The Plague of Thieves Affair by Marcia Muller Read Free Book Online

possible. It was not yet time to hand over the burned note fragment he’d found, or to reveal the presence of the two thousand dollars in the strongbox hidden in Lansing’s rooms—the latter in particular, given Kleinhoffer’s less than stellar reputation for honesty.
    â€œAll right, then,” Kleinhoffer said when he’d finished. “How’d you get onto Lansing?”
    â€œAstute detective work, naturally.” Quincannon resisted adding that such was something the beefy dick knew little about.
    â€œThat doesn’t answer my question.”
    â€œUnder the circumstances the exact nature of my investigation is my and my client’s concern, not the police’s.”
    â€œThe stolen formula is police business.”
    â€œOnly if my client chooses to make it so.”
    â€œWell? Do you, Mr. Willard?”
    â€œNo.”
    Kleinhoffer ground his yellowed teeth. “What did Lansing do with the formula?” he demanded of the brewery owner. “Who hired him ?”
    Willard glanced at Quincannon, who imperceptibly shook his head. “I don’t know.”
    â€œMeaning you’re gonna be as closemouthed as the flycop here.”
    â€œMeaning I don’t know. Neither does Mr. Quincannon, or he would have said so.”
    â€œLansing may not have been hired by anyone,” Quincannon said glibly. “He may have acted with the idea of selling the formula to the highest bidder. I’ll find out, in any case, if Mr. Willard should want me to continue in his employ.”
    â€œI do,” Willard said.
    Kleinhoffer said, “Scheisse.”
    Quincannon suppressed a grin. “Are you satisfied that Lansing’s death was a suicide?” he asked.
    â€œCouldn’t be anything else,” the Prussian admitted grudgingly. “You trapped him down there in that utility room and he took the coward’s way out.”
    â€œSo he must have been guilty as I’ve charged.”
    â€œOr just plain off his trolley.”
    â€œIn any event, as far as the law is concerned the case is closed. There’s no need for you to concern yourself with the stolen formula, Lansing’s motives, or anything else to do with the matter.”
    Kleinhoffer repeated his favorite word. But he had no choice then except to remove himself, which he proceeded to do after jabbing a rigid forefinger in Quincannon’s direction and saying ominously, “Our paths are bound to cross again, flycop. And when they do, you might well find yourself on the blunt end of my nightstick.”
    Empty threats bothered Quincannon not a whit. “I wouldn’t count on it,” he said.
    When the dick had slammed out, Willard released a heavy sigh and sank into the creaking swivel chair at his desk. Through the window behind him, fog lay over China Basin and the bay beyond; tall ships’ masts were faintly visible through its drift, like the fingers of skeletal apparitions. Quincannon remained standing, packed and lit his pipe, and puffed furiously to create an equivalent fog of tobacco smoke. The good rich aroma of navy plug helped mask some of Golden State’s insidious pungency.
    The brewery owner said at length, gloomily, “I don’t suppose there’s any chance Lansing hadn’t yet turned the recipe over to West Star?”
    â€œLittle, I’m afraid. Assuming, that is, Ackermann relinquished his master copy before he died.”
    Willard brightened a bit. “You think he might not have?”
    â€œIt’s possible.”
    â€œBut the safe in his office where he kept it was empty…”
    â€œHe may have transferred the formula elsewhere for some reason.”
    â€œYes, but … would Lansing have pitched him into the fermenting vat if he hadn’t gotten the recipe?”
    â€œThe act could have been unintentional, the result of a struggle on the catwalk. Lansing wasn’t the sort to have jumped into the vat himself