The Bughouse Affair Read Online Free PDF

and soup. Of a fire hot and crackling in his rooms on Leavenworth Street. Of the warmth of Sabina’s flesh on the scant few occasions he had touched her, and the heat of his passion for her …
    Ah, no. None of that now. Attention to the matter at hand, detective business first and foremost. Why dwell on his one frustrating failure instead of contemplating another professional triumph? Easier to catch a crook than to melt a stubborn woman’s resistance.
    A rattling and clopping on the cobbled street drew his attention. Moments later a hack, its side lamps casting narrow funnels of light, passed without slowing. When the sound of it faded, Quincannon grew aware of another sound—music, faint and melodic. Someone playing the violin, and reasonably well, too.
    He listened for a time, decided what was being played were passages from Mendelssohn’s Leider . He was hardly an expert on classical music, or even much of an aficionado, but he had allowed himself to be drawn to enough concerts to identify individual pieces. Among his strong suits were a photographic memory and a well-tuned ear.
    More time passed at a creep and crawl. The wind had died down some, but he was so thoroughly chilled by then he scarcely noticed. Despite the heavy gloves and the constant flexing, his fingers felt stiff; much more time out here in the night’s cold, and he might have difficulty drawing his Navy Colt if such became necessary.
    Blast this blasted burglar, whoever he was! He was bound to come after more spoils tonight; Quincannon was sure of it, and his instincts seldom led him astray. So what was the yegg waiting for? It must be after nine by now. Wherever banker Truesdale and his missus had gone for the evening, chances were they would return by eleven. This being Thursday, Truesdale’s presence would surely be required tomorrow morning at his bank.
    Quincannon speculated once more on the identity of his quarry. There were scores of house burglars in San Francisco and environs, but the cleverness of method and skill of entry in this case narrowed the field to but a few professionals. Of those known to him, the likeliest candidates were the Sanctimonious Kid and Dodger Brown. Both were suspected to be in the Bay Area at present, but neither had done anything to attract attention to themselves. In any case, the swag seemed to have been planted for the nonce, since none of the stolen items had surfaced. Likely the thief’s plan was to dispose of it all at once, in a bundle, after he had gone through most if not all of the six names on the target list.
    Quincannon relished the prospect of convincing him otherwise, almost as much as he relished the thought of collecting the fat fee and bonus from Great Western Insurance.
    The violin music had ceased; the night was hushed again. He flexed and stomped and shifted and shivered, his mood growing darker by the minute. If the burglar gave any trouble, he would rue his foolishness. Quincannon prided himself as possessing guile and razor-sharp wits, but he was also a brawny man of Pennsylvania Scots stock and not averse to a bit of thumping and skull dragging if the situation warranted.
    Another vehicle, a small carriage this time, clattered past the property. Shortly a figure appeared on the sidewalk, and Quincannon tensed expectantly—but it was only a citizen walking his dog, and soon gone.
    Hell and damn. Had he been wrong that the burglar would strike again so soon? Or been wrong in his choice of the Truesdale home as the next probable target? Both were possible, though it was already a surprise to him that the yegg hadn’t chosen the banker’s vulnerable home as one of his first three objectives.
    Ah, but he wasn’t wrong on either count. That became evident in the next few seconds, when he turned his gaze from the street to the inner yard and house.
    Someone was moving over there, not fifty yards from Quincannon’s hiding place.
    His senses all sharpened at once; he stood immobile, peering