Marcia Muller: The Plague of Thieves Affair

For five years now she had steadfastly maintained, to him and to herself, that a personal relationship would not mix with the professional. But wasn’t that merely an excuse to avoid intimacy? She and Stephen had shared both in Chicago and in Denver, with no adverse effects on their work or their marriage; if anything, the sharing had made their bond stronger. Of course Stephen had been the love of her life; she could never love another as deeply. Still, and she might as well admit it, what she had come to feel for John was something more than just a sisterly affection.

He was an attractive man, no question of that. A good man, too, with a keen intelligence and a strong moral sense beneath his occasionally reckless and acquisitive behavior. He could be pompous, moody, critical, but more often he was kind and courtly and jocular; inside his crusty shell, she suspected, he was as soft and perhaps as sweet as custard. Stephen had been a gentle, considerate, doting husband and lover. Despite John’s faults, wasn’t it possible he would be the same?

Not Enough.

She had already weakened to the point of allowing an occasional social evening’s entertainment, and he had been a perfect gentleman on each occasion; had not even once attempted to kiss her. Should she give him even more of a chance to prove himself? Not by succumbing to him physically — she was still not ready for that degree of intimacy — but by allowing him to spark her as a prospective beau would. The thought was appealing, yet she still felt reluctant. Her hands-off demeanor was her defense against a world that might brutally hurt her again. What if she were to become romantically involved with John, a risk-taking man in the same dangerous profession as Stephen, and something happened to him, too? She was a strong woman, but not strong enough, she feared, to survive a second painful loss...

Her reverie was interrupted, perhaps fortunately, by the arrival of the morning’s third visitor. He entered after a rather loud knock, apparently made with the silver hound’s-head knob on the walking stick he carried — a slim, fair-haired young man whom she had never seen before. He stood for a moment after closing the door, wrinkled his nose as if in disapproval of the surroundings, and then approached Sabina’s desk as she rose to her feet.

His disapproval didn’t extend to her; his roving gaze and rather rakish smile attested to that. A gay blade, she thought. And a dandified one, dressed in an expensive dove-gray sack coat, floral waistcoat, striped trousers, orange silk cravat, and high-topped leather shoes polished to a gloss. A diamond stickpin in his cravat gave off an opulent dazzle — a little too much dazzle, Sabina thought, for the stone to be genuine. His pale hair was cut short, parted in the middle and slicked down, and his chin was adorned with a small pointed beard.

“Do I have the pleasure of addressing Mrs. Sabina Carpenter?”

“You do. And you are, sir?”

“Roland W. Fairchild. Of Chicago, Illinois.”

He presented her with a gold-embossed card, which told her nothing more than he just had except for the fact that he was an attorney-at-law. She invited him to sit down, waited until he did so before reseating herself. He sat erect with his knees together, the stick propped between them, and smiled — half leered — at her across the desk.

“A lady detective, and a most attractive one,” he said. “Such an interesting novelty.”

Sabina had already begun to dislike Roland W. Fairchild of Chicago, Illinois; that silly comment firmed her opinion. She didn’t respond to it, instead adopted a stern, no-nonsense look to show him what she thought of it and his overly bold appraisal of her.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Fairchild?”

“I should like to engage you to find a missing person.”

“One of our specialties,” she said, stretching the truth a trifle. “The name of this person?”

“Charles Percival Fairchild the Third. My first cousin.”

“Also of Chicago?”

“Originally.”

“How long has he been missing?”

“From his last known address, approximately seventeen months. I myself haven’t seen him in more than three years.”

“Seventeen months? That’s quite a long time, Mr. Fairchild. Were you only recently made aware of his absence?”

“No. We — that is, the family — have known of it for some time. It only became necessary to make a concerted effort to locate him when his father, Charles P. Fairchild the Second, the noted industrialist, died recently.” The aquiline nose twitched again. “My cousin is sole heir to the estate.”

“I see. Are you the deceased Mr. Fairchild’s attorney?”

“For the estate? No. Merely an emissary acting on their behalf as a member of the family.”

“You have reason to believe your cousin is in San Francisco?”

“That he was here, yes, and hope still is. If so, you and your partner, Mr. Quincannon, are uniquely qualified to locate him.”

“Uniquely qualified? I don’t understand.”

“You have had business dealings with Charles before, so I’ve been reliably informed. On more than one occasion.”

“I’m afraid I don’t recall a client named Charles Fairchild—”

“He was not a client. And you know him by a different name.” Still another nose twitch. Roland Fairchild then withdrew a photograph from an inside pocket of his sack coat, reached across the desk to lay it faceup in front of Sabina. “Charles is the poor daft chap who fancies himself to be the late British detective Sherlock Holmes.”

Sabina was, to put it mildly, taken aback. And temporarily rendered mute. She realized her jaw had hinged open, closed her mouth, and sat staring down at the photograph.

It appeared to be a professional head-and-shoulders portrait taken sometime within the past five years, and the likeness was unmistakable. The lean, hawklike face and piercing eyes that peered up at her was in fact the bogus Sherlock — bogus Englishman, too, evidently — who had during the previous year insinuated himself into three cases of hers and John’s with rather amazing results; who had a conjurer’s habit of appearing and disappearing at will; who possessed an uncanny knack for ferreting out information about all sorts of goings-on in San Francisco’s underworld; who drove John to distraction and bewildered and irritated her, yet had demonstrated a surprising kindliness the last time she saw him by presenting her with the kitten she’d named Eve.

She found her voice. “My Lord,” she said. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Ah. You do recognize him, then.”

“Yes. Oh, yes.”

“Do you know his present whereabouts?”

“No. Neither my partner nor I have seen or heard from him since last October.”

“If he is still lurking about San Francisco, have you any idea where he might be found?”

She shook her head. “His last known address was the Old Union Hotel on Geary Street, but that was several months ago. And he lodged there only a short time.”

“Do you think you could manage to track him down, wherever he might be now?”

“I don’t know. Possibly.”

“Would you make the effort for a mutually agreeable fee?”

Sabina stared down at the photograph again. Charles Percival Fairchild III. The name certainly suited the man, though it would be a while before she thought of him as other than the self-proclaimed Mr. Holmes. “He is heir to his late father’s estate, you said?”

“Sole heir. Quite a substantial estate it is, too. My uncle amassed a fortune in Chicago’s meatpacking industry.” Roland Fairchild leaned forward confidentially. “Cousin Charles stands to inherit slightly more than three million dollars.”