The Bughouse Affair

19

SABINA

Despite her misgivings about investigating Clara Wilds’s murder, Sabina found herself doing just that when she left the home of the last of the pickpocket’s victims. She had no other pressing business, and she was still not convinced Dodger Brown was the guilty party. Whether it was Brown or someone else who had stabbed Wilds, the culprit might have been seen entering or leaving her rooms. The police operated on the theory that the deaths of felons, male or female, violent or otherwise, were a benefit to society and so expended little effort in such cases. They would not have bothered with any but a routine investigation.

Wilds had been a wicked woman whose extortion schemes and dipping forays had harmed numerous individuals, but she had also been a human being. In Sabina’s view, murder should never be condoned no matter who the victim. Besides, there were curious elements in the woman’s sudden demise-the silver money clip belonging to a second murder victim, Andrew Costain, for one-that aroused Sabina’s sleuthing instincts.

She spent the rest of the morning in the vicinity of Wilds’s rooms, asking carefully phrased questions of residents, passersby, and wandering street vendors. The pickpocket’s murder seemed to have aroused only mild interest in the neighborhood, and only two individuals acknowledged knowing her by sight. But neither knew or would say anything about Wilds’s comings and goings or any regular male visitors she might have had.

Sabina’s perseverance finally produced results at two o’clock, when she knocked on the door of a home across the carriageway that ran behind Wilds’s boarding house.

The woman who answered the door seemed more inquisitive than any of the other neighbors. When she admitted to having seen Wilds on several occasions and to being shocked by the murder, Sabina decided that the best way to gain her confidence was to identify herself-something she had avoided doing elsewhere in the neighborhood. She presented her card, and explained her interest in Clara Wilds in vague terms, saying that Wilds was “the subject of an investigation for an important client.” The neighbor, whose name was Mrs. Anthony Marcus, seemed thrilled to be in the presence of a lady detective; she invited Sabina into a tidy parlor free of the usual gimcracks for further conversation.

Mrs. Marcus was a large individual of some forty years who wore her age and weight well. Her graying hair was dressed close to the head with curled fringe at the forehead and fairly high buns on top, her rather plain face open and eager, her eyes bright as a bird’s. Not exactly a busybody or a gossip, Sabina thought, but nonetheless a woman who took a much keener interest in her surroundings than most.

“Ever since that woman moved in across the way,” Mrs. Marcus said, “I’ve thought there was something … well, furtive about her. The circumstances of her death certainly seem to confirm it.”

“In what ways did you think her furtive?”

“Her comings and goings were extremely irregular. Early mornings to very late nights, and as often as not she would approach her rooms along the carriageway below. Her dress was … how shall I put it … eccentric and varied greatly, as if she were trying to disguise her real person.”

Sabina nodded. “Please, go on.”

“Not that I’m the sort to spy on my neighbors, you understand. It’s just that my kitchen windows overlook the end corner of the boarding house where she had her rooms. My husband claims I spend too much time in the kitchen, day and night, but I believe in cleanliness and careful preparation of meals-”

“Is there anything else you can tell me about her? Did she have many visitors?”

“Well, the times I saw her leave and return she was alone. Except one evening, that is, when she was accompanied by a man who entered her rooms with her. That dreadful Barbary Coast isn’t far from here. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that she spent much of her time there. She wasn’t a … soiled dove, was she?”

“No.”

“Something just as wicked, though?”

“I’m not at liberty to say. Did you have a clear look at the man?”

“Yes, fairly clear.” Mrs. Marcus sniffed. “It was still light and they came strolling up the carriageway arm in arm.”

Sabina described Dodger Brown. “Is he the one?”

“Oh, no. The man was … let me see … in his forties, stocky. Bushy black hair. And rather well-dressed.”

Victor Pope.

“How long ago was it that you saw them together, Mrs. Marcus?”

“Just last week.”

“Did you happen to see Clara Wilds yesterday?”

“No. No, the last time was the day before.”

“Or anyone else in the vicinity of her rooms?”

“The person who took her life? No. If I had, I would certainly have informed the police.”

It was fortunate that Mrs. Marcus hadn’t been at her kitchen window when Sabina arrived or when she’d left a short time later. Not that she was particularly well known by sight to the city detectives, but Mrs. Marcus was an observer with a sharp eye for detail. A description of Sabina might have led to a certain amount of unpleasant questioning about her presence in the murdered pickpocket’s rooms.

“Oh, but there is one thing I did see yesterday, Mrs. Carpenter. I don’t know if it means anything or not, but it did seem a bit odd at the time.”

