The Plague of Thieves Affair Read online

  Suicide?

  Bah!

  Murder, plain enough. Cold-blooded murder.

  5

  QUINCANNON

  Quincannon kept his suspicions to himself. He was tolerably certain that a hand other than Caleb Lansing’s had taken the man’s life, for four good reasons, but he needed more time to determine the who, how, and why of the deed. Proclaiming here and now that Lansing had not died alone behind not one but two locked doors, the outer one under Quincannon’s own surveillance, would have brought him scorn. Not to mention stirred the already boiling pot even more by adding unnecessary complications, and even more importantly, perhaps warned the scoundrel responsible for the crime.

  He ordered Jack Malloy to relock the storeroom doors and stand guard, sent Elias Corby to summon the law, and rode the freight elevator back upstairs in the hope that James Willard had returned from his meeting. A few minutes with his client before the police arrived, to explain Lansing’s involvement with the murder of Otto Ackermann to his client, would have prepared him for the interrogation to come. But Willard hadn’t yet returned. Until he did, Quincannon would have to bear the brunt of the questioning.

  He took himself downstairs to the brick-walled corridor leading to the cellars. A gaggle of workers had clustered there, drawn by fast-spread word of the shooting; he pushed his way through them to join the grim-faced Malloy. The two of them waited together in silence, the only sounds in the dank passage the muttering voices of the gathered men.

  The wait lasted no more than ten minutes, a fast response for a change by an “ace detective” from the Hall of Justice. Quincannon’s hope was that the officer in charge would be one he didn’t know or knew only slightly, but he had no such luck. In fact, the man leading the half-dozen coppers who arrived on the scene was the one he least wanted to see—the beefy, red-faced Prussian named Kleinhoffer with whom he’d had run-ins in the past. Kleinhoffer was an incompetent political toady with dubious morals and a strong dislike of private detectives. His opinion of Quincannon was on a par with Quincannon’s opinion of him.

  When the dick spied him, his color darkened and his beady eyes and thin mouth pinched into a glower. “You, Quincannon. What the devil are you doing here?”

  “Plying my trade, same as you.”

  “He’s been here the past few days,” Malloy said.

  “Has he now. Doing what, exactly?”

  “Inspecting the premises. He’s a safety inspector for the Department of Public Works … isn’t he?”

  “No, he isn’t. He’s a flycop who keeps sticking his nose in places where it doesn’t belong. What are you really doing here, Quincannon?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say without permission of my client.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “James Willard, the brewery’s owner.”

  “Yes? Is he here now?”

  “No. Away at a meeting. But he should be back soon.”

  Murmurs of surprise had rippled through the listening workmen. One of them piped up, “I saw this man chasing Mr. Lansing through the fermenting room a while ago.”

  “Is that so. Who’s Lansing?”

  “The assistant brewmaster,” Malloy said. “The man who shot himself.”

  “Shot himself, eh? You’re sure this flycop didn’t do it?” His tone implied that he’d like nothing better.

  Quincannon said, “I had no reason to, nor could have done it if I had. I have no key to these doors—both of which were locked by Lansing when I got here. And still are, as you’ll soon see.”

  “Then why were you chasing Lansing?”

  “I can’t say without permission of Mr. Willard.”

  Elias Corby stepped forward. “It couldn’t have anything to do with Otto Ackermann’s death, could it? That was a tragic accident.”

  “What’s that?” Kleinhoffer said. “There’s been another death here recently?”

  “Last week. Poor Otto, our brewmaster, slipped off a catwalk and drowned in a vat of fermenting beer. A terrible way to die, terrible. But it was an accident, as I said. The precinct officers who came to investigate ruled it as such.”

  “First the brewmaster, then the assistant brewmaster—an accident and an apparent suicide. Sounds fishy to me. Well, Quincannon? Is there some sort of connection or isn’t there?”

  “I can’t say without—”

  Kleinhoffer snapped, “Scheisse,” glared daggers at him, and then turned to Malloy. “You have the key? All right, open the doors and let’s have a look at the stiff.”

  Malloy hastened to do his bidding. Kleinhoffer and his usual shadow, a burly sergeant named Mahoney, shouldered their way inside, taking the foreman with them. Quincannon made no attempt to join them; it was unnecessary—he’d already seen all there was to see in the utility room—and Kleinhoffer wouldn’t have allowed it anyway. The other coppers, four bluecoats, held him and the rest of the onlookers at a distance.

  The Prussian and his shadow blundered around inside for ten minutes, making a good deal of noise in the process. The workmen all gave Quincannon a wide berth, as if he’d been revealed as a none-too-savory and possibly dangerous spy. When the two plainclothesmen reappeared, Kleinhoffer attempted to question Quincannon again, using thinly veiled threats this time. This tactic got him nowhere, the threats being nothing but empty bluster. Grumbling, he and Mahoney proceeded to interrogate Jack Malloy and several other employees, none of whom had anything pertinent to tell.

