dirty glass, and one half-empty jug of Dr. Hall.
Under one of the bunks was a pasteboard suitcase. Quincannon drew it out, laid it on the blankets, snapped the cheap lock with the blade of his pocketknife, and sifted through the contents. Cheap John clothing of a size much too small to fit Salty Jim. An oilskin pouch that contained an array of lock picks and other burglar tools. An old Smith amp; Wesson revolver wrapped in cloth, unloaded, no cartridges in evidence. And a larger, felt-lined sack that rattled provocatively as he lifted it out.
When he upended the sack onto the blanket, out tumbled a variety of jewelry, timepieces, small silver and gold gewgaws. Pay dirt! A quick accounting told him that he was now in possession of the remaining stolen goods from Dodger Brown’s first three robberies.
There was one other item of interest in the suitcase, which he’d missed on his first look. It lay on the bottom, facedown, caught under a torn corner. He fished it out, flipped it over. A business card, creased and thumb-marked, but not of the sort he himself carried. He had seen such discreet advertisements before; they had grown more common in the Uptown Tenderloin, handed out by the more enterprising businesswomen in the district. This one read:
FIDDLE DEE DEE
MISS LETTIE CAREW PRESENTS
BOUNTIFUL BEAUTIES FROM EXOTIC LANDS
MAISON DE JOIE
244 O’FARRELL STREET
Well, now. Such a relatively refined establishment as the Fiddle Dee Dee was hardly the type of bawdy house Salty Jim would want or be permitted to patronize. The card, therefore, must belong to Dodger Brown. Quincannon was certain of it when he turned the card over and found pencil-scrawled on the back:
He considered. Was it possible that the Dodger wasn’t in quite as much hurry to flee the Bay Area as it had seemed from his visit to Luther Duff yesterday? That a different urge had prompted his eagerness for cash, and was the reason why the rest of his ill-gotten gains were still stashed here and he hadn’t spent last night on this scabrous tub?
A likely prospect. As was the Dodger’s eventual return. But when would that be? Salty Jim might know, but he was bound to be even more uncommunicative when he awoke from his nap. And the prospect of a long and possibly fruitless vigil in the pirate’s company held no appeal. After a few moments of reflection, Quincannon decided to follow his hunch and pay a call on Miss Lettie Carew in her
He returned the swag to its felt-lined nest and added the sack to the one he’d pocketed in Duff’s Curio Shop, after which he stepped onto the deck with Dodger Brown’s revolver in hand. Salty Jim was still
22
SABINA
Inside the house Penelope Costain’s voice said angrily, “And just what did you expect to find in my home, Mr. Holmes? The police went over every inch of the premises last night.”
“Clues to the unfortunate events that took place here.”
“And you found none that the police overlooked, I’m sure. If you’ve disturbed or taken anything, I’ll have you arrested.”
“Tut, tut. Nothing has been disturbed or removed.”
“I should have you arrested for trespassing anyway, but I won’t if you leave at once.”
“As you wish, madam.
Footsteps sounded inside. Sabina had just enough time to back down onto the path before the door opened and the cape-and-deerstalker Englishman emerged, his blackthorn walking stick in hand. He hesitated when he spied her, and glanced behind him. The door remained closed, Mrs. Costain still inside.
Holmes bowed as he joined Sabina. There was a smudge of dirt on one of his cheeks, as if he had spent part of his time inside crawling around in dark corners or a dusty attic. “My dear Mrs. Carpenter. An unexpected pleasure. May I ask what brings you here?”
“I’ve come to extend my condolences to the widow.”
“Detective business as well, perchance?”
“Perhaps. Though not of the same sort you’ve been indulging in.”
“Ah, you overheard my conversation with Mrs. Costain.”
“Part of it. I’ll thank you to cease claiming to be what you’re not-an authorized employee of the Carpenter and Quincannon agency.”
“My apologies, dear lady, for the small deception. But it was in a good cause, I assure you.”
“Yes? Did you learn something my partner and I should know?”
Holmes’s smile was crafty. Instead of answering her question, he said, “It’s almost teatime. On my way here I noticed a tea shop around the corner on Federal Street. Would you do me the honor of joining me there after you’ve finished speaking to Mrs. Costain?”
“I have no time for social niceties, Mr. Holmes.”
“You might find it worthwhile nonetheless,” he said. He bowed again and sauntered off, the ferrule of his stick tapping rhythmically.
Sabina watched after him for a few seconds, then returned to her former place at the front door. She had to move the funeral wreath aside in order to lift the heavy brass knocker.
The door opened abruptly and there appeared a pale, wrathful face under a black hat with a drawn-up veil, her prominent chin outthrust. “Now what do you-? Oh. I thought you were someone else.” The woman’s expression modulated into a frown. “I don’t know you. What do you want?”
“A few minutes of your time. My name is Sabina Carpenter.”
“Carpenter? Of the detective agency?”
“Yes.”
Penelope Costain hesitated. “I shouldn’t be speaking to you at all. If your partner and that fool Holmes had done their jobs properly, my husband would still be alive.”
“Please don’t blame Mr. Quincannon for what happened to your husband. If it had been humanly possible for him to have prevented it, he would have done so.”
“So you say.”
“May I come in?”
“I’ve just returned from making funeral arrangements. I’m really quite tired.”
“I won’t keep you long.”
“… Oh, very well.”
The widow’s mourning attire was a rather inappropriate black taffeta dress that rustled and crackled from static electricity as she ushered Sabina into an underheated and overdecorated parlor. Flowers and ruffles, statues of shepherds and shepherdesses, a hideous ormolu clock on the mantel. Antimacassars, Faberge eggs, ornately painted plates on a wall rail. Life-size china dogs beside every chair, multicolored glass baskets holding mints and candies. An empty gilt canary cage. And over it all, a patina of dust as if the room hadn’t had a proper cleaning in some while. There was even a spiderweb between two of the ornate plates.
A gauche display of wealth that had been neglected-and plundered a bit, judging from the spaces where more of the ostentatious clutter had once been displayed. How could people live in such surroundings?
Mrs. Costain stood stiffly, her head cocked to one side in an oddly birdlike fashion, her short dark hair touching the high collar of her dress. Eyes like the points of arrowheads jabbed at Sabina as she said, “Well, Mrs.
