The Bughouse Affair: A Carpenter and Quