for the police to find, they would never be returned to their rightful owners.
She had been here long enough. At the door she peered out to make sure the carriageway was still deserted, then stepped out and away.
13
QUINCANNON
Andrew Costain’s offices were in a brick building on Geary Street that housed a dozen attorneys and half as many other professional men. The anteroom held a secretary’s desk but no secretary; the bare desktop and dusty file cabinets behind it suggested that there hadn’t been one in some while. A pair of neatly lettered and somewhat contradictory signs were affixed to one of two closed doors in the inside wall. The upper one proclaimed PRIVATE , the lower invited KNOCK FOR ADMITTANCE .
Quincannon knocked. There were a few seconds of silence before Costain’s whiskey baritone called out, “Yes? Who is it?”
“John Quincannon.”
Another few seconds vanished, as if the lawyer were finishing up business at hand before moving on to the business that required the services of a private investigative agency. Then, “Come in, Mr. Quincannon. Come in.”
Costain was sitting behind a cluttered desk set before a wall covered with what appeared to be a full set of Blackstone, writing in a leather-bound notebook slightly larger than a billfold. More books and papers were scattered on dusty pieces of furniture. On another wall, next to a framed law degree, was a lithograph of John L. Sullivan in a typical fighting pose.
The lawyer motioned to Quincannon to wait while he finished whatever notations he was making. After a few moments he closed the notebook and consigned it to a desk drawer, then sat back with his fingers twiddling an elk’s tooth attached to a thin gold watch chain.
His person was somewhat more tidy than his office, though not as tidy as he’d been in evening dress at the Axminster home. The successful image, however, was belied by the rumpled condition of his expensive tweed suit and striped vest, the frayed edges of his shirt cuffs and collar, his rum-blossom nose and flushed features, and the perfume of forty-rod whiskey that could be detected at ten paces or more. If Quincannon had been a prospective client, instead of it being the other way around, he would have thought twice about entrusting legal matters to Mr. Andrew Costain.
“Thank you for coming,” Costain said. He seemed even more nervous today than he had last night; the fluttering tic on his cheek gave the false impression that he was winking and his hands continued to twitch over the elk’s tooth fob. “You didn’t stop by earlier, by any chance?”
“No, I had other business to attend to.”
“Good, good. I asked because I had to leave the office for a short time—an urgent summons from a client.”
More likely, Quincannon thought cynically, the “urgent summons” had involved a visit to whichever nearby saloon he frequented.
“Have a seat. Cigar? Drink?”
“Neither.”
“I believe I’ll have a small libation, if you don’t mind. It has been something of a trying day.”
“It’s your office, Mr. Costain.”
While Quincannon moved a heavy volume of Blackstone from the single client’s chair and replaced it with his backside, Costain produced a bottle of rye whiskey and a none-too-clean glass from his desk drawer. His idea of a “small one” was three fingers of rye, half of which he tossed off at a gulp. The rum blossom glowed and the flush deepened, but the lawyer’s hands continued their restless roaming.
“Your message mentioned a financial advantage. For what service?”
“That’s rather obvious, isn’t it, in light of recent events. Have you caught the burglar yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“Identified him?”
“To my satisfaction. A man named Dodger Brown.”
“I don’t recognize the name.”
“No reason you should as a civil attorney,” Quincannon said. “It’s only a matter of time until he’s locked away in the city jail.”
“How much
She had been here long enough. At the door she peered out to make sure the carriageway was still deserted, then stepped out and away.
13
QUINCANNON
Andrew Costain’s offices were in a brick building on Geary Street that housed a dozen attorneys and half as many other professional men. The anteroom held a secretary’s desk but no secretary; the bare desktop and dusty file cabinets behind it suggested that there hadn’t been one in some while. A pair of neatly lettered and somewhat contradictory signs were affixed to one of two closed doors in the inside wall. The upper one proclaimed PRIVATE , the lower invited KNOCK FOR ADMITTANCE .
Quincannon knocked. There were a few seconds of silence before Costain’s whiskey baritone called out, “Yes? Who is it?”
“John Quincannon.”
Another few seconds vanished, as if the lawyer were finishing up business at hand before moving on to the business that required the services of a private investigative agency. Then, “Come in, Mr. Quincannon. Come in.”
Costain was sitting behind a cluttered desk set before a wall covered with what appeared to be a full set of Blackstone, writing in a leather-bound notebook slightly larger than a billfold. More books and papers were scattered on dusty pieces of furniture. On another wall, next to a framed law degree, was a lithograph of John L. Sullivan in a typical fighting pose.
The lawyer motioned to Quincannon to wait while he finished whatever notations he was making. After a few moments he closed the notebook and consigned it to a desk drawer, then sat back with his fingers twiddling an elk’s tooth attached to a thin gold watch chain.
His person was somewhat more tidy than his office, though not as tidy as he’d been in evening dress at the Axminster home. The successful image, however, was belied by the rumpled condition of his expensive tweed suit and striped vest, the frayed edges of his shirt cuffs and collar, his rum-blossom nose and flushed features, and the perfume of forty-rod whiskey that could be detected at ten paces or more. If Quincannon had been a prospective client, instead of it being the other way around, he would have thought twice about entrusting legal matters to Mr. Andrew Costain.
“Thank you for coming,” Costain said. He seemed even more nervous today than he had last night; the fluttering tic on his cheek gave the false impression that he was winking and his hands continued to twitch over the elk’s tooth fob. “You didn’t stop by earlier, by any chance?”
“No, I had other business to attend to.”
“Good, good. I asked because I had to leave the office for a short time—an urgent summons from a client.”
More likely, Quincannon thought cynically, the “urgent summons” had involved a visit to whichever nearby saloon he frequented.
“Have a seat. Cigar? Drink?”
“Neither.”
“I believe I’ll have a small libation, if you don’t mind. It has been something of a trying day.”
“It’s your office, Mr. Costain.”
While Quincannon moved a heavy volume of Blackstone from the single client’s chair and replaced it with his backside, Costain produced a bottle of rye whiskey and a none-too-clean glass from his desk drawer. His idea of a “small one” was three fingers of rye, half of which he tossed off at a gulp. The rum blossom glowed and the flush deepened, but the lawyer’s hands continued their restless roaming.
“Your message mentioned a financial advantage. For what service?”
“That’s rather obvious, isn’t it, in light of recent events. Have you caught the burglar yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“Identified him?”
“To my satisfaction. A man named Dodger Brown.”
“I don’t recognize the name.”
“No reason you should as a civil attorney,” Quincannon said. “It’s only a matter of time until he’s locked away in the city jail.”
“How much
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