“No, I had other business to attend to.”
“Good, good. I asked because I had to leave the office for a short time-an urgent summons from a client.”
More likely, Quincannon thought cynically, the “urgent summons” had involved a visit to whichever nearby saloon he frequented.
“Have a seat. Cigar? Drink?”
“Neither.”
“I believe I’ll have a small libation, if you don’t mind. It has been something of a trying day.”
“It’s your office, Mr. Costain.”
While Quincannon moved a heavy volume of Blackstone from the single client’s chair and replaced it with his backside, Costain produced a bottle of rye whiskey and a none-too-clean glass from his desk drawer. His idea of a “small one” was three fingers of rye, half of which he tossed off at a gulp. The rum blossom glowed and the flush deepened, but the lawyer’s hands continued their restless roaming.
“Your message mentioned a financial advantage. For what service?”
“That’s rather obvious, isn’t it, in light of recent events. Have you caught the burglar yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“Identified him?”
“To my satisfaction. A man named Dodger Brown.”
“I don’t recognize the name.”
“No reason you should as a civil attorney,” Quincannon said. “It’s only a matter of time until he’s locked away in the city jail.”
“How much time?”
“Within forty-eight hours, if all goes well.”
“How do you plan to catch him? While in the act?”
“If not before.”
“Don’t be ambiguous, man. I have a right to know what you’re up to.”
“Indeed? My client is the Great Western Insurance Company. I need answer only to them.”
Costain drained his glass, looked yearningly at the bottle, wet his lips, and then with a steadfast effort returned both bottle and glass to the desk drawer and pushed it shut. “My name is on that list of potential victims, you said so last night. Naturally I’m concerned. Suppose this man Brown wasn’t frightened off by his near capture at the Truesdales’? Suppose he’s bold enough to try burgling my home next, even this very night? My wife and I can ill afford to have our house ransacked and our valuables stolen. The damned insurance companies never pay off at full value.”
“A legitimate fear.”
“I want you to see to it that we’re not victimized. Hire you to keep watch on my home tonight and every night until you’ve caught this man Brown.”
Quincannon said, “There are other alternatives, you know, which would cost you nothing.”
“Yes, yes, I know. Move our valuables to a safe place and simply stay home nights until the threat is ended. But we have too many possessions to haul away willy-nilly and too little time to undertake the chore. Even if we did remove everything of value, Brown might still break in and if he found nothing worth stealing, vandalize the premises. That has been known to happen, hasn’t it?”
“It has, though not very often.”
“I don’t like the idea of my home being invaded in any case,” Costain said. “And it well could be since it’s on that list of yours. My wife and I have separate appointments tonight and a joint one tomorrow evening that we’re loath to cancel. The house will be empty and fair game from seven until midnight or later both nights.”
“You have no servants?”
“None that live in. And it would be useless to ask for help from the city police without certain knowledge of a crime to be committed.”
Quincannon nodded, considering. If Costain wanted to pay him for the same work he had been engaged to do by Great Western Insurance, there was neither conflict of interest nor any other reasonable argument against it. The notion of another night or two hiding in shrubbery and risking pneumonia had no appeal, but minor hardships were part and parcel of the detective game.
“You’ll accept the job, then?”
“I will,” Quincannon said blandly, “provided you’re willing to pay the standard rate for my time plus an additional fee.”
“What’s that? Additional fee for what?”
“Surveillance on your home is a job for two men.”
“Why? You were by yourself at the Truesdales’.”
“The Truesdale house has front and side entrances that could be watched by one man alone. Yours has front and rear entrances, therefore requiring a second operative.”
“How is it you know my house?”
“I tabbed it up, along with the others on the list, the day I was hired by Great Western.”
“Tabbed it up?”
“Crook’s argot. Paid visits and scrutinized the properties, the same as the housebreaker would have done to size up the lay.”
Costain continued to twitch, but he didn’t argue. “Very well,” he said. “How much will it cost me?”
Quincannon named a per diem figure, only slightly higher than his usual for a two-detective operation. His dislike for the bibulous lawyer was not sufficient to warrant gouging him unduly.
The amount induced Costain to mutter, “That’s damned close to extortion,” then to reopen his desk drawer and help himself to another “small libation.”
“Hardly.”
“I suppose the figure is nonnegotiable?”
“I don’t haggle,” Quincannon said.
“All right. How much in advance?”
“One day’s fee in full.”
“For services not yet rendered? No, by God. Half, and not a penny more.”
Quincannon shrugged. Half in advance was more than he usually requested from his clients.
“You’ll take a check, I assume?”
“Of course.” As long as it wasn’t made of rubber.
“You had better not fail me, Quincannon,” Costain said as he wrote out the check. “If there is a repeat of your bungling at the Truesdales’, you’ll regret it. I promise you that.”
Quincannon bit back an oath, scowled his displeasure instead, and managed an even-toned reply. “I did not bungle at the Truesdales’. What happened two nights ago-”
“-wasn’t your fault. Yes, yes, I know. And if anything similar happens it won’t be your fault again, no doubt.”
“You’ll have your money’s worth.”
“I had better.”
And I’ll have my money’s worth, and then some, Quincannon thought. He tucked the check into a waistcoat pocket and left Costain to stew in his alcoholic juices.
The Geary Street address was not far from his bank or the agency offices. He went first to the Miner’s Bank, where he made sure Costain had sufficient funds in his account before depositing the check. Then he set off for the agency at a brisk pace.
San Francisco was a fine city, he reflected as he walked, the more so on a nippy but sun-bright day such as this one. The fresh salt smell from the bay, the rumble and clang of cable cars on Market Street, the stately presence of the Ferry Building in the distance-he had yet to tire of any of it. It had been a banner day when he was reassigned here during his days with the United States Secret Service. The nation’s capital had not been the same for him after his father succumbed to the assassin’s bullet on the Baltimore waterfront; he had been ready for a change. His new home suited him as Washington, D.C., had suited Thomas Quincannon. The same was true of the business of private investigation, a much more lucrative and satisfying profession than that of an underpaid and overworked government operative.
When he arrived at the building that housed Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, he was in a cheerful mood. Temperance songs were among his favorite tunes, not because of his vow of sobriety but because he found them as exaggerated and amusing as temperance tracts; he whistled “Lips that Touch Liquor Will Never Touch Mine” as he climbed to the second floor and approached the agency’s door. But he came to an abrupt halt when he saw that the door stood ajar by a few inches, and heard the voice that came from within.
“I consider that a man’s brain originally is like a little empty attic,” the voice was declaiming, “and you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose. A fool takes in all the lumber of every sort that he comes across, so that the knowledge which might be useful to him gets crowded out, or at best is jumbled up with a lot of other things, so that he has a difficulty in laying his hands upon it. Now the skillful workman is very careful indeed as to what he takes in to his brain attic. He will have nothing but the tools which may help him in doing his work, but of these he has a large assortment, and all in the most perfect order. It is a mistake to think that little room has elastic walls and can distend to any extent. There comes a time when for every addition of knowledge you forget something that you knew before. It is of the highest importance, therefore, not to have useless facts elbowing out the useful ones.”