“And what would that be?”

“There was a buggy parked in the alley below, behind the boarding house. A rather nice one that I’ve never seen before or since. That’s why I noticed it-buggies like that are uncommon in this neighborhood.”

“What time was this?”

“Midafternoon, shortly before I left to do my marketing. It was gone when I returned … Oh! You don’t suppose…?”

“Possibly. In which direction was it facing?”

“Toward Columbus Avenue.”

“Was there any sign of the driver?”

“No, none.”

“Can you describe the buggy?”

“Well, it was black, with its top up.”

“Distinctive trim of any sort?”

“No … Wait, yes. The wheel spokes were a faded gold color.”

“Faded. The rig wasn’t new, then?”

“No, I don’t believe it was.”

“Did you recognize the manufacturer?”

Mrs. Marcus shook her head. “I’m afraid I know nothing at all about equipages.”

“One horse or two?”

“One. A brown one.”

“Bay, sorrel, chestnut?”

“I really couldn’t say. Brown is brown to me.”

Sabina thanked the woman and rose to leave. At the door Mrs. Marcus asked if she should notify the police about the buggy. Sabina said no, that wasn’t necessary, she would attend to the matter herself, and asked that her visit and investigation be kept in the strictest confidence as well. The less her confidante had to do with the blue coats, the better.

Outside again, she made her way to the carriageway that bisected the block. At the approximate place behind Wilds’s boarding house where the horse and buggy had been parked, she briefly examined the ground in the small hope of finding a footprint or some other clue. But there was nothing in the matted-down grass and weeds except meaningless bits of litter and unidentifiable wheel marks. After a time she continued on down the carriageway to where it intersected with Columbus Avenue across from Washington Square.

A flower seller’s stand occupied the corner of the square directly opposite: a great showy splash of red and green, yellow and blue, pink and purple. A young man with a flowing mane of blond hair was urging a bouquet of multicolored carnations upon an older man, who finally succumbed and departed, looking dubiously at his purchase. Sabina took his place at the stand.

“Roses for you, miss?” the vendor asked. “Pink, to match your lovely complexion?”

A pink rose for the former Pink Rose. Well, why not? “I’ll buy one in exchange for some information.”

“Only one?”

“Only one.”

“A half dozen is a much better value.”

She was in no mood to haggle. “A half dozen, then.”

As he set about choosing and wrapping them, she described the buggy and the approximate time it had been parked and asked if he had happened to see it entering or leaving the carriageway. He handed her the cone-shaped package, rubbed his chin in thought, and then nodded.

“I did see a rig like that come by around that time. Black one-Concord, I think it was. Big old bay in the traces. Reason I noticed it, it almost collided with a brewer’s dray just up the block.”

“Did you have a clear look at the driver?”

“Fair look. Small fellow, wore dark clothes and a cloth cap.”

Dodger Brown, Sabina thought. But what would a common yegg like the Dodger be doing driving an expensive Concord buggy, even an old one?

“Can you describe his features?” she asked.

“Afraid not. Had his cap pulled down and coat collar up.” The flower seller grinned crookedly, exposing stained yellow teeth. “Drove worse than a woman, he did.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Almost caused the accident. In a big hurry, swerving all over the road, not paying attention the way women-” At Sabina’s sharp look, he broke off and then added hastily, “No offense, miss.”

“None taken,” she lied, dropped coins into his hand, and turned away thinking that it would require a great deal of education to bring men like him into the era of the New Woman.

A quick canvass of the other vendors in the area revealed nothing further about the buggy or its driver. Sabina crossed Washington Square and went on down to a hack stand opposite the Saints Peter and Paul church at the corner of Filbert and Grant. By the time she entered one of the cabs, she’d decided on her next destination: the Jersey Street home of Victor Pope.

Evidently Pope had been Clara Wilds’s lover as well as her greed-driven fenceman. It was just possible he was her murderer as well, though one factor mitigated against it: the time element. Sabina had gone directly to Washington Square after leaving Pope’s hardware store. True, her cabbie had been in no hurry, but even if Pope had left immediately afterward and driven swiftly and directly to Clara Wilds’s lodging house, there would have been precious little time for him to kill his paramour, conduct his search, and vanish before Sabina’s arrival.

In order for this to have happened, the murder would have to have been premeditated; there simply wasn’t enough time for a falling out of some sort, a sudden homicidal rage. And why would he have wanted Wilds dead badly enough to commit the deed in broad daylight? Besides, he’d seemed calm enough during Sabina’s meeting with him, and had snatched eagerly at the bait for greater riches that she’d dangled in front of him.

