The Plague of Thieves Affair (2 page)

As much as he enjoyed the look and feel of spendable currency, he hesitated only a few seconds before returning the money to the strongbox and the strongbox to its hiding place. Only a corrupt detective would appropriate a wad of greenbacks, illegally obtained by Lansing though they were. John Frederick Quincannon was many things, but a thief was not one of them. He would inform the police of the booty and its whereabouts once Lansing was in their custody. Of course the cash might well mysteriously disappear before it could be used as evidence against Lansing in court—more than a few dicks on the city payroll lacked Quincannon's code of ethics—but that was not his concern. His duty was to himself, his reputation, and his clients, no more and no less.

His mouth quirked wryly as he straightened. Criminals—bah! The lot of them, fortunately, were arrogant and careless dolts. Lansing's failure to completely burn the note and his hiding of the payoff money here in his rooms, coupled with the testimony of the witness Quincannon had found who'd seen him entering the brewery late on the night of Otto Ackermann's murder and Lansing's bald denial of this fact, was more than sufficient evidence to arrest him and eventually help hang him.

Quincannon whistled an old temperance tune, “The Brewers' Big Horses Can't Run Over Me,” as he relocked the door to the assistant brewmaster's rooms and then left the boardinghouse. Naught was left but to confront Lansing, urge a confession out of him through one means or another, then hand him over to those blue-coated denizens of the Hall who had the audacity to call themselves San Francisco's finest. Then he could collect his fee from James Willard, and return to the relative peace and clean, brewery-free air of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services.

Where only one temptation awaited him—one he would succumb to in an instant were the opportunity to present itself. A possibility, by Godfrey, that was not as unlikely as it had once seemed, not for a man as determined and optimistic as John Frederick Quincannon. For in the words of Emily Dickinson, one of his favorite poets, “Hope is the thing with feathers / That perches in the soul.”

Ah, Sabina. Dear Sabina.

 

2

SABINA

Sabina entertained three visitors that morning in the Market Street offices of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services. The first two arrived together to confirm their hiring of the agency for what promised to be a routine matter, though one of some interest to her. The third individual was a complete stranger, and who he was and what he wanted came as a startling surprise.

Marcel Carreaux and Andrew Rayburn, the first two callers, arrived promptly for their ten o'clock appointment. Both were well dressed in the fashion of the day—sack coats with covered buttons and matching waistcoats, gray and dark brown respectively; stiff-collared shirts, bow ties, narrow-brimmed bowler hats—but otherwise they were as unalike as two gentlemen could be. Their only commonality, so far as Sabina knew, was an abiding love of artistic creation in its many forms.

Carreaux, tall, spare, with ascetic features and elegantly tonsured silver hair, was assistant curator of the Louvre Museum in Paris; the short, balding, fussy Rayburn, whose most prominent features were a large hooked nose and a thin shoelace mustache, owned the well-regarded Rayburn Art Gallery on Post Street. The Frenchman bowed formally, said, “
Enchanté,
madame,” and when she gave him her hand, actually bestowed a brief Gallic kiss on the back of her hand. The gallery owner, whom she had met before, favored her with a professional smile as skimpy as his mustache.

What had brought the two men together was an exhibition of rare and valuable antique ladies' handbags, dubbed Reticules Through the Ages, which had just arrived under railroad guard from Seattle, its previous stop on a nationwide, twelve-city American tour; the exhibit was due to open for public viewing at the Rayburn Gallery two days hence. It was on Andrew Rayburn's recommendation that Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, be hired to provide security for the week-long showing in San Francisco. Sabina's only communication with Carreaux had been an exchange of wires during his stay in Seattle.

“We have had no difficulties in other cities, Madame Carpenter, nor do we expect any here,” the Frenchman said when he and Rayburn were seated before her desk. “
Mais non
. But San Francisco is known to be, ah, a city in which there is much wickedness…”

“Deservedly so,” Rayburn said in his fussy way. “Thieves abound in the Barbary Coast. Criminals who will steal anything of value if they can, anything at all. The district is a blight on our fair escutcheon.”

