Quincannon’s smile turned upside down as he elbowed inside. The voice belonged to the crackbrain masquerading as Sherlock Holmes.
14
SABINA
The Englishman sat comfortably in the client’s chair in front of her desk, a gray cape draped over his shoulders and a deerstalker cap pulled down over his ears. Even though she had opened both windows, the office was blue with smoke from the long, curved clay pipe he was smoking. The tobacco was worse than the shag John preferred, a mixture that might have been made from floor sweepings.
He had arrived at the agency twenty minutes earlier, shortly after her return. Sabina had had just enough time to transfer most of the valuables she’d gathered in Clara Wilds’s rooms from her bag into the office safe before he strolled in. Paying a call, he said, for a look at the offices of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, for he had a keen interest in learning how his American counterparts conducted their business.
Sabina, suspecting an ulterior motive, was none too welcoming, but the Englishman didn’t appear to notice and made himself comfortable across from her. She was in no mood for his foolishness and anxious to confer with John about the death of Clara Wilds, so tried to tell the probable impostor she was busy and send him on his way. But he was persistent without being offensive-courtly and charming, in fact, if something of a bore once he began expounding on such arcane topics as brain attics.
He may well have been the addlepate John and Ambrose Bierce believed him to be, but Sabina had to admit he seemed benign enough and extremely well educated, with knowledge of a variety of subjects. And his “parlor tricks,” of which she’d had a sampling, were certainly impressive-so much so that she felt he must have exhaustively studied the deductive methods utilized by the London detective he pretended or believed himself to be. Nonetheless she had had just about enough of him, and soon would have gotten rid of him, if necessary at the point of the derringer she kept in her reticule if her partner hadn’t finally returned.
John sized up the situation from Sabina’s frustrated expression and was not gentle in closing the door, or gracious in his opening remark. He aimed one of his piratical scowls at their caller, and said to Sabina, “I seem to have walked in on a lecture.”
A lecture was exactly what she had mentally termed it. If she’d wanted to hear one, she’d have sooner visited the Academy of Sciences or one of the city’s excellent art museums.
The Englishman answered John before Sabina could. “Hardly that, sir. Hardly that. I was merely stating a portion of my methodology to the most engaging Mrs. Carpenter.”
“And demonstrating your amazing powers of observation and deduction, no doubt.”
Sabina waved away a plume of smoke from the clay pipe. “Oh, yes. He wasn’t here three minutes before he knew about Adam.”
“Adam?” John said suspiciously. “Who the deuce is Adam?”
“My roommate.”
“Your … what?”
“You needn’t look so horrified. Adam is a cat.”
“A young cat, in point of fact,” the Englishman said. “No older than six months.”
“Cat? You never told me you had a cat.”
The look she gave him reaffirmed the fact that there were many things about herself and her personal life she had never told him. “Adam only recently came to live with me.”
Sherlock Holmes, for want of another name, puffed out another great cloud of acrid smoke. “Rather a curious mix of Abyssinian and long-haired Siamese,” he announced.
“Mr. Holmes was able to deduce that from a few wisps of fur on the hem of my skirt. Adam’s approximate age, as well.”
“Remarkable fellow,” John said sourly. “Have you written a monograph on breeds of cat as well as tobacco ash?”
“No, but perhaps one day I shall.” The Englishman once again assumed his pontifical air. “Remarkable creatures, felines. As one of our more famous philosophers once wrote, ‘God made the cat so that man could have the pleasure of caressing the tiger.’”
Sabina had to admit that was an apt assessment, but John was not impressed. He demanded of Holmes, “What brought you here, pray tell?”
“An abiding interest in the inner workings of an American private inquiry agency. As I told your charming associate, I occupied much of yesterday studying accounts of the various investigations you’ve conducted. Excellent detective work, sir and madam. Most commendable.”
“You’ll find no better anywhere.”
“No better anywhere in America, perhaps.”
John bristled at that, but made no comment.
Holmes adjusted his deerstalker at a rakish angle and leaned back comfortably in the chair. “May I ask how your investigation into the residential burglaries is progressing? Have you caught your pannyman yet?”
“What business is that of yours?”
“Now that I’ve finished my researches in your admirable city, I fear I’ve grown bored with conventional tourist activities. San Francisco is quite cosmopolitan for an American city in its infancy, but its geographical, cultural, and historical attractions have decidedly limited appeal in comparison to my native London.”
“Bah. What researches?”
“They are of an esoteric nature, of no interest to the average person or even to fellow sleuths.”
John’s curled lip said he found that to be another addlepated statement. He shed his Chesterfield and went to sit glowering behind his desk.
“The time of my self-imposed exile has almost ended,” Holmes was saying. “Soon I shall return to England and my former pursuits. Crime and the criminal mind challenge my intellect, give zest to my life. I’ve been away from the game too long.”
“I can’t imagine leaving it in the first place.”
“I daresay there were mitigating factors.”
“Not for any reason, with or without mitigating factors.”
Their gazes locked, seemed to strike a spark or two. Sabina sighed, and said, “If you’ll excuse us now, Mr. Holmes, my partner and I have business to discuss.”
“Pray, don’t let my presence stop you. Perhaps I might be of some assistance.”
“Not likely,” John growled.
The Englishman ignored this. He remained seated, his eyes agleam, and said through another cloud of smoke, “Doctor Axminster provided a brief tour of your infamous Barbary Coast shortly after my arrival, but it was superficial and hardly enlightening. I should like to see it as I’ve seen Limehouse in London, from the perspective of a consulting detective. Foul dives, foul deeds! My blood races at the prospect.”
John rolled his eyes and fluffed his beard.
“Would you permit me to join you on your next excursion? Introduce me to the district’s hidden intrigues, some of its more colorful denizens-the dance-hall queen known as The Galloping Cow, Emperor Norton, the odd fellow who allows himself to be assaulted for money?”
“The Galloping Cow has slowed to a bovine walk. Emperor Norton is long dead, and Oofty Goofty soon will be if he allows one more thump on his cranium with a baseball bat. Besides, I’m a detective, not a tour guide.”