Marcia Muller: The Body Snatchers Affair

“And to collect our due for services rendered. You don’t intend to waive any of our fee in her case, do you?”

“No, of course not. And a not inconsiderable one it is, you’ll be pleased to note. Five hundred dollars, plus expenses.”

Quincannon admitted that this was a sizable sum. In other circumstances it might not have completely made up for a loss of the Scarlett fee, but here in the Maison Riche, with Sabina for company and on the table in front of him one of his favorite dishes, foie de veau aux oignons, the fattening of their bank balance seemed not quite as important as it usually did. He was, in fact, reasonably content with his lot and that of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services. And would be even more so if he knew the precise nature of Sabina’s relationship with Carson Montgomery, past and present.

Should he take the bull by the horns, as it were, and bring up the subject here and now, admit to what he’d been told by Theodore Bonesall? There might not be a more propitious time or place than over a congenial luncheon in a crowded restaurant.

He was considering this when Sabina surprised him by broaching the subject herself, almost as if she had been reading his mind. “I spoke to Mr. Bonesall at Western States Bank the other day,” she said, almost offhandedly, “regarding the Blanchford matter. He told me in passing that he’d had a conversation with you about my private life. Evenings spent in the company of Carson Montgomery, to be specific.”

Quincannon was at a loss for words. All he could manage was, “Ahh.”

“You know all too well how I feel about that sort of thing, John.”

“Yes, but... ah, Bonesall happened to mention seeing you and Mr., ah, Montgomery dining together at the Old Poodle Dog, so naturally I was a trifle curious—”

“Naturally. And your trifling curiosity has led you to speculate about my relationship with Carson ever since.”

“Well, now...”

“I am not now nor have I ever been romantically involved with Mr. Montgomery in any way,” Sabina said in her no-nonsense voice. “Does that put your mind at ease?”

“My dear Sabina, I never once imagined—”

“Oh, bosh. Admit it — you’ve been fretting for days over the possibility that Carson and I have been having illicit relations. Well, we haven’t. As a matter of fact, you might as well know that we are no longer keeping company. Now will you be so good as to stop prying?”

He could barely contain his elation. Not romantically involved! Dinner companions, nothing more! No longer seeing Mr. Montgomery!

“You have my solemn promise,” he said. He savored a tender forkful of calf’s liver and onions before he added, “But may I ask a consideration in return?”

“That depends on what it is.”

“Now that your evenings are free again, and in deference to my deep affection for you, I would take it as a great personal favor if you relaxed your rule against fraternization and permitted me the privilege of acting as your escort on occasion — not only for luncheons such as this but for an evening’s meal and entertainment. Just that, nothing more.”

She regarded him unblinkingly for such a long while that he felt sure she would decline, perhaps even launch into another of her business-only speeches. But bless her, she did neither. She sighed softly and said, “Very well. But only if you swear to make no advances, to behave as a gentleman.”

“At all times,” he said. “Oh, at all times.”

He meant it, too.

For the nonce anyway. For the nonce...

She was enjoying a quietly relaxing evening in her rooms, curled up with Adam, a glass of white wine, and a copy of the Police Gazette (Cousin Callie would have been horrified at her choice of reading matter), when the door buzzer sounded.

That had better not be another messenger, she thought. Or a solicitor, although it was late for that breed to come calling. Not Carson, surely. John, attempting to take immediate advantage of her moment of weakness at Maison Riche? If it was John, she would not only recant, but give him a severe tongue-lashing.

But it wasn’t John. Or Carson. Her caller was the alleged Mr. S. Holmes.

“Good evening, Mrs. Carpenter,” he said, bowing. He wore his Sherlock outfit tonight — gray cape, deerstalker cap. In one hand he carried the blackthorn walking stick; tucked under his other arm was a small wicker basket. “I trust I haven’t come at an inopportune time?”

“No. But I must say I’m surprised to see you here after what you said to me three nights ago.”

“What I said? Ah, that I consider it unseemly for a gentleman to visit a lady in her quarters past nightfall. That is my usual policy, especially when a game is afoot. However, now that I am temporarily unencumbered again, I deemed it expedient to present myself in person. In point of fact I have a gift for you.”

“Gift?”

“A small token of my esteem for you and your skill in the practice of our noble profession. May I enter for a few moments?”

Sabina nodded and stepped aside. The Englishman swept off his cap as he entered the vestibule, stood there for a moment looking past her into the front parlor. “Charming quarters,” he said. “Quite befitting a woman of your taste and station.”

“I’m honored by your approval,” she said dryly.

He extended the wicker basket. “With my compliments, dear lady.”

It was somewhat heavier than it looked, and she felt movement inside. When she lifted the lid, she was looking at an all-black kitten. It peered up at her with enormous amber-colored eyes, mewed as if saying hello.

Her heart melted to it instantly. It seemed to feel the same toward her; it began to purr, flexing its tiny paws, when she picked it up and cuddled it against her breast. Its fur was as soft as eiderdown.

“As per your wishes, a playmate for your Abyssinian-Siamese mix — Adam by name, if memory serves. You’re pleased with my choice of a black short-haired female?”

Yes, she was — pleased, surprised, and touched. “Very much,” she said, stroking the kitten’s back. Adam would be, too, she hoped. “I don’t know what to say, except thank you.”

“That will do splendidly. Unlike Adam, you see, this little beggar will not shed hairs upon your clothing.”

“Does she have a name?”

“Not yet. That is for you to decide.”

“Perhaps I’ll name her after you.”

“I would be honored.”

Not necessarily. Two names came immediately to mind, “Crackbrain” and “Beelzebub,” though of course she could hardly saddle the poor kitten with either one.

“How did you know I was interested in a playmate for Adam?” she asked him.

The Englishman’s only reply was his infuriatingly enigmatic smile.

“Carson Montgomery is the only person I mentioned it to,” Sabina said. “But he claims not to know you at all.”

“That is the truth. We have never met vis-à-vis.”

“Do you still have him under surveillance?”

“No. That is what I meant in saying I am no longer encumbered — my inquiries concerning Mr. Montgomery have ceased. As have yours, I trust, now that he is no longer threatened by his minimal involvement in the Gold King scandal. Or by the villainous Artemas Sneed.”

“Why is Sneed no longer a threat?”

“Come, come, Mrs. Carpenter, you mustn’t try to fence with me. You know perfectly well that the man died a violent death two nights ago, having yourself discovered his body at the Wanderer’s Rest.”

She blinked at him. “How do you know that?”

“I have my sources, as you have yours.”

That was almost the same thing she’d said to Carson at the Palace Hotel. Holmes’s claim seemed equally valid, annoyingly so. Whereas it had taken her and John years of combined activity to compile their various sources, the Englishman had managed to develop his in less than a year of residence in the city and without any official standing. How he’d accomplished this by flitting about in the shadowy underworld on mysterious missions was as astonishing as it was inexplicable.