Marcia Muller: The Plague of Thieves Affair

Kleinhoffer repeated his favorite word. But he had no choice then except to remove himself, which he proceeded to do after jabbing a rigid forefinger in Quincannon’s direction and saying ominously, “Our paths are bound to cross again, flycop. And when they do, you might well find yourself on the blunt end of my nightstick.”

Empty threats bothered Quincannon not a whit. “I wouldn’t count on it,” he said.

When the dick had slammed out, Willard released a heavy sigh and sank into the creaking swivel chair at his desk. Through the window behind him, fog lay over China Basin and the bay beyond; tall ships’ masts were faintly visible through its drift, like the fingers of skeletal apparitions. Quincannon remained standing, packed and lit his pipe, and puffed furiously to create an equivalent fog of tobacco smoke. The good rich aroma of navy plug helped mask some of Golden State’s insidious pungency.

The brewery owner said at length, gloomily, “I don’t suppose there’s any chance Lansing hadn’t yet turned the recipe over to West Star?”

“Little, I’m afraid. Assuming, that is, Ackermann relinquished his master copy before he died.”

Willard brightened a bit. “You think he might not have?”

“It’s possible.”

“But the safe in his office where he kept it was empty...”

“He may have transferred the formula elsewhere for some reason.”

“Yes, but... would Lansing have pitched him into the fermenting vat if he hadn’t gotten the recipe?”

“The act could have been unintentional, the result of a struggle on the catwalk. Lansing wasn’t the sort to have jumped into the vat himself to save Ackermann from drowning, no matter what the impetus.”

“What are the chances it did happen that way? Be honest now. Do you believe it’s likely?”

The answer to that was no, and it would not have been proper to continue giving Willard what amounted to false hopes. Ackermann’s office safe had been unlocked as well as empty, and his rooms on Clay Street, which Quincannon had examined, had not been searched. The probable scenario was that the brewmaster had been forced to open the safe and then, once the formula had been pilfered, taken to the catwalk and cast into the vat. The charred note and the two thousand dollars in Lansing’s flat also testified to the likelihood that West Star was now in possession of the recipe.

Quincannon believed in being straightforward with a client — up to a point. He said, “No, sir, I don’t,” and proceeded to explain his reasons. All, that is, except for his conviction that Caleb Lansing had been murdered; he was still not ready to confide his suspicions in that regard. He also showed Willard the burned paper with its X.J. signature.

“By God, this proves Lansing was in cahoots with West Star.”

“To our satisfaction, yes. But not from a legal standpoint.”

“You can testify as to where you found it.”

“Yes, but as you can see, Lansing’s name appears nowhere on what’s left of the note, nor is the remainder of its contents legally incriminating.”

“But the two thousand dollars...”

“He could have gotten it any number of ways. Gambling, for one. There is no clear-cut connection between the money and Xavier Jones or Cyrus Drinkwater.”

Willard made a faint sound in his throat that might have been a moan. He put his face in his hands and said through splayed fingers, “So there’s nothing I can do. If West Star does have the recipe, there are no grounds for an injunction to prevent them from implementing it.”

“You still have the copy that he gave you.”

“Yes, in my safe-deposit box. But that was two months ago. He was always making refinements — he may have made more since then. Even if he didn’t... the competition, man, the competition.” Willard made the moaning sound again. “That damned Drinkwater. What I wouldn’t give to see the scalawag behind bars.”

“That may yet be possible,” Quincannon said.

“What do you mean?”

“Your hands are legally tied, Mr. Willard, but mine aren’t. I may be able to prevent West Star from implementing your formula.”

Willard lowered his hands, raised his head. “How?”

“By proving that Drinkwater and Jones are behind the theft.”

“Can you do that?”

“If humanly possible, I can and will.” Quincannon’s pipe had gone out; he paused to relight it. “Do you have a key to the cellar storeroom doors?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“I’ll need one to examine the area in private once the police have gone.”

“But why? Lansing’s suicide has nothing to do with West Star possessing Otto’s formula.”

Ah, but it does. More than just a little, I’ll wager. But he said only, “It pays to be thorough, Mr. Willard. No stone left unturned. Do you have a key I can borrow?”

Willard had one, a master key. Quincannon departed with it tucked inside his vest pocket.

Her first stop was the Montgomery Street offices of Stennett, Tyler, and Dubois, attorneys-at-law. Harold Stennett was in court, she was told, but she was granted an audience with another of the partners, Philip Dubois. Yes, he knew of the Chicago firm of Hazelton and Bean, and confirmed that Mr. Stennett had recently visited that city and had had occasion to consult with Mr. Hazelton, whom he knew from previous dealings. Dubois provided the firm’s address, but no other pertinent information. He knew nothing of Charles Percival Fairchild II or matters regarding his estate, nor of an attorney named Roland W. Fairchild.

Sabina was almost but not quite satisfied. It wasn’t that she doubted Roland Fairchild’s story, but her years with Stephen and the Pinkertons and her time with John had taught her to accept no one and nothing at face value and to always be as thorough as possible. So she walked back to Market Street and the telegraph office near the agency, where she composed a wire to Leland Hazelton at Hazelton and Bean, Chicago, requesting verification that Roland W. Fairchild had been empowered to engage Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, to locate Charles Percival Fairchild III.

She debated whether or not to wait for a reply before beginning the hunt. No need, she decided. The direct starting point she’d decided upon earlier was something of a long shot, and in any case committed her to no other action just yet.

Dr. Caleb Axminster was one of the city’s more successful physicians, his practice catering almost exclusively to the upper strata of society. Sabina had never been to his medical offices on Sutter Street, but she expected them to be large and rather elaborate and so they were. The reception room was not quite as sumptuously furnished as the Axminster mansion atop Russian Hill, but nonetheless tastefully appointed; his office would be likewise, she was sure, and his examining room and surgery were certain to contain only the most up-to-date equipment.

A white-uniformed nurse and an expensively dressed matron occupied the reception room. Sabina handed the nurse one of her cards and requested a brief audience with Dr. Axminster on a private matter. She was a personal acquaintance of the doctor’s, she said, stretching the truth only a little, and promised to take up no more than five minutes of his time. The nurse seemed dubious, the more so after she’d examined the card, but she had been trained to be deferential; she agreed to do as asked when the doctor finished with his current patient.

Sabina sat down to wait. The matron, heavily corseted, her obviously dyed hair partially covered by a rather silly, flower-decorated bonnet, glared at her and grumbled irritably, “The nerve of some people. Why couldn’t you have made a proper appointment as I did?”