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

few inches so he could come and go as he pleased. She had never sheltered an animal before, but Adam provided companionship and comfort against the cold of the night.
    “Don’t stray too far,” she told him as he brushed against her ankles. “You’re much safer here, with a nice soft featherbed to sleep on.”
    I must be daft, she thought, speaking this way to a creature that can’t possibly understand me. Yet she felt that the cat, in its own way, seemed to understand her moods, especially that of loneliness. And she was lonely often of late, even more so than usual since Stephen’s death, for reasons that were not quite clear to her. Perhaps she ought to accept one of John’s frequent invitations to dinner and a performance at the opera house.…
    She’d contemplate the notion later. At the moment there was business to attend to.
    As usual she was the first to arrive at the agency office. John came in a short while later. Sabina had a sharp eye for his moods; one long look at his gloomy visage prompted her to say, “I take it your surveillance at the Truesdale home last night was unproductive.”
    “Oh, the yegg came skulking, right enough.”
    “But you weren’t able to nab him?”
    “It wasn’t my fault that I didn’t.” Her partner shed his Chesterfield and derby, hung them on the clothes tree, and retreated behind his desk where he tamped his pipe full of tobacco and set fire to it with a lucifer. “Unique scent,” he muttered. “Monograph on a hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash. Faugh!”
    “What’s that you’re grumbling about?”
    “Confounded lunatic. Not only did he cost me the housebreaker’s capture, he did his level best to make a fool of me with a bagful of parlor tricks.”
    “Lunatic?”
    “That blasted Englishman pretending to be Sherlock Holmes.”
    Sabina raised an eyebrow. “You mean the fellow Mr. Bierce wrote about yesterday?”
    “None other.” He puffed furiously on his pipe. “Sherlock! What kind of name is that?”
    “John. Exactly what happened last night?”
    She listened gravely while he explained in detail accurate to a fault. When he was done, she said, “Well, the Englishman may be an impostor—”
    “May be!”
    “—but it sounds as though he’s well versed in the methods employed by the genuine Sherlock Holmes.”
    “Bah. A mentalist in a collar-and-elbow variety show at the Comique could perform the same tricks.”
    “Nevertheless,” Sabina said, “he must be adept at his role to have fooled Dr. Axminster and his guests into believing him.”
    “Crackbrains can be sly as the devil. This one also happens to be a pompous, arrogant show-off.”
    She suppressed a smile, thinking of John’s lofty opinion of his own detective skills. “Arrogance was one of Mr. Holmes’s traits, judging from Dr. Watson’s memoirs.”
    “Yes? Well, it’s hardly the mark of a successful detective. I am every bit as skilled as he was reputed to be and I’ve blessed little arrogance in my makeup.”
    Sabina again managed not to smile. “Poor John. You did have rather a difficult evening, didn’t you?”
    “Difficult, aye, but not wasted. Dodger Brown’s the man I’m after, sure enough. When he slipped my clutches on the Truesdale property and swung around to kick me—”
    “Kick you? I thought you said you slipped on the wet grass.”
    “Yes, yes. But how he got away is of no consequence. The important fact is that he was of the right size and reeked of cheap wine. Dodger Brown’s weakness is foot juice.”
    “Yes, I remember.”
    “Where’s the dossier on him?”
    “Your left hand is resting on it.”
    “So it is.” He caught up the paper, read aloud from it as he sometimes did with such documents—more to himself than to her. “Dodger Brown, christened Hezekiah Gabriel Brown, born in Stockton twenty-nine years ago. Orphaned at an early age, ran off at thirteen, fell in with a bunch of rail-riding yeggs, and immersed in criminal activity