  Two nearly simultaneous arrivals put a halt to the questioning. First came the morgue wagon and a pair of attendants with a stretcher, followed less than a minute later—and not a moment too soon, by Quincannon’s reckoning—by Mr. James Willard.

  * * *

  “Caleb Lansing, a murderer and a thief,” Willard said in mournful tones. “My God, I can hardly believe it.”

  “There’s no doubt he was guilty of both crimes,” Quincannon said.

  Kleinhoffer said sourly, “So you say. How do you know he killed the brewmaster for the steam beer formula? According to the bookkeeper, the official verdict is that Ackermann drowned accidentally.”

  “The official ruling was wrong.”

  “Smart flycop. Think you know everything.”

  “Murder when murder’s been done for profit, yes.”

  The three men were in Willard’s office, where they’d gone for the sake of privacy. The news of Lansing’s betrayal and apparent suicide—a second death by violence in the Golden State in a week’s time—had shocked Willard into a lather; his florid features were mottled, veins bulged and pulsed in both temples as if he might be in danger of a seizure. After a brief consultation out of Kleinhoffer’s hearing, he had agreed to permit an explanation of why he’d hired a detective to investigate Otto Ackermann’s demise. Which Quincannon had then given as succinctly and in as little detail as possible. It was not yet time to hand over the burned note fragment he’d found, or to reveal the presence of the two thousand dollars in the strongbox hidden in Lansing’s rooms—the latter in particular, given Kleinhoffer’s less than stellar reputation for honesty.

  “All right, then,” Kleinhoffer said when he’d finished. “How’d you get onto Lansing?”

  “Astute detective work, naturally.” Quincannon resisted adding that such was something the beefy dick knew little about.

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Under the circumstances the exact nature of my investigation is my and my client’s concern, not the police’s.”

  “The stolen formula is police business.”

  “Only if my client chooses to make it so.”

  “Well? Do you, Mr. Willard?”

  “No.”

  Kleinhoffer ground his yellowed teeth. “What did Lansing do with the formula?” he demanded of the brewery owner. “Who hired him?”

  Willard glanced at Quincannon, who imperceptibly shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Meaning you’re gonna be as closemouthed as the flycop here.”


  “Meaning I don’t know. Neither does Mr. Quincannon, or he would have said so.”

  “Lansing may not have been hired by anyone,” Quincannon said glibly. “He may have acted with the idea of selling the formula to the highest bidder. I’ll find out, in any case, if Mr. Willard should want me to continue in his employ.”

  “I do,” Willard said.

  Kleinhoffer said, “Scheisse.”

  Quincannon suppressed a grin. “Are you satisfied that Lansing’s death was a suicide?” he asked.

  “Couldn’t be anything else,” the Prussian admitted grudgingly. “You trapped him down there in that utility room and he took the coward’s way out.”

  “So he must have been guilty as I’ve charged.”

  “Or just plain off his trolley.”

  “In any event, as far as the law is concerned the case is closed. There’s no need for you to concern yourself with the stolen formula, Lansing’s motives, or anything else to do with the matter.”

  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.

  6

  SABINA

  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 a
nd 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?”

  “A business matter, madam. My apologies, but surely you won’t mind waiting an extra five minutes.”

  “Surely I do mind. Do you know who I am?”

  “No. Do you know who I am?”

  “No, and I don’t care.”

  Sabina smiled sweetly. “My sentiments exactly.”

  The woman muttered something rude under her breath, which Sabina ignored. She focused her thoughts on Dr. Axminster and the man he still considered, so far as she knew, to be the genuine Sherlock Holmes.

  It was at the doctor’s mansion that John had first encountered the bogus Sherlock, during his investigation into the series of home burglaries that had developed into the Bughouse Affair. The man she now knew to be Charles Percival Fairchild III had been Dr. Axminster’s houseguest at that time, courtesy of a mutual acquaintance in the south of France; he had beguiled the physician and his wife and small coterie of friends into believing his outlandish claim that after miraculously surviving his battle with archenemy Professor Moriarty at Reichenbach Falls, he’d decided to remain “deceased” instead of returning to his practice in London and eventually made his way to San Francisco on some sort of secret mission. He had stayed with the Axminsters throughout his involvement in the Bughouse Affair and for a short period afterward. He may or may not have had recent contact with the doctor; anything was possible where “that conceited crackbrained popinjay,” one of John’s more colorful descriptions, was concerned.

  Her wait was relatively short. A second uniformed nurse appeared, apparently to summon the still glowering matron, and it was she who took in Sabina’s card instead. She reappeared after only a minute or so, and announced that Dr. Axminster would see her immediately.