No, it wasn’t likely that he was the guilty party. But she wouldn’t be satisfied of the fact until she learned whether or not Pope owned a black Concord buggy and a bay horse.

Confronting him again would have necessitated more lies and perhaps put her at risk. Guilty or innocent, his suspicions would be aroused. His mother, however, might not yet know of Wilds’s demise; Pope wouldn’t have told her in any case, and the deaths of common criminals were seldom reported in the newspapers. She could find out what she needed to know, she reasoned, from Dippin’ Sal.

The crippled old woman was home and if not happy to see her, not hostile, either. “Well, missy, back again. Did you find Clara?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Victor wouldn’t tell you where she’s livin’, eh? Close-mouthed rascal, same as his father. But it’s no use askin’ me again. Like I told you the other day, that ungrateful bitch don’t come around to see me no more.”

The thought occurred to Sabina that Dippin’ Sal might be lying. That she’d known all along where Clara Wilds was residing, that she might have harbored a deadly grudge against her protegee and coveted her spoils, and that she might be the murderer. But as quickly as the notion came, Sabina dismissed it. No one as old as this woman, with those misshapen, arthritic hands, could have driven a buggy a long distance or overpowered one as young and strong as Wilds.

Victor Pope was not guilty, either. She was convinced of that moments later when in a roundabout way she brought up the subject of Victor Pope’s transportation.

“He don’t own a buggy,” Dippin’ Sal said, “and he don’t own a horse. How does he get around? Trolleys and cable cars, that’s how. Too cheap to hire cabs. He don’t take me anywhere, neither. Can’t be bothered with an old woman like me, just lets me sit here in this house and listening to my arteries harden and my bones creak.” She added bitterly, “I done some things in my time that I ain’t proud of, but the worst I ever done was give birth to that damn no-account son of mine.”

Dippin’ Sal had been a hellion in her day, but Sabina couldn’t help feeling a touch sorry for her as she was now. She still carried the half-dozen roses she’d bought from the vendor at Washington Square; on impulse she handed the packet to the old woman, who blinked her surprise.

“What’re these for?”

“I thought you might like a bit of color to brighten your day, Mrs. Tatum.”

“Pink roses.” The rheumy eyes glistened. “Why … that’s real nice of you, missy. Nobody give me flowers in so long, I can’t remember the last time.”

Nor ever would again, Sabina thought as she returned to the waiting hansom, likely not even when Dippin’ Sal went to her final resting place.

* * *

The cobbled street in front of the Costain house near South Park was deserted, though Sabina imagined that it had been teeming with vehicles and curious neighbors and bystanders last night and perhaps earlier today. In her experience, citizens in neighborhoods such as the one where Clara Wilds had died were generally indifferent to scenes of violent crime, but those in residential neighborhoods like this one always drew a crowd. The lower classes were used to violence in their midst and had learned to live with it; those in the upper classes were not and had not.

This would be her last stop before returning to the agency, she thought as she alighted from the cab. She disliked intruding on Andrew Costain’s widow so soon after his demise, but she had no other avenues left to explore. Until Dodger Brown was caught and examined, the possibility existed that someone else had stabbed the pickpocket and driven the buggy from the scene of the crime. If that were true, then it was also possible the two cases were connected in a way as yet undetermined. Penelope Costain might conceivably know something that would provide her with a new lead.

Sabina opened the gate and walked up a path that wound through an unkempt front yard dominated by lilac shrubs. The house was on the unkempt side as well, in need of fresh paint and gingerbread repair. On the front door, a large funeral wreath hung slightly askew from a brass knocker speckled with verdigris. No, not askew-the door was open a few inches as if it hadn’t been properly latched and the light afternoon breeze had pushed it inward. As she drew nearer she heard the sound of voices rise from within, the first a woman’s quivering with anger, the second a man’s calm and controlled.

“How dare you lurk about spying on me, then break into my home!”

“My dear Mrs. Costain, I neither lurked nor spied on you. I knew from Dr. Axminster when you would be leaving for your appointment with him and so seized the opportunity for further investigation. Nor did I break and enter. The police left a rear window unlatched. I merely stepped over the sill.”

“You’re still trespassing. You have no right to be here!”

“Ah, but I believe I do. Inasmuch as I was present during last night’s unfortunate tragedy, as a temporary employee of the agency hired by your husband, I am duty bound to continue my inquiries.”

Penelope Costain. And Sherlock Holmes.