Read Online The Spook Lights Affair by Bill Pronzini, Marcia Muller - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bill Pronzini, Marcia Muller
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three briny pickles with his customary cup of clam juice.
As he was finishing the second sandwich, Ben Joyce, the head barman, approached him. “Well, you bloody Scotsman, I see you and your partner are back in the public eye. But with a black one of your own this time, eh?”
“What are you nattering about?”
“The queer business with your partner at the mayor’s home last night.”
Quincannon felt a twist of alarm. “ What queer business?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t know. It’s front page news in the latest edition of the Evening Bulletin .”
“I haven’t seen that blasted scandal sheet. Bring me a copy, if you have one.”
Ben Joyce had one and brought it. The headlines were prominent:
FANTASTIC OCCURANCE AT MAYOR’S HOME
W OMAN D ETECTIVE C LAIMS S OCIALITE L EAPT TO D EATH S UICIDE N OTE BUT N O B ODY F OUND
The story that followed, penned by an inflammatory yellow journalist named Homer Keeps with whom Quincannon shared a strong mutual dislike, was even more puzzling and infuriating. The socialite whose alleged suicidal plunge from the Sutro Heights overlook was Virginia St. Ives, the young debutante Sabina had been hired to watch over. No one seemed able to explain why a careful search of the Great Highway below the cliff had failed to locate the girl’s body. Sabina remained steadfast in her claim that she had witnessed the plunge, one which no one could have survived. David St. Ives, the girl’s outraged brother, claimed that no matter what had happened, Sabina had been “severely negligent” in her watchdog duties. Homer Keeps inferred agreement, and had the audacity to add another, gratuitous insult: “Mrs. Carpenter and her flamboyant partner, John H. Quincannon,” he wrote, “are well known among the lower classes of our city, in the past having reportedly indulged in business practices of a questionable nature.”
Quincannon slammed the newspaper down so hard on the bar that glasses jumped and heads swiveled all along its length. After which he kicked a spittoon for good measure. Flamboyant! Well-known among the lower classes! Business practices of a questionable nature! As if these borderline libelous slurs were not injurious enough to his and Sabina’s professional reputation, the bloody swine had deliberately—and it was surely deliberate—misprinted his middle initial. H. indeed. John Frederick Quincannon was not about to stand for such sly calumny.
From Hoolihan’s he went straight to the Market Street offices of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services. His rage had calmed to a slow simmer by the time he got there, but it kindled quickly when he found a newshound from the Chronicle waiting for him with a string of annoying questions. He growled his refusal to be interviewed, and when the reporter persisted, Quincannon turned on the full force of his freebooter’s glower and loomed threateningly until he beat a hasty retreat.
The fact that the office door was locked did nothing to improve his disposition. The lack of any message on his desk indicated that Sabina had yet to put in an appearance today. Confound it, why not? He believed none of the David St. Ives claptrap about her having been derelict in her duties last evening, but before he took steps to repair the damage done, he needed to have her version of what had happened.
He was at his desk, fidgeting and smoldering while he sifted through the day’s mail, when the door opened. But it was not Sabina who entered. Nor was it a prospective client or any other visitor who would have been polite enough to knock first. No, it was the last person on earth he wished to see, this day or any day—a presence that set his blood to boiling again like the brew in a witch’s cauldron.
The man who stood there smiling at him, gray cape flung over his narrow shoulders, walking stick in hand and deerstalker cap shading his hawkish countenance, was the pestiferous crackbrain who fancied himself to be Sherlock
As he was finishing the second sandwich, Ben Joyce, the head barman, approached him. “Well, you bloody Scotsman, I see you and your partner are back in the public eye. But with a black one of your own this time, eh?”
“What are you nattering about?”
“The queer business with your partner at the mayor’s home last night.”
Quincannon felt a twist of alarm. “ What queer business?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t know. It’s front page news in the latest edition of the Evening Bulletin .”
“I haven’t seen that blasted scandal sheet. Bring me a copy, if you have one.”
Ben Joyce had one and brought it. The headlines were prominent:
FANTASTIC OCCURANCE AT MAYOR’S HOME
W OMAN D ETECTIVE C LAIMS S OCIALITE L EAPT TO D EATH S UICIDE N OTE BUT N O B ODY F OUND
The story that followed, penned by an inflammatory yellow journalist named Homer Keeps with whom Quincannon shared a strong mutual dislike, was even more puzzling and infuriating. The socialite whose alleged suicidal plunge from the Sutro Heights overlook was Virginia St. Ives, the young debutante Sabina had been hired to watch over. No one seemed able to explain why a careful search of the Great Highway below the cliff had failed to locate the girl’s body. Sabina remained steadfast in her claim that she had witnessed the plunge, one which no one could have survived. David St. Ives, the girl’s outraged brother, claimed that no matter what had happened, Sabina had been “severely negligent” in her watchdog duties. Homer Keeps inferred agreement, and had the audacity to add another, gratuitous insult: “Mrs. Carpenter and her flamboyant partner, John H. Quincannon,” he wrote, “are well known among the lower classes of our city, in the past having reportedly indulged in business practices of a questionable nature.”
Quincannon slammed the newspaper down so hard on the bar that glasses jumped and heads swiveled all along its length. After which he kicked a spittoon for good measure. Flamboyant! Well-known among the lower classes! Business practices of a questionable nature! As if these borderline libelous slurs were not injurious enough to his and Sabina’s professional reputation, the bloody swine had deliberately—and it was surely deliberate—misprinted his middle initial. H. indeed. John Frederick Quincannon was not about to stand for such sly calumny.
From Hoolihan’s he went straight to the Market Street offices of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services. His rage had calmed to a slow simmer by the time he got there, but it kindled quickly when he found a newshound from the Chronicle waiting for him with a string of annoying questions. He growled his refusal to be interviewed, and when the reporter persisted, Quincannon turned on the full force of his freebooter’s glower and loomed threateningly until he beat a hasty retreat.
The fact that the office door was locked did nothing to improve his disposition. The lack of any message on his desk indicated that Sabina had yet to put in an appearance today. Confound it, why not? He believed none of the David St. Ives claptrap about her having been derelict in her duties last evening, but before he took steps to repair the damage done, he needed to have her version of what had happened.
He was at his desk, fidgeting and smoldering while he sifted through the day’s mail, when the door opened. But it was not Sabina who entered. Nor was it a prospective client or any other visitor who would have been polite enough to knock first. No, it was the last person on earth he wished to see, this day or any day—a presence that set his blood to boiling again like the brew in a witch’s cauldron.
The man who stood there smiling at him, gray cape flung over his narrow shoulders, walking stick in hand and deerstalker cap shading his hawkish countenance, was the pestiferous crackbrain who fancied himself to be Sherlock
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