The Bughouse Affair by Marcia Muller Read Free Book Online

Bah.
    “Sherlock Holmes died in Switzerland three years ago. Resurrected, were you, as Bierce inferred?”
    The Englishman ignored the last comment. “Reportedly died. Dispatched at Reichenbach Falls by my archenemy, Professor Moriarity. Officially I am still deceased. For private reasons I’ve chosen to let the misapprehension stand, until recently confiding in no one but my brother, Mycroft. Not even my good friend Dr. Watson knows I’m still alive.”
    “If he’s such a good friend, why haven’t you told him?”
    Holmes, for want of another name, produced an enigmatic smile and made no reply.
    Axminster said, “Dr. John H. Watson is Mr. Holmes’s biographer as well as his friend, as you must know, Quincannon. The doctor has chronicled many of his cases: ‘A Study in Scarlet,’ ‘The Red-Headed League,’ ‘The Sign of Four,’ the horror at Baskerville Hall, the adventure of the six orange pips.…”
    “Five,” Holmes said.
    “Eh? Oh, yes, five orange pips.”
    The stuffily overheated room was making Quincannon sweat. He stripped off his gloves, unbuttoned his greatcoat, and swept the tails back. At the same time he essayed a closer look at the man who claimed to be Sherlock Holmes. For an impostor, he seemed to fit the role of the Baker Street sleuth well enough as described in Dr. Watson’s so-called memoirs. Despite his gaunt, almost cadaverous appearance in evening clothes, his jaw and hawklike nose bespoke intensity and determination, and his eyes were sharp, piercing, lit with what some might consider a keen intelligence. Quincannon’s opinion was that it was the glow of madness.
    The bright eyes were studying him in return. “I daresay you’ve had your own share of successes, sir.”
    “More than I can count.”
    “Oh, yes, Mr. Quincannon and his partner are well known locally,” the doctor said. “Several of their investigations involving seemingly impossible crimes have gained notoriety. If I remember correctly, there was the rainmaker shot to death in a locked room, the strange disappearance on board the Desert Limited, the rather amazing murder of a bogus medium.…”
    Holmes said, “I would be most interested to know the methods you and your partner employ.”
    “Methods?”
    “In solving your cases. Aside from the use of weapons, fisticuffs, and such surveillance techniques as you employed tonight.”
    “What happened tonight was not my fault,” Quincannon said testily. “As to our methods … whatever the situation calls for. Guile, wit, attention to detail, and deduction, among others.”
    “Capital! My methods are likewise based on observation, in particular observation of trifles, and on deductive reasoning—the construction of a series of inferences, each dependent upon its predecessor. An exact knowledge of all facets of crime and its history is invaluable as well, as I’m sure you know.”
    Bumptious, as well as a candidate for the bughouse. Quincannon managed not to sneer.
    “For instance,” Holmes said, smiling, “I should say that you are unmarried, smoke a well-seasoned briar, prefer shag-cut Virginia tobacco, spent part of today in a tonsorial parlor and another part engaged in a game of straight pool, dined on chicken croquettes before proceeding to the Truesdale property, waited for your burglar in a shrub of Syringa persica, and … oh, yes, under your rather gruff exterior, I perceive that you are well read and of a rather sensitive and sentimental nature.”
    Quincannon gaped at him. “How the devil can you know all that?”
    “There is a loose button and loose thread on your vest, and your shirt collar is slightly frayed—telltale indications of our shared state of bachelorhood. When I stood close behind you in the garden, I detected the scent of your tobacco; and once in here, I noted a small spot of ash on the sleeve of your coat, which confirmed the mixture and the fact that it was smoked in a well-aged briar. It happens, you see, that I once wrote