the large room bright as day and observation that much easier. She saw no one who looked the least bit suspicious.

The gallery itself was secure to her satisfaction. She’d made sure of this during the hour prior to the opening. It consisted of one very large room, a portion of which had been partitioned into small open cubicles where some of the objets d’art Andrew Rayburn specialized in — paintings, sculptures, and the like — were displayed. Others had been moved into the storeroom at the rear, to make sufficient room for the exhibit. The only entrance other than the main one in front was a thick storeroom door through which deliveries were made; this was bolted and chained from the inside. There were no other ways in or out. The storeroom was windowless, and the only windows in the main section were two large plate-glass ones that flanked the entrance.

Among the early-arriving guests were her cousin Callie French and husband Hugh, and a few individuals of both sexes that she’d met through Callie and occasionally socialized with. Some of the others, all eminently respectable, she knew by name and reputation. Marcel Carreaux presided over the exhibit, answering questions for the curious; Rayburn circulated among the guests, while his two clerks, Martin Holloway and George Eldredge, took turns welcoming the guests, replenishing the buffets, and manning the sales counter. None of the antique reticules was for sale, of course, but the various art objects that remained on display wore prominently placed price tags. Sabina was no expert on fine art, but based on what she did know of it, she considered Rayburn’s prices exorbitant. Which was likely the reason no one was buying or even paying attention to those items.