The Bughouse Affair by Marcia Muller Read Free Book Online Page A

a little monograph on the ashes of one hundred forty different types of cigar, pipe, and cigarette tobacco and am considered an authority on the subject.
    “Your beard has been recently and neatly trimmed, as has your hair, which retains a faint scent of bay rum, hence your visit to the tonsorial parlor. Under the nail of your left thumb is dust of the type of chalk commonly used on the tips of pool cues, and while billiards is often played in America, straight pool has a larger following and strikes me as more to your taste. On the handkerchief you used a moment ago to mop your forehead is a small, fresh stain the color and texture of which identifies it to the trained eye as having come from a dish of chicken croquettes. Another scent which clings faintly to your coat is that of Syringa persica, or Persian lilac, indicating that you have recently been in close proximity to such a flowering shrub; and inasmuch as there are no lilac bushes in Dr. Axminster’s garden, Mr. Truesdale’s property is the obvious deduction.
    “And, finally, I perceive that you are well read from the slim volume entitled Poems tucked into the pocket of your coat, and that you have a sensitive and sentimental nature from the identity of the volume’s author. Emily Dickinson’s poems, I am given to understand, are famous for those qualities.”
    There was a moment of silence. Quincannon, for once in his life, was at a loss for words.
    Axminster clapped his hands, and exclaimed, “Amazing!”
    “Elementary,” Holmes said.
    Horse apples, Quincannon thought.
    Penelope Costain yawned. “Mr. Holmes has been regaling us with his powers of observation and ratiocination all evening. Frankly I found his prowess with the violin of greater amusement.”
    Her husband was likewise unimpressed. He had refilled his glass from a sideboard nearby and now emptied it again in a swallow; his face was flushed, his eyes slightly glazed. “Mental gymnastics are all well and good,” he said with some asperity, “but we’ve stayed well away from the issue here. Which is that my name is on that list of potential burglary victims.”
    “I wouldn’t be concerned, Andrew,” Axminster said. “After tonight’s escapade, that fellow wouldn’t dare attempt another burglary.”
    Quincannon said, “Not immediately, perhaps. He may well suspect that I know his identity.”
    “You recognized him?”
    “After a fashion.”
    “Then why don’t you go find him and have him arrested?” Costain demanded.
    “All in good time. He won’t do any more breaking and entering tonight, that I can guarantee.”
    Mrs. Costain asked, “Did you also guarantee catching him red-handed at the Truesdales’ home?”
    Quincannon had had enough of this company; much more of it and he might well say something he would regret. He made a small show of consulting his stem-winder. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said then, “I’ll be on my way.”
    “To request police assistance?”
    “To determine the extent of the Truesdales’ loss.”
    Dr. Axminster showed him to the front door. The Costains remained in the parlor, and the counterfeit Sherlock Holmes tagged along. At the front door the fellow said, “I regret my intervention in the garden, Mr. Quincannon, well-intentioned though it was, but I must say I found the interlude stimulating. It isn’t often I have the pleasure of meeting a distinguished colleague while a game’s afoot.”
    Quincannon reluctantly accepted a proffered hand, clasped the doctor’s just as briefly, and took his leave. Nurturing as he went the dark thought of a different game, one involving his foot, that he would have admired to play with the Axminsters’ addled guest.

 
     
    6
     
    SABINA
     
    Before leaving her Russian Hill flat on Wednesday morning, Sabina set out a bowl of milk for the young cat she’d recently adopted, Adam—so named because he was the first in what she hoped would be a long succession of pets—and opened the bedroom window a