The Plague of Thieves Affair Read Online Free PDF Page A

as cerebral and nonviolent as those of the genuine Mr. Holmes. She wasn’t afraid of him, but her uncertainty as to the exact nature of his instability was unsettling.
    John had similar feelings, though for different reasons. Sabina hadn’t told him about the unpleasant business with Carson; it would have served no good purpose. His aversion to “Holmes” was motivated by enmity and jealousy, the poseur having dealt a blow to John’s self-esteem during their investigation of the Bughouse Affair. As far as he knew, the thorn in his side had been plucked out for good the previous summer, after the close of the Spook Lights Affair. Should she tell him of the crackbrain’s true identity and what the present assignment entailed? He was entitled to know, of course, but it would probably make him furious. No, not probably—definitely. The best course, then, was to proceed privately with the search for Charles Percival Fairchild III; and however it turned out, to give John an ex post facto explanation. His feathers wouldn’t be quite so ruffled then, especially if her investigation resulted in Charles the Third’s departure for a city two thousand miles from San Francisco.
    Having settled this in her mind, Sabina turned her thoughts to the task itself. How would she go about tracking down a man who never remained long in one place, who was prone to adopting outlandish disguises, and who seemed to thrive on shadowy associations with thieves, blackmailers, and other crooks?
    Three starting points occurred to her, one direct, two indirect. The latter pair were the most likely to succeed, but both required an unknown amount of passive waiting. The direct one first, then. But not until she had verification of Roland W. Fairchild’s bona fides.
    She pinned on her new straw boater with its stylish trim of ostrich tips and crushed ribbons (inelegantly referred to as a “settin’ hen” by some), donned her fur-collared long coat, locked the office, and set off on her rounds.

 
    4
    QUINCANNON
    Golden State’s business offices were clustered at the east end of the second floor, all of them small and cramped except for the two-room office inhabited by James Willard. This was Quincannon’s first stop upon his return to the brewery, but Willard was not there. His secretary said he had left to attend a meeting and hadn’t been sure when he would be back.
    Quincannon debated. Should he wait to relay his information to the brewery owner before bracing Caleb Lansing? No, he decided. He was a patient man most of the time, but not when he was about to put the arm on a lawbreaker. He didn’t need Willard’s blessings to make a citizen’s arrest, and the sooner Lansing was in his custody the better.
    He strode down the hall to the assistant brewmaster’s cubicle, found it empty, and proceeded to the nearest occupied space, that of the company bookkeeper and paymaster, Elias Corby. He poked his head inside and asked, “Would you know where I can find Caleb Lansing, Mr. Corby?”
    Corby, a pint-sized, long-nosed gent dressed in striped galluses and rough twill trousers, paused in his writing in an open ledger book. “Lansing? Why, no, I don’t.”
    â€œWhen did you see him last?”
    â€œJust after I arrived this morning. Have you tried the brewhouse?”
    â€œMy next stop.”
    The brewhouse was at the opposite end of the building. Lansing was nowhere to be found in the rooms containing the malt storage tanks and mash tun. Jacob Drew, the mash boss, a red-haired, red-bearded giant, reported that he’d seen the assistant brewmaster in the fermenting room a few minutes earlier.
    â€œWhat d’ye want with him, mister?” Drew asked. “Something to do with your inspections?”
    â€œYou might say that.”
    â€œThe lad’s a weak stick, but he’s done competent enough work since poor Ackermann’s