The Bughouse Affair

set liberated from an East Bay scruff.

Holmes’s monologue ceased, mercifully, when they departed the hack two blocks from Andrew Costain’s home. It was another night made for the prowling of footpads and yeggs, restless streams of cloud playing peekaboo games with stars and the scythe-blade moon. The neighborhood, the first of San Francisco’s fashionable residential districts, was built around an oval-shaped park that was an exact copy of London’s Berkeley Square-a fact the Englishman naturally chose to comment on. It had begun to fall into disfavor in 1869, when Second Street was carved through the west edge of Rincon Hill to connect downtown with the southern waterfront. Now its grandeur, along with that of Rincon Hill, was fading. Most of the powerful millionaires and their families had moved to more fashionable venues such as Nob Hill. Now it was on the shabby genteel side, though far from the “new slum, a place of solitary ancient houses and butt ends of streets,” as it had been unfairly dubbed by that insolent fellow Scotsman, Robert Louis Stevenson.

Many of the houses they passed showed light, but the Costain home, near South Park, was dark except for an electric porch globe. It was not as large as the Truesdale pile, but its front and rear yards were spacious and contained almost as many plants, trees, and shadowy hiding places.

Holmes peered intently through the row of iron pickets into the front yard as they strolled by. “Which of us will be stationed here?” he asked.

“You will. I’ve a spot picked out at the rear.”

“Splendid. The mucronulatum, perhaps. Or … ah, yes, even better. A Juniperus chinensis ‘corymbosa variegata,’ I do believe.”

“What are you prattling on about?”

“Shrubbery.”

“Eh?”

“Mucronulatum is the species more commonly known as rhododendron. Quite a healthy specimen there by that garden bench.”

“And what the devil is Jupiter chinchin thrombosa?”

“Juniperus chinensis ‘corymbosa variegata,’” the Englishman corrected. “One of the more handsome and sturdy varieties of juniper shrub. Its flowers are a variegated creamy yellow and its growth regular, without twisted branches, and generally of no more than ten feet in height. I thought at first that it might be a chinensis corymbosa, a close cousin, but the chinensis corymbosa grows to a greater height, often above fifteen feet.”

Quincannon had nothing to say to that.

“I’ve decided the corymbosa variegata will afford the best concealment,” Holmes said. “Without obstructing vision, of course. But I should like to see the rear of the property as well, if you have no objection. So that I may have a more complete knowledge of the … ah … lay. That is the American term, lay?”

“It is.”

“I find your idiom fascinating,” Holmes said. “One day I shall make a study of American slang.”

“And write a monograph about it, no doubt.”

“Or an article for one of the London popular journals.”

They reached the end of the block and circled around into a deserted carriageway. When they drew near the carriage barn at the rear of the Costain property, Holmes stopped and peered through the fence as intently as he had in front. After which he asked where Quincannon would station himself.

“That tree there on your left,” Quincannon lied. “I don’t happen to know its Latin or its English name-”

“Taxus brevifolia,” Holmes said promptly, “the Pacific yew.”

Quincannon ground his teeth. The prospect of a cold night in the Englishman’s company, not to mention a day trip to the low dives of the Barbary Coast, was as appealing as having one of his molars pulled without benefit of nitrous oxide.

He said, “If you’ve tabbed up enough, we’ll take our positions now.”

“‘I see you stand like greyhound in the slips, straining upon the start. The game’s afoot.’”

“What’s that you’re blathering now?”

“Not blather, my good man. A quote from the immortal Bard-King Henry the Fifth. Aptly applied, eh?”

“Bah.”

The confounded fellow rubbed his hands together briskly and winked. “A long low whistle if our man should appear, and we’ll then join forces at the fountain in the side yard. Agreed?”

“Your memory is as keen as your conversation,” Quincannon said sardonically.

Holmes seemed not to notice the sarcasm. He said, “Indeed,” and hurried on his way.

Quincannon returned to the gate that gave access to a small carriage barn inside the Costain property. He made sure he was still alone and unobserved, then unlatched the gate and made his way carefully through the shadows alongside the barn. The surveillance spot he had picked out on his earlier tabbing was a shed set at an angle midway between barn and house. Not only did the shed provide a viewpoint of the rear-yard part of the side yard, but also afforded some shelter from the wind and the night’s chill. The thought of the bughouse Sherlock shivering among the chinensis whosis in front would warm him even more.

He crossed to the shed, eased the door open and himself inside. The interior was cramped with stacks of cordwood and a jumble of gardening implements. By careful feel with his gloved hands he found that the stack nearest the door was low enough and sturdy enough to afford a seat, if he were careful not to move about too much. He lowered himself onto the wood. Even with the door wide open, he was in such darkness that he couldn’t be seen from outside. Yet his range of vision was mostly unimpeded and aided by star shine and patchy moonlight.

He judged that it was well after seven by now. Andrew Costain had told him that his wife was due home no later than ten thirty, and that he himself would return by midnight. Even if Dodger Brown failed to appear, three and a half hours was little enough discomfort in exchange for a double fee.

His wait, however, lasted less than two hours. He was on his feet, flexing his limbs to ease them of cold and cramp, when he spied the interloper. A shadow among shadows, moving crosswise from his left-the same silent, flitting approach he had observed on the banker’s property two nights ago. Dodger Brown was evidently bolder and more greedy than experience had taught him.

Quincannon rubbed his gloved hands together in anticipation, watching the shadow’s progress toward the rear of the house. Pause, drift, pause again at the rear end of the porch. Up and over the railing there, briefly silhouetted: the same small figure dressed in dark cap and clothing. Across to the door, and at work there for just a few seconds. The door opened, closed again behind the burglar.

Quincannon spent several seconds readying his dark lantern, just in case. When one of the wind-herded clouds blotted the moon, he stepped out of the shed and hurried laterally to the bole of a tree a dozen rods from the house. He was about to give the signal whistle when a low ululation came from the front yard.

What the devil? He answered in kind, paused and whistled again. In a matter of moments he spied Holmes approaching. The Englishman seemed to have an uncanny sense of direction in the dark; he came in an unerring line straight to where Quincannon stood.

“Why did you whistle?” Quincannon demanded in a fierce whisper. “You couldn’t have seen-”

“Andrew Costain is here.”

“What?”

“Arrived not three minutes ago, alone in a trap.”

“Blasted fool! He couldn’t have chosen a worse time. You didn’t stop him from going inside?”

“He seemed in a great hurry and I saw no purpose in revealing myself. The pannyman is also here, I presume?”

“Already inside through the rear door, not four minutes ago.”

“Inside with us, too, Quincannon!” Holmes said urgently. “We’ve not a moment to lose!”

But it was already too late. In that instant a sharp report came from the house, muffled but unmistakable.

Holmes said, “Pistol shot.”

Quincannon said, “Hell and damn!”

Both men broke into a run.