Marcia Muller - The Plague of Thieves Affair

“And whom would that be?”

“The dead man’s wife.”

No more information was required to convince Edward; he had been exposed often enough to the exploits of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, to trust in their judgment. This was fortunate in more ways than one, for there came a sharp rapping on the office door which Sabina had locked after Edward’s arrival — Octavia Fairchild, ten minutes early.

Sabina quickly shooed Charles and Edward into the alcove, its door left open a crack so they could hear more easily. Then she admitted their quarry and the game was on.

There were no outward signs of the anger and consternation the Fairchild woman must be feeling. Her face reminded Sabina of an ice sculpture. The blue eyes, fixed and unblinking, were glacial; even the strip of court plaster covering the gash on her cheek seemed frozen in place. She wore an expensive muskrat coat and matching hat, both of which looked to be brand-new and probably were — gifts to herself for what, until receiving Sabina’s note, she must have considered to be a perfect crime.

“Do you always lock your office door when you’re expecting a visitor?” The woman’s voice was as icy as her appearance.

“Only when the visitor is a murderess.”

“That is an abominable accusation. I could very easily sue you for defamation of character.”

“You could if the accusation were false, which it isn’t.”

“Of course it is. Utterly false, utterly preposterous.”

“Then why are you here? Why didn’t you take my note to Harold Stennett or another attorney? Or to Lieutenant McGinn?”

Octavia Fairchild’s chill gaze roamed the office, much as her husband’s had on his visit; her rouged lip curled upward far enough to expose her gums. “What a nasty hovel this is. Exactly the sort of place I expected.”

“You haven’t answered my questions, Mrs. Fairchild. Why didn’t you take my note to an attorney or the police, instead of coming here as directed?”

“I intend to do both after I’ve heard what evidence you claim to have against me. And I expect to make an additional charge.”

“Oh? What would that be?”

“Attempted blackmail.”

“Is that what you think? That I intend to blackmail you?”

“Why else would you have arranged this meeting? How much do you want?”

“How much will you pay?”

“Not one penny. I won’t be blackmailed and I won’t be bluffed.”

“I am not bluffing. Why would I?”

“Then why haven’t you gone to the police with this evidence of yours, if it’s so damning?”

“Do you think I won’t?”

“That is precisely what I think. You won’t because you haven’t any evidence, you couldn’t possibly have because none exists.”

“Oh, but it does. One piece, in fact, is in your possession.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The murder weapon, of course — your husband’s hound’s head walking stick.”

The statement caused a slight eye-widening, a twitch at one corner of the rouged mouth — the first thin cracks in the ice mask. Sabina smiled and went to her desk. Octavia Fairchild remained standing, her hands thrust into the pockets of her muskrat coat.

“You felt no need to dispose of it, once it was cleaned of all traces of blood and other matter,” Sabina went on when she was seated. “Even if you had, it would not have been as easy to spirit away as whatever bloodstained garment you wore. You might have concealed the stick under that coat you’re wearing, but a stick is a cumbersome object that might well be noticed. No, it’s still among your husband’s effects at the hotel.”

“Yes, it is. Clean and polished, as Roland always kept it. It could hardly be proven to have been used as a weapon.”

“But it can. The wounds on his skull were made by its distinctive elongated knob and can be matched to it.”

“... How do you know that? The body was gone when you were brought to the room.”

Sabina smiled again. “Detectives have ways of finding out such things.”

“A match would hardly prove a case against me. The stick Charles used to murder Roland had a similar type of knob.”

“No, it didn’t. He carried his usual round-knobbed blackthorn stick when he paid his visit yesterday morning.”

“You can’t know that unless you’ve seen him, talked to him. You’re harboring a murderer—”

“On the contrary, I’m conversing with one.”

“It’s Charles’s word against mine. Whom do you suppose the police will believe, a bereaved widow or a madman who masquerades as Sherlock Holmes?”

“His, if corroborated by mine and by the rest of the case against you. Your motive, for instance.”

“What motive could I possibly have?”

“The age-old one — wealth. With your husband dead and Charles the Third judged insane and incarcerated in an asylum, you stand to inherit the Fairchild millions as next of kin by marriage. You planned all along to dispose of Roland and frame his cousin for the crime. That is why you traveled to San Francisco with your husband, why you were so insistent that Charles be located and induced to meet privately with him.”

“Conjecture. Sheer conjecture.”

“When Charles left your hotel room yesterday, you picked up Roland’s stick, brained him with it, then changed clothing and began screaming to attract attention. That is the way it happened, isn’t it?”

“More ridiculous conjecture. You have no proof of any of this!”

“You’re forgetting the gash on your cheek.”

“What about it? It came from Charles’s stick when he attacked me.”

“No, it didn’t. He never attacked you. It was your husband who gashed your cheek in an effort to ward off your attack on him.”

“A scurrilous lie—”

“A fact, a provable fact. He inflicted the wound with two downward-hooked fingers on his right hand. You neglected to clean the skin and blood from beneath the nails on those two fingers. They’re still there and can be matched to the gash.”

Fissures had formed in the ice mask now. Even the eyes were no longer a glacial blue. The woman’s fury had shifted from cold to hot, an inner fire that was melting the exterior chill.

“So you see, Mrs. Fairchild?” Sabina said. “That one fact alone is sufficient to cast serious doubt on the validity of your story. Combined with my testimony and that of the man you sought to frame, you stand no chance of getting away with your crime.”

“The police... do they know any of this yet?”

“No, but they soon will.”

“Have you told anyone else?”

“Only Charles.”

“No one will pay heed to him.”

“But the police will pay heed to me. I guarantee it. Why maintain your pretense of innocence? Why not admit the truth?”

More of the ice melted; the blue eyes held a fiery glow now. “Damn you, why don’t you drop your pretense. How much do you want to keep silent? Ten thousand dollars?”

Sabina shook her head.

“Twenty thousand? Fifty?”

“You couldn’t buy my silence for ten times fifty thousand dollars. I can’t be bought, Mrs. Fairchild. Your only hope is to admit the truth. To me, to Lieutenant McGinn. Admit that you murdered your husband. Admit your guilt.”

All the ice was gone now; the woman’s face was contorted with a feverish rage.

“Admit it,” Sabina said relentlessly. “Admit that you bashed his brains in with his own stick. Admit—”

“All right! Yes! I killed him, I bashed his brains in and I’m glad of it! He was a failure and a cheat and a bully and I loathed him!”

The eruptive confession brought Sabina halfway out of her chair. But her elation turned to sudden dismay, for Octavia Fairchild had withdrawn a small-caliber pistol from her coat pocket.