Билл Пронзини - The Bags of Tricks Affair

She lifted the curved latch bar that held the two window halves together, and then nodded to Whit. He grasped the handle on the right half and pushed outward with considerably more force than Sabina had used the previous afternoon. Even so, he had to shove hard a second time before there came a faint ripping sound and the windows half swung open.

Mr. Brandywine gawked at the opening, amazement written plain on his florid countenance. “But... but I don’t understand. The weather stripping—”

“Was sliced through along the three sides of this half, and up the middle where it joined the other half,” Whit said, speaking for the first time. “With a knife that had a long, thin, flexible blade. He maneuvered the blade into the crack between the two halves, then upward to free the latch inside here. Easy enough, then, for him to swing through.”

“And with the aid of matches or a small candle,” Sabina added, “he was able to pick and choose artifacts small enough to carry in his pockets. Doubtless making his selections based on the reading of one or more of your books on Chinese curios left in the library.”

The menswear mogul was still incredulous. “But I tested those windows myself. So did you, Mrs. Carpenter. They held fast both times.”

“The reason for that is also easily explained, as Mr. Slattery discovered in his examination of the weather stripping. Each time Philip was done with his pilfering, he positioned the latch bar so it could be manipulated back into place with the knife blade. After which he swung out on the rope, braced himself, and drew the window shut. Once that was accomplished, and before climbing back up to the attic, he inserted clear, fast-drying glue — squirted from a tube, probably — into the slits in the weather stripping, thus creating an effective temporary bond. He counted on the fact that there would be no attempt to use excessive force to open the window half from within because of the potential damage to the weather stripping. To carry out his second theft, he simply reslit the glued sections in order to enter, then reglued them after exiting. With the two window halves tightly joined, the thin slits and the clear dried glue were invisible when viewed through the glass from inside and at a distance from outside. The refastened latch completed the illusion that the windows had not been tampered with. Only upon close inspection was the tampering evident.”

Mr. Brandywine believed it now. Only a dolt confronted with irrefutable proof could have denied the truth, and whatever else her client might be, he was not a dolt. His color had darkened again to the dangerously purple hue; his mouth was set in angry lines. “That young whelp,” he said. “If he has already sold those antiquities—”

“My guess is he hasn’t, that they are also hidden somewhere in the attic. But in the event he has sold them, what do you intend to do?”

“That is none of your concern.”

“Perhaps not. But I wouldn’t be too hard on him, sir. Lads with passionate dreams often make foolish mistakes.”

“Don’t tell me how to discipline a member of my family,” he snapped. “You have done an acceptable job of sleuthing, I won’t deny that, but your job here is finished now and I’ll thank you to permit me to deal with my nephew as I see fit. And to remove yourself and your associate from my house forthwith.”

Whit frowned at him, though he kept silent; it was plain that he did not care one bit for Joshua Brandywine or the man’s pompous, imperious ways. Sabina felt the same. It was not in her nature to make this fact known to him, as John might well have done if he were here, but neither did she have to meekly suffer his insolence.

“Gladly,” she said, “once you have made out a check payable to Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services.”

“A check will be mailed to you in due course—”

“I prefer to have it now. In full payment of the balance of the agreed-upon fee, plus an additional five hundred dollars.”

“Eh? Another five hundred?”

“The amount of the bonus you promised if the solution was achieved within forty-eight hours. According to my calculations, it has been approximately forty-two hours since you first retained my services.”

“A temporary whim on my part. No such promise was put in writing—”

Whit stepped forward. “You heard Mrs. Carpenter,” he said in a not quite threatening voice. “A check in the full amount including the bonus and then we’ll leave.”

Brandywine, hemming, hawing, and sputtering, produced and peered at his gold watch, as if to verify the all too obvious claim. Sabina seized the opportunity to offer an appropriate goad.

“Make haste, Mr. Brandywine,” she said. “Tempus fidgets.”

It was early afternoon by the time she deposited Joshua Brandywine’s check in the agency account at the Miner’s Bank, paid Whit for his service, stopped in at the Western Union office, and returned to the offices of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services. There had been no further wires regarding Jeffrey Gaunt or his sister — or any concerning the Delford matter — nor had any messages pertaining to Gaunt been slipped through the mail slot in the office door.

The outcome of the Brandywine affair had been quite satisfying, the more so because it had presented her with the sort of knotty problem John took considerable pride in addressing, and she had resolved it with dispatch and earned a substantial fee. Few enough of their cases could be marked closed in less than forty-eight hours. He took delight in recounting the details of his triumphs; she looked forward to regaling him with hers, though with considerably less bombast, when he returned.

It was axiomatic in their business that there were periods when they were besieged with investigative work and periods when there was little or none. This summer thus far was proving to be one of the fertile stretches. The Grass Valley case, the felonious rainmakers in the San Joaquin Valley, the Brandywine conundrum, and now two more prospective clients via the afternoon mail. Well, just one, actually: a consultation request from Jackson Pollard, chief claims adjuster at Great Western Insurance, regarding a suspected fraudulent injury claim. They had done a number of jobs for Pollard and Great Western, the most notable of which was the Bughouse Affair last year — their introduction to the shrewdly daft Charles the Third, who in his Sherlock Holmes guise had been as responsible as she and John for bringing three interrelated cases to successful conclusions.

The second letter, written in a spidery and rather shaky hand, was from a woman who signed herself Miss Lucretia L. Moffit. Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, received its share of oddball inquiries, some amusing, some disconcerting, some — like this one — rather pathetic. It seemed Miss Moffit was being plagued by a serial prowler who had slipped into her home on at least three separate occasions in the middle of the night. But he was no ordinary prowler, she wrote; instead of stealing items from her substantial collection of buttonhooks, thimbles, and other sewing-related material, he brought in and left more of each. As a result she now had almost twice as many as before. She had no idea why anyone would do such a thing. The police refused to believe her; could Mrs. Carpenter or Mr. Quincannon track down the culprit and put an end to this outrage?

Sabina sighed. A dotty old lady likely starved for attention. In the kindest terms possible she penned a reply to Miss Moffit stating that previous commitments made it impossible for them to undertake an investigation on her behalf. She added her sincere hope that the intruder would soon tire of his nocturnal trespasses and bring no more unwanted gifts.