The Spook Lights Affair

14

John had still not returned to the office when the hands on the small gold timepiece pinned to the bodice of her shirtwaist pointed to five o’clock. Sabina considered writing a note informing him of her discussion with Barnaby Meeker and her reasons for accepting the man as a client, but it was too late for John to venture out to Carville-by-the-Sea tonight. Besides, it would require a lengthy explanation, and he would have questions and perhaps objections that would need dealing with. The matter could wait until she saw him tomorrow.

She locked the office and walked to her usual trolley stop a short distance up Market Street. As she waited for the car that would deliver her two blocks from her rooms, she spied an odd-looking individual who seemed to be watching her at a distance with uncommon interest. He had a sweeping handlebar mustache, and wore a stovepipe hat drawn down on his forehead and a gaudy purple satin vest embroidered with what appeared to be orange nasturtiums. When Sabina’s gaze met his, he smiled — a smile that she didn’t return. As tired as she was, she was in no mood to fend off an unwanted admirer.

It was not long before her car clattered to a stop. She boarded, taking a seat by the window on the right-hand side. Seconds later, someone slipped into the seat beside her even though there were several single seats available. A glance caused her to stiffen: it was the oddly dressed stranger. She turned aside to look out the window. But not before her mind registered the fact that there was something familiar about the man.

“Good evening, dear lady,” he said as the car jerked ahead along the rails.

She ignored the greeting. But his clipped, accented voice struck a familiar chord as well.

“Forgive me for approaching you in this fashion, Mrs. Carpenter, but neither you nor your partner were in when I stopped by your office earlier. I was fortunate to arrive at your usual trolley stop just ahead of you.”

The use of her name turned Sabina’s head. She recognized him then beneath the somewhat outlandish disguise, and was so taken aback she blurted out his name, or rather his assumed name.

“Sherlock Holmes!”

“Zut alors!” he exclaimed, putting a finger to his lips. “Softly, please, and without further mention of who I am.”

“Sorry,” Sabina said in a lowered voice. “You startled me.”

“Yes, of course.” He smiled and twirled one corner of his mustache. “Are you surprised to discover that I am still in San Francisco?”

“No, John finally told me you came to see him. Why haven’t you returned to England?”

“Ah, therein lies a tale. But I have neither the time nor the inclination to tell it just now. Suffice it to say that I have chosen to remain officially deceased awhile longer in order to conduct certain investigations in your city.”

Officially deceased. When she and John had encountered this evident imposter during the bughouse affair the previous year, he claimed to have survived the Reichenbach Falls incident and for unexplained reasons to have made his way from Europe to San Francisco. He might be a crackbrain as John called him, but he was nonetheless intelligent, crafty, and almost as astonishingly adept at detective work as his namesake.

Disguises were one of his affectations, as they were with the genuine Holmes. During the bughouse affair, he had annoyed John by showing up for an appointment posing as a derelict seaman. “I suppose your investigations are the reason for the mustache and the way you’re dressed,” Sabina said.

“Indeed. A necessary subterfuge for the evening’s work ahead.” He studied her for a long moment. “I perceive you have been quite busy yourself today. With a young lady in a tea shop that dispenses a rather ordinary orange pekoe blend and scones with blackberry jam, a gentleman with a preference for cigars imported from Cameroon, and a ride in a hansom cab whose passenger seat was torn and exuding its horsehair stuffing. But I do hope you enjoyed the soft pretzel that served as your midday meal.”

“… How do you know all that?”

“Elementary, my good woman. Plain as a pikestaff when one has keen powers of observation and a trained sense of smell. The faintest residue of tobacco smoke in your clothing, a strand of horsehair of the sort used in the manufacture of carriage seats in this country, a fleck of sea salt caught on the sleeve of your coat. As for the tea shop and its wares—”

“Never mind. I’m sure you didn’t come to regale me with your prowess, Mr. Holmes. Just what is it you want?”

He glanced around — no one was paying any attention to them — and then whispered conspiratorially, “I have information that you and your partner will both find beneficial. I prefer imparting it to you — you are, shall we say, more tolerant and less impetuous.”

Well, that was true enough. “What sort of information?”

“Regarding his investigation into the Wells, Fargo robbery and yours into the sensational events on Sutro Heights.”

“How do you know about John’s investigation?”

“By the same scientific method I employ in all my inquiries, naturally. The gathering of observed details and other data from which I deduce a sound and if I may say so invariably correct theory.”

In other words, Sabina thought wryly, by putting two and two together. But the only way to deal with the Englishman and his boundless ego was to humor him. “And you’ve found out something beneficial to John in your, ah, travels?” she asked.

“Precisely. To him, and to you.”

“What do you want in return for this information?”

“Why, nothing at all, dear lady, except the privilege of assisting fellow private inquiry agents. As I’ve said, I have investigations of my own that demand my immediate attention.”

“Which I’m sure you’ll bring to a successful resolution. Just what is it you have to tell me?”

“That there is a connection between your inquiries and your partner’s,” the Englishman said. “A connection that bears a central figure — one David St. Ives.”

Sabina frowned. “In what way?”

“Specifically, Mr. St. Ives’s penchant for nocturnal visits to Tenderloin gambling parlors and bordellos.”

“I already know about that.”

“Ah, yes, but do you know that until recently, the lad often shared these adventures with a small entourage? Gay blades of similar tastes but far-more-meager financial means?”

“Are you saying he paid for their debauches as well as his own?”

“When in his cups, as you Americans so quaintly put it, he would often do so, yes.”

“Would Lucas Whiffing be one of those other blades?”

“Do you suppose he is?”

“I don’t know. Is he?”

Holmes assumed his enigmatic expression, the one that had driven John and herself to distraction on more than one occasion during the bughouse affair. “Perhaps.”

“And the others? Who are they?”

“I suggest your partner consult with the owners and employees of the House of Chance, the Purple Palace, and Madame Fifi’s Maison of Parisian Delights. I assure you he will find the discussions most enlightening. As will you in your turn.”

“Is David St. Ives somehow involved in the Wells, Fargo robbery? Is that what you’re inferring?”

The secretive smile, nothing more.

“Or Lucas Whiffing? Or both of them?”

The trolley rattled to a halt at an uphill intersection. Holmes glanced out the window. “Ah, this is my stop. I must make haste. I’ve much to do on this night.”

Sabina quickly put a hand on his arm as he started to rise. “If you know so much about our business, why can’t you save us the trouble by telling me now?”

“Tut, tut. I am always willing to offer a bit of aid to my compatriots, but I wouldn’t think of interfering in cases in which I am not directly involved.”

“Wait—”

“Bonne chasse, my dear Mrs. Carpenter,” he said, and winked, and hurried out just before the doors swung shut and the car resumed its clattering climb.

Sabina sat quietly fuming, wishing she had given in to the urge to slap the sly smugness off the poseur’s face. Should she credit what he’d told her? Yes, she thought. Daft as the man was and as infuriating as he could be, he had an uncanny knack for ferreting out and assembling information that proved to be valid. If it was in this case, then it explained the connection between David St. Ives and Lucas Whiffing, and possibly a great deal more. It might even provide John with a key to unlock the mystery of the missing Wells, Fargo money and bring him his lusted-after reward. Though if it did, he would not be pleased to find himself once more in the debt of the bogus Mr. Holmes.