Marcia Muller - The Plague of Thieves Affair

“You believed the ad was a request for you to attend Reticules Through the Ages?”

“Not merely to attend the exhibition, but to offer my expertise in identifying the malefactor and preventing a bold attempt at theft. The rumors, I venture to say, are quite true.”

“Malefactor? Rumors?”

“That a cunning prig after a pogue... excuse me, cunning thief after a prize of great value will attempt to steal the Marie Antoinette chatelaine handbag.”

Sabina thought she’d banished the last remnants of her surprise and confusion, but she hadn’t. Drat him, he had the infuriating knack of befuddling her — something no other man had ever been able to do. “Who? Who is going to attempt such a theft?”

“I have been unable to learn his name, or the details of his plan though it is bound to be as canny as it is bold. Have you any inklings of whom he might be?”

“No. I’ve not even heard those rumors you alluded to.”

“You haven’t? But then why did you call upon me? Surely not to assist you in routine security precautions?”

“No. I had another reason entirely.”

“And that reason is?”

Before she could respond, Marcel Carreaux appeared at her side. The Frenchman hadn’t heard any of their conversation, which had been conducted in low tones; his smiling, slightly flushed countenance radiated pleasure. “Ah, Madame Carpenter, all is well, eh? Ah, bon .” He made a sweeping Gallic gesture. “So many ladies and gentlemen have come tonight, it is most gratifying.”

Charles the Third stepped forward. “Vous devez être Monsieur Carreaux, le conservateur de cette exposition splendide,” he said. “C’est un grand plaisir de vous rencontrer, monsieur.”

“Ah! Vous parlez français! Oui, je suis Marcel Carreaux. Et vous êtes?”

“S. Holmes, Esquire.”

Sabina flinched. Please don’t tell him the S. stands for Sherlock!

He didn’t, thankfully. He said only, “Je suis le plus heureux de faire votre connaissance aussi.”

They shook hands, beaming at each other, and continued speaking together in rapid French, with the crackbrain doing most of the talking. Sabina’s command of the language was limited, but she understood enough to determine that he was saying he had been to Paris many times, “a city perhaps as grand as my native London,” considered the Louvre to be the world’s finest museum, and M. Carreaux blessed to have achieved the position of assistant curator.

When he finally paused for a breath, the Frenchman seized his arm and said in English, perhaps in deference to Sabina’s presence, “You must come now, M’sieu Holmes, and view Reticules Through the Ages.”

“And the jewel of the collection, the Marie Antoinette chatelaine handbag. Yes, I should very much like to. Will you excuse me, Mrs. Carpenter?” And off they went, arm in arm, Charles the Third saying sententiously, “If I may say so, M’sieu le conservateur, I have always contended that Marie Antoinette’s reputation for promiscuity was exaggerated and that she was quite undeserving of the name L’Autrichienne...”

Sabina sat down again. She still felt bewildered, and now concerned by what Charles the Third had told her. Was there a plot afoot to steal the Marie Antoinette bag? His ability to ferret out bits and pieces of underworld goings-on that she and John and their various contacts knew nothing about had proven to be astonishingly accurate in the past. It was entirely possible that he’d done so again. She couldn’t imagine how such a theft could be accomplished, no matter how boldly clever the thief’s plan might be, with the chatelaine bag under close scrutiny at all times by herself, Marcel Carreaux, Andrew Rayburn, Rayburn’s clerks, and scores of admiring and honest citizens. But she would be extra vigilant from now on. It might also be wise to try talking John into joining the surveillance. And if he wasn’t willing or able, to engage one of the agency’s part-time operatives for the task.

She was still considering this when the crackbrain returned a few minutes later. “Most impressive,” he said. “The Marie Antoinette is exquisite, a plum ripe for the picking.”

“I don’t see how.”

“Nor do I. But where there’s a will there’s a way, if I may be permitted a cliché.” He sat down next to her. “Now then. You were about to tell me, when we were interrupted earlier, the reason for your personals advertisement.”

Sabina hesitated. “This really isn’t the proper place to discuss it. Perhaps we could meet somewhere after the exhibition closes.”

“That, unfortunately, won’t be possible. There is another game afoot tonight that requires my attention.”

“Sometime tomorrow, then.”

“Is it so important to wait until then? Why not simply tell me now?”

Again Sabina hesitated. Then she drew a breath and plunged. “Very well. The reason for the ad is that I was hired to find you.”

“Hired? By whom?”

“A Chicago attorney named Roland W. Fairchild.”

His only reaction was a slight stiffening of his lean body. “I know no one of that name.”

“His uncle, Charles Percival Fairchild the Second, died recently. The sole heir to the estate is his son, Charles the Third, last seen in London nearly two years ago.”

He stared at her in stoic silence.

“Charles Percival Fairchild the Third,” Sabina said. “That’s your birth name, isn’t it. Your true name.”

“It is not.” He spoke coldly, his eyes glittering in their nest of false whiskers. “My name is and always has been Sherlock Holmes, of 221B Baker Street, London. I answer to no other.”

“Roland Fairchild and his wife are staying at the Baldwin Hotel. If you’ll just speak to him—”

In one swift movement, using his blackthorn stick for leverage, he was on his feet and turning for the door.

“Wait, please—”

He didn’t wait. He thrust the door open and rushed out onto Post Street. It took Sabina only a few seconds to gain the sidewalk, but by then Charles the Third had already vanished into the night.

The Baldwin Hotel and Theater, on the corner of Market and Powell, was second only to the Palace among the city’s luxury hostelries. Built in 1876, a year after the Palace, by a mining and real estate speculator named “Lucky” Baldwin, it was a massive structure containing nearly six hundred guest rooms and several cafés and public rooms; the accommodations in its prominent hexagonal dome five stories high were reserved strictly for ladies. The attached theater, originally known as Baldwin’s Academy of Music, Sabina knew to be opulently decorated in crimson satin and gold. She had attended performances there by such touring players as Lillian Russell and Frederick Warde, and on one occasion sat in a proscenium box with Callie and Hugh to hear diminutive Della Fox sing amusing songs with such lyrics as “Just a little love, a little kiss” and “A babbling brook, a shady nook, sweet lips where kisses dwell — oh!” Hotel and theater combined took up an entire block, and though it was not as majestic as the Palace, it was grand enough to attract the rich and famous along with the simply well-to-do. The fact that Roland W. Fairchild and his wife could afford to stay there indicated both good taste and financial stability.

Somewhat reluctantly, Sabina went to the Baldwin on Saturday morning. She felt she owed her client an accounting of last evening’s contact with his cousin, even though it cast her in a poor light. She’d spent a restless night, berating herself time and again over the way she had mishandled Charles the Third. She should have been more circumspect, elicited his promise to return to the gallery tonight and then tried again to arrange a private meeting. More subtle in broaching the subject of his heritage, too. She should have known he would react as he did when suddenly confronted. While he suffered from an addled self-delusion, he hadn’t completely lost awareness of who he really was. He might have refused to admit it no matter where or how she braced him, but in different, quieter circumstances she’d have had a better chance of reasoning with him.