“But not the one of the Costain home?”
“That’s the bad news. The Dodger was cozied up at the Fiddle Dee Dee all of last night with bottles of wine and a Chinese strumpet named Ming Toy. She and Lettie Carew vouch for the fact.”
“They could have been paid to lie.”
“Could have been, but weren’t. Whoever broke into the Costain home and shot our client, it wasn’t Dodger Brown.”
“A copycat burglar?”
“A possibility.”
“Do you put much stock in it?”
“No. I can’t abide another coincidence.”
“Nor can I. I don’t suppose Dodger Brown is guilty of Clara Wilds’s murder any more than that of Andrew Costain?”
“Evidently not,” Quincannon said. “He claims he hasn’t seen her in months, since they parted company over her involvement with Victor Pope. And he has no claw marks anywhere on his person, as I had the distasteful task of confirming.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“Could Pope have stabbed the pickpocket?”
“No,” Sabina said. “He had neither the time nor the means. You may find this far-fetched, John, but for a time today I had the notion her murderer might have been Andrew Costain.”
Quincannon paused in the process of charging his pipe with tobacco. “Yes? Why would you think that?”
“Grasping at straws, perhaps.”
Sabina went on to explain about the buggy that had been parked in the carriageway behind Clara Wilds’s rooming house, and her investigation of the carriage barn on the Costain property. While she spoke, she removed a circlet of brass from her skirt pocket and handed it to him, saying, “I found this wedged between the buggy’s seat cushions. Do you recognize it?”
He turned it over in his fingers. “Yes. A gambling token from Charles Riley’s House of Chance, a high-toned establishment on Polk Street. Good for one dollar in play. Riley gives them to favored customers.”
“Andrew Costain being one?”
Quincannon said thoughtfully, “Perhaps. If it belonged to him. I’ll just keep it, if you don’t mind.” He pocketed the token when Sabina nodded her consent. “Did you find anything else in the buggy?”
“No.”
“Do you still consider Costain a suspect in Clara Wilds’s murder?”
“I don’t know,” Sabina admitted. “He doesn’t seem to have had any plausible motive. Nor any way to have identified Wilds as the woman who robbed him.”
“It’s also unlikely that he would have had time to change into old clothing, drive from his office to her lodging house, commit the crime, and then return to Geary Street, change back into his business attire, and be waiting when I arrived. If that was his plan, he wouldn’t have sent his message to me when he did. Or admitted, as he did, to being away from the office at all.”
Sabina nodded. “I’m sure you’re right. But I do still believe the two cases are connected somehow. Don’t you?”
“Possibly. Though at the moment I don’t see how.”
“Nor do I.” Sabina paused to tuck away a stray wisp of her dark hair before saying, “There are some other things you should know, John.”
“Yes?”
“For one, Jackson Pollard was here not long before you returned, all in a dither. And not just because of what happened last night. Two more claims, he said, have taxed his patience to the limit.”
“Two more?”
“Both filed today by Mrs. Costain. One for the assessed value of her missing jewelry.”
“And the other?”
“The Costains also have a joint life insurance policy with Great Western, for the double indemnity sum of fifty thousand dollars.”
“So the widow wasted little time, did she,” Quincannon said. “What did you say to Pollard?”
“That you knew the identity of the burglar, and expected to have him in custody and the stolen goods recovered soon. He should be somewhat mollified when he hears that you’ve accomplished that part of your mission.”
“But not completely until the Costain matter is cleared up.”
“No. And if that isn’t done soon to his satisfaction, we may well lose one of our best clients. He threatened as much.”
“It’ll be done, never fear.”
“Is that bluster, John? Or do you have some idea of the explanation for the Costain puzzle?”
“I never bluster,” Quincannon said, which earned him one of Sabina’s raised-eyebrow looks. “Of course I have some idea. No muddle, no matter how mysterious it might seem, has ever baffled me for long.”
“Not even the one of how Andrew Costain was murdered and his assailant managed to escape from a locked room and then a sealed house under close observation?”
“Pshaw. I know how that was done.” Which wasn’t true. Glimmerings of the truth, yes, now that Dodger Brown had been exonerated of the crime, but the exact details were still unclear. Soon, however. Soon.
“Do you, now?” Sabina said in tones that he chose not to construe as dubious. “And how was it done, pray tell?”
“All in good time, my dear. All in good time.”
“You may not have as much time as you think. You’re not the only one investigating the Costain murder.”
“If you mean that dolt Kleinhoffer-”
“No. I mean our ‘employee,’ thanks to you.”
“Employee? The bughouse Sherlock? I thought we were rid of him.”
“Not hardly. While Mrs. Costain was out making funeral arrangements today, he entered the house illegally. She caught him prowling around when she returned, and was in the process of evicting him when I arrived.”
“What the devil was he looking for?”
“He wouldn’t tell me when I met him outside,” Sabina said, “or when I suffered through his invitation to tea a short while later. But he seemed very pleased with his search.” Sabina paused again before continuing. “Now don’t get upset, John, but I overheard him tell Mrs. Costain that he was acting on our behalf.”
“Damn the man!”
“Mrs. Costain was beside herself, but I think I managed to unruffle her feathers. I don’t believe she’ll press charges.”
“If she does,” Quincannon said darkly, “he’ll be the one to suffer the consequences.”
“I told him as much. I also told him he’s to cease and desist pretending to be affiliated with this agency. He said he wouldn’t because it was no longer necessary.”
“What did he mean by that?”
“That’s the other thing you should know. He alluded to having solved the mystery of Andrew Costain’s death.”
“Alluded?”
“The phrase he used was ‘le cas est resolu.’ French for ‘the case is solved.’”
“Humbug! That addlepate couldn’t solve the riddle of how to fasten a pair of gaiters.”
“I’m not so sure about that, John.”
“Bah.” Quincannon began to restlessly pace the office. “The mystery will be solved shortly, yes, but not by that blasted Englishman.”
“Don’t be too cocksure. He may be a bit daft, but he’s canny nonetheless and he may well have found out something important, by accident if not by design. I think it would be a good idea if you spoke with him about it. As soon as possible.”
“Consult with that pompous buffoon? A waste of valuable time.”
“There’s another reason you should see him.”
“Yes? And what would that be?”
“He’s so certain of himself that he plans to arrange a meeting of the principals in the case, at which he’ll reveal what he knows or believes he knows.”
“What!”
A favorite expression of Quincannon’s father when taken with sudden fury had been that “his blood ran hot as boiling tar and just as dark.” Such was an apt description of his own blood at this news. Snarling and muttering invective, he stomped the floor hard enough to produce tremors in the office furniture. From Sabina’s expression, she had expected his furious reaction. She maintained a prudent silence.
“Make false claims and try to steal my thunder, will he?” Quincannon said when he had a reign on his anger. “By Godfrey, he won’t get away with it!”
“Then you’ll see him tonight?”
“As soon as I can find the rank dingbat. Still encroaching on Dr. Axminster’s hospitality, is he?”