All of this added up to the fact that the judge had been seated at the desk, and implied that his death hadn’t been of natural causes.
A fastidious individual such as he would never have permitted hot ashes to fall onto the expensive carpet, a fact testified to by the lack of burn marks elsewhere on the carpet or on the mg. Nor would he carelessly drop an object onto the desk that would scar its pristine surface — an object such as a lighted pipe. It would take a sudden, severe attack for both of those things to happen.
The intensity of the attack must have jerked him upright onto his feet, likely thrusting the chair farther back and at least partially disarraying whatever he had been working on. The pipe he’d been smoking had fallen from his mouth, spraying burning embers when it struck the desk edge — the thumping noise Mrs. Shellwin and the others had heard. He had then cried out, shouted as he staggered away, and collapsed and died before reaching the door.
That part of it seemed clear. But there was no pipe, and only those remaining flecks of ash on blotter and carpet and dottle in the wastebasket; the law book and papers had been reordered, the rug moved to hide the large burn mark, the chair pushed closer to the desk. A deliberate cleaning and rearranging, therefore, neither done nor authorized by Margaret Shellwin.
Murderer’s work.
To cover up... what, precisely?
Quincannon gave his attention to the rack of pipes. There were half a dozen altogether, three on each side of the canister. Four were briars of different shapes and sizes — a full-bent and a half-bent billiard, a Dublin, a square-shank apple; there were also a calabash, and a meerschaum with a bowl carved in the image of a bewigged English magistrate. Was the pipe Shellwin had been smoking one of these, or had it been carried off? In either case, why had it been picked up?
A notion began to form in the back of Quincannon’s mind. On impulse, he lifted the canister’s lid, reached inside for a pinch of tobacco which he proceeded to sniff. Latakia and fire-cured Virginia, not to his taste at all; his preference was Navy-cut and shag. He rolled the flakes between thumb and forefinger, then touched his tongue to them. Ordinary if pungent scent, ordinary feel, ordinary taste.
He opened the brassbound box. It contained wooden matches and several chicken feathers, a commonly used tool for clearing out the tar and nicotine moisture that collected in pipe stems. He kept a supply on hand himself, at his flat and at the office.
As he closed the box, he noticed the upturned pipe bowls in the rack. A scowl creased his whiskers when he found that not just one but all six had thick carbon cakes inside. The judge had been a careless smoker. He may have cleaned his pipes’ stems with some regularity, but he had neglected to periodically ream out the bowls. Such buildups of carbon not only resulted in poor flavor, but if left unattended to, would eventually render the pipes unsmokable.
Quincannon stood for a time revising his notion. Then he went back out into the parlor. Margaret Shellwin and Jerome Paxson were still seated on the sofa, the neighbor a little closer beside her than he had been earlier. He did not draw away under Quincannon’s scrutiny, and his eyes challenged comment.
“I’d like to speak with you, Mrs. Shellwin,” Quincannon said, ignoring the unspoken challenge. He added meaningfully, “In private.”
“Have you found something?”
“There is nothing for him to find,” Paxson said. “His poking about to no good end is only upsetting you, Margaret.”
“You don’t mind if I consult with my client in private, do you, sir?”
“I certainly do mind—”
“Please, Jerome,” she said. “I’d rather speak to Mr. Quincannon alone. Really, there is no need for you to stay any longer.”
“I don’t like the idea of you being here by yourself. After he leaves, I mean, which I trust will be soon.”
“I’ll be fine. You needn’t worry.”
“But I do worry. Your welfare is important to me.”
Her only response to that was a half smile.
Paxson put up no further argument. He stood, aimed a glower at Quincannon that she couldn’t see, said to her, “Call me if you should want company, I’ll be home all evening,” and made his exit.
When he was gone, Quincannon said, “Your neighbor seems to hold you in high regard.”
“I suppose so. He has been very kind and attentive.”
“A good friend of your husband’s too, was he?”
“Yes, of course. To both of us.”
“Married?”
“No, Jerome is a bachelor. He inherited the house next door from his aunt three years ago.”
“He appears to be a man of means. What does he do for a living?”
“He’s an executive with Jackson and Langley Manufacturing.” She drew a shuddery breath, as if to dismiss the subject of Jerome Paxson. “You wanted to speak to me, Mr. Quincannon. Did you find something important in Rupert’s study?”
He hedged by saying, “It’s too soon to be sure.” Then, “Tell me, did your husband have a favorite among his pipes, one he smoked most often?”
The question puzzled her, but she answered without asking why he wanted to know. “Yes, I think so. An unusual yellow-white one carved in the image of a judge — a gift from a political acquaintance.”
“Was that the only one he smoked daily?”
“As far as I know it was. I didn’t often see him smoking, except now and then when we were outside together.” Quincannon asked another question that puzzled her. “Who else besides you has access to the study?”
“Access to it? I don’t understand.”
“I’ll put it another way. Does anyone other than you and your husband have a key to this house? Your brother-in-law, for instance.”
“Yes, Peter has a key.”
“Anyone else?”
“Jerome. We exchanged keys in case one of us should lose or misplace our own. But that’s all. Not even the woman who cleans for us twice a week has one.” She paused, frowning openly now. “Surely you don’t think—”
Quincannon shared his suspicions with no one, not even Sabina, until he was certain of their validity. He said quickly, as if he had just remembered something important, “Excuse me, please, I need to make another brief visit to the study.”
“As you wish.”
He returned to the study, again shutting the door behind him. At the judge’s desk he removed the carved meerschaum from the pipe rack. Its bowl was heavy, and there was a scraped indentation on its underside — from contact with the desk edge when dropped, no doubt. He sniffed the bowl, then wrapped the pipe in his handkerchief and slipped it into the pocket of his sack coat. He allowed another minute to pass before rejoining his client in the parlor.
“I’m through for now, Mrs. Shellwin,” he said. “A few more questions before I depart. What is your brother-in-law’s profession?”
“Peter buys and sells rare books and manuscripts.”
“From his residence or a shop?”
“He has a shop downtown.”
“Located where?”
“At Sutter and Mason. He lives on Telegraph Hill.”
“May I ask when your husband’s funeral will be?”
“At noon on Friday.”
Two days hence. Good. A visit to Peter Lehman at his shop tomorrow should suffice. As well as another to his client, if she would be available during the afternoon. He asked if she had any plans for the day.