“Thus it is better to be safe than sorry,
n'est-ce pas
?”

“The Marie Antoinette chatelaine bag alone is valued at several thousand dollars,” Rayburn added. He smoothed his rather silly little mustache with a neatly manicured forefinger. “It and the other items must be protected while they are on display in my gallery.”

“At all times, m'sieu
et
madame, and in all places until their safe return to Paris.”

“Yes, of course, but especially here.”

Sabina said, “The Marie Antoinette bag is the centerpiece of the exhibition, I gather.”

Carreaux gave an enthusiastic nod of agreement. “A true treasure—
c'est magnifique
!”

He went on to explain that in olden times, chatelaine bags had hung from an ornamental hook on the jeweled girdles of ladies of high station and contained useful household items—a fact Sabina already knew. Made of beadwork or silver or gold mesh, many were set with precious or semiprecious gems. The Marie Antoinette was one of these. Six by ten inches in size, it was fashioned of pure gold mesh, its rigid gold frame and clasp encrusted with diamonds and rubies.

Such a history it had! The Queen of France and Navarre had worn it at Versailles. Along with many other valuables, it had been seized by French revolutionists after the kingdom fell in 1792, and she and the rest of the royal family were imprisoned (and eventually executed), and paraded through the streets of Paris as an example of the monarchy's profligate ways. For two decades afterward it was believed to have been lost or destroyed. Ah, but then it had resurfaced in the possession of a descendant of a minor revolutionary, who donated it to the Louvre Museum where it had been repaired and restored. And there it had been permanently displayed until M. Bernard La Follette, curator, joined with curators from museums in Florence and Venice to bring it and some two dozen other historically significant European handbags to America under his, Marcel Carreaux's, guidance.

Private galleries in each city on the tour had been chosen to display Reticules Through the Ages, rather than museums or exhibition halls. One reason was that the collection was small and required relatively little space for viewing, but security was the primary factor. It was much easier to provide safeguards in a gallery venue, where entrances and exits were few and there were no dark nooks and crannies that could be used as hiding places. The Rayburn Art Gallery, which Sabina had visited, had been an excellent choice for both viewing and security purposes here. It was prominently located, and while Reticules Through the Ages would be open to the general public, the audience would consist primarily of members of the city's social elite to whom invitations had been issued. The assignment promised to be a simple one and Sabina had been glad to accept it. The opportunity to view such a splendid collection of historical artifacts was a pleasure she looked forward to, and even John would agree that the fee was excellent.

“As I indicated during our previous meeting,” Rayburn said, “the exhibit will be open during evening hours only, from five until nine o'clock. How many men will you supply, Mrs. Carpenter? Properly attired, of course.”

“None.”

“How's that? None?”

“I'll attend to the duties myself.”

He blinked at her owlishly. “With no male assistance?”

Sabina bit back a sharp retort. The man was something of a pompous, self-serving ass and she would have liked to tell him so, but it would never do for the watchdog to bite the hand that was feeding it. She said only, “One guard should be sufficient, and I assure you I am quite competent,” and then turned her attention to the Frenchman. “I trust you have no objection to my giving this matter my personal attention, Mr. Carreaux.”

“I have heard only praise of your abilities, not only from M'sieu Rayburn but others as well.
Mais oui,
I am quite comfortable with the arrangement you suggest.”

“Well, if you are, Marcel, then so am I,” Rayburn said, though he didn't sound convinced. He gave his mustache another fussy stroking. “Though I still think the presence of two detectives is preferable to one.”

“At twice the fee per evening,” Sabina reminded him.

A tendency toward penny-pinching evidently was another of the gallery owner's less than endearing qualities. He made no further protest, saying only, “Mm, yes, well,” in a vague sort of way.

