Read Online The Plague of Thieves Affair by Marcia Muller - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marcia Muller
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handkerchief. Yellow and black streaks now, a fetching combination.â
Quincannon peered at the saffron marks. âOh, they came fromââ He broke off abruptly, blinking, his mind filling with a memory image of the last storeroom heâd investigated.
âItâs an odd color,â Sabina said. âWhat is it?â
The answer, that was what it was. Thunderation! Why hadnât he realized it before? Excitement seized him; he bounced to his feet, stuffed pipe and closed penknife into his coat pocket, and crossed quickly to the hat rack for his derby.
âJohn? Where are you off to in such a hurry?â
âTo the public library. And after that, if all goes well, to nab a double murderer.â
Â
8
QUINCANNON
It was well past dark when he once again arrived at Golden State Steam Beer. The night guard at the front entrance had evidently been briefed on the fact that Quincannon was in James Willardâs employ; a look at his credentials and he was allowed admittance with no questions asked.
The business offices on the second floor were all deserted, which suited Quincannonâs aim perfectly. The door to the cubicle he sought was locked, but only for less than a minute once he set to work with his picks.
He found what heâd hoped to find almost immediatelyâa yellow smear on one chair leg, and two small dried flower buds on the floor beneath the desk. Hop buds. And the yellow stuff was lupulin, a fine powdery dust that clings to the yellow glands between the petals of hop flowers, some of which is released when the flowers are picked. It was this dust, not the hop buds themselves, that offset the sweetness of malt and gave beer its sedative and digestive qualities. A book at the public library at Civic Center had informed him of these facts, complete with pictures. The book had also imparted another tidbit of information, one which made the balance of the dayâs events crystal clear.
Now he knew how Caleb Lansing had been murdered behind locked doors, by an assassin who had seemingly vanished into thin air.
And that assassin, Lansingâs accomplice in theft and murder, was the man heâd come to suspect it would beâthe man who had popped up suddenly and without explanation soon after the discovery of Lansingâs body, in a section of the brewery he had no good reason to be. Elias Corby, Golden Stateâs long-snouted bookkeeper.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
There were no cabs in the vicinity of the brewery when Quincannon emerged. He had to cover the two blocks to Market Street on shanksâ mare before he found one.
As he was settling inside, one of the newfangled horseless carriages that were supposedly being manufactured in large quantities in the East, though few had yet to be in use in San Francisco, passed by snorting and growling like a bull on the charge. The confounded machines were noisy polluters that frightened women, children, and horses, but he had to admit that they were capable of traveling at an astonishing rate of speed. Too bad he hadnât the use of one himself right now; it would get him to his destination twice as fast as the hansom. Speed was not of the essence, but the sooner he confronted Elias Corby and dragged a confession from the man, the sooner he would be rewarded with the balance of his fee from James Willard.
Corby resided in a boardinghouse in the Western Addition, a fact that Quincannon had learned by a further search of the bookkeeperâs office: the addresses of all of Golden Stateâs employees were kept on file there. He hadnât uncovered anything else of interest, but that was hardly surprising; any additional incriminating evidence against Corby, if such existed, would be found in his private quarters.
No, it wouldnât, blast the luck. He was also denied the pleasure of putting the arm on Corby immediately as well. The man was not home, and when Quincannon took the opportunity to pick the
Quincannon peered at the saffron marks. âOh, they came fromââ He broke off abruptly, blinking, his mind filling with a memory image of the last storeroom heâd investigated.
âItâs an odd color,â Sabina said. âWhat is it?â
The answer, that was what it was. Thunderation! Why hadnât he realized it before? Excitement seized him; he bounced to his feet, stuffed pipe and closed penknife into his coat pocket, and crossed quickly to the hat rack for his derby.
âJohn? Where are you off to in such a hurry?â
âTo the public library. And after that, if all goes well, to nab a double murderer.â
Â
8
QUINCANNON
It was well past dark when he once again arrived at Golden State Steam Beer. The night guard at the front entrance had evidently been briefed on the fact that Quincannon was in James Willardâs employ; a look at his credentials and he was allowed admittance with no questions asked.
The business offices on the second floor were all deserted, which suited Quincannonâs aim perfectly. The door to the cubicle he sought was locked, but only for less than a minute once he set to work with his picks.
He found what heâd hoped to find almost immediatelyâa yellow smear on one chair leg, and two small dried flower buds on the floor beneath the desk. Hop buds. And the yellow stuff was lupulin, a fine powdery dust that clings to the yellow glands between the petals of hop flowers, some of which is released when the flowers are picked. It was this dust, not the hop buds themselves, that offset the sweetness of malt and gave beer its sedative and digestive qualities. A book at the public library at Civic Center had informed him of these facts, complete with pictures. The book had also imparted another tidbit of information, one which made the balance of the dayâs events crystal clear.
Now he knew how Caleb Lansing had been murdered behind locked doors, by an assassin who had seemingly vanished into thin air.
And that assassin, Lansingâs accomplice in theft and murder, was the man heâd come to suspect it would beâthe man who had popped up suddenly and without explanation soon after the discovery of Lansingâs body, in a section of the brewery he had no good reason to be. Elias Corby, Golden Stateâs long-snouted bookkeeper.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
There were no cabs in the vicinity of the brewery when Quincannon emerged. He had to cover the two blocks to Market Street on shanksâ mare before he found one.
As he was settling inside, one of the newfangled horseless carriages that were supposedly being manufactured in large quantities in the East, though few had yet to be in use in San Francisco, passed by snorting and growling like a bull on the charge. The confounded machines were noisy polluters that frightened women, children, and horses, but he had to admit that they were capable of traveling at an astonishing rate of speed. Too bad he hadnât the use of one himself right now; it would get him to his destination twice as fast as the hansom. Speed was not of the essence, but the sooner he confronted Elias Corby and dragged a confession from the man, the sooner he would be rewarded with the balance of his fee from James Willard.
Corby resided in a boardinghouse in the Western Addition, a fact that Quincannon had learned by a further search of the bookkeeperâs office: the addresses of all of Golden Stateâs employees were kept on file there. He hadnât uncovered anything else of interest, but that was hardly surprising; any additional incriminating evidence against Corby, if such existed, would be found in his private quarters.
No, it wouldnât, blast the luck. He was also denied the pleasure of putting the arm on Corby immediately as well. The man was not home, and when Quincannon took the opportunity to pick the
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