A signed contract and a retainer check concluded the arrangements. Sabina promised to present herself at the Rayburn Gallery at four
P.M.
the following afternoon, one hour before the grand opening, and the two men took their leave, M. Carreaux once again gallantly bowing and bestowing a kiss on her hand. A courtly and quite likable man. The opposite of Andrew Rayburn in that respect, too.

Alone at her desk, busy with routine paperwork, she found herself wondering how John was faring with his investigation into the death of Golden State Steam Beer's brewmaster. As usual, her partner had been reticent about discussing a case in progress, but from his good humor yesterday afternoon she presumed that he was close to a satisfactory resolution. Well, in any event it was fortunate that just a single operative, her, would be providing security for Reticules Through the Ages. Even if John were free on any of the evenings, he would have protested vehemently against joining her at the Rayburn gallery. She could just hear his response if it were suggested to him. “Handbags! Reticules! Bah!” Had M. Carreaux and Andrew Rayburn insisted that a male operative also be present, she would've had to bring in one of the agency's part-time operatives.

Still, she found herself picturing John in evening clothes, as she'd seen him wear on a few previous occasions. With his broad shoulders and luxuriant beard, he cut a handsome figure in both a dark tailcoat, striped trousers, and ruffled shirt, and a dinner jacket with a shawl collar and silk facings. As handsome a figure, she admitted on reflection, as Carson Montgomery had presented during their brief relationship.

Carson. She hadn't seen him since they had said good-bye outside the Palace Hotel last October, after she'd confronted him with her discoveries about his somewhat checkered past. Nor had he attempted to contact her. Fortunately they didn't travel in the same social circles; it might have been awkward if their paths had happened to cross. She wished him the best, but thought of him less and less and had no regrets that their brief liaison failed to develop along more intimate lines.

Her time with him, however, had wrought a certain change in her, perhaps even a profound change—one that might be labeled “Not Enough.” One of the traits that her late husband, Stephen, had most valued in her was her flexibility, her capacity for dealing with life's adversities and then moving forward. He would have understood, though not approved, of her temporary plunge into depression after the outlaw's bullet took his life, but he would have been proud when she'd finally dragged herself out of the depths and plunged back into her work as a Pink Rose. And he would have applauded, she was sure, her move to San Francisco, her partnership with John, and her new life here.

But while that new life had been fulfilling, it no longer seemed to be complete enough. Much as she enjoyed her friendships with women she'd met through her cousin Callie French, much as she loved her cats, Adam and Eve, they were not adequate substitutes for meaningful male companionship. The interlude with Carson had reminded her that she was a healthy, attractive woman in the prime of life; that she did not have to remain a celibate widow for the rest of her days. Nor would Stephen have wanted her to. Sometimes when she viewed the cats as they played or slept curled together, she thought:
They have each other. Whom do I have?

Well, she could have John if she chose. He had made it plain from the beginning that he yearned for a personal relationship, but she had been convinced that his motive was nothing more than seduction, despite his protestations to the contrary. For that reason, and because of the pain of Stephen's loss, she'd kept him firmly at arm's length. As she'd kept all other men at arm's length before Carson. Lately, however, she had begun to think that John's feelings for her as a woman went well beyond mere sexual conquest.

For five years now she had steadfastly maintained, to him and to herself, that a personal relationship would not mix with the professional. But wasn't that merely an excuse to avoid intimacy? She and Stephen had shared both in Chicago and in Denver, with no adverse effects on their work or their marriage; if anything, the sharing had made their bond stronger. Of course Stephen had been the love of her life; she could never love another as deeply. Still, and she might as well admit it, what she had come to feel for John was something more than just a sisterly affection.

He was an attractive man, no question of that. A good man, too, with a keen intelligence and a strong moral sense beneath his occasionally reckless and acquisitive behavior. He could be pompous, moody, critical, but more often he was kind and courtly and jocular; inside his crusty shell, she suspected, he was as soft and perhaps as sweet as custard. Stephen had been a gentle, considerate, doting husband and lover. Despite John's faults, wasn't it possible he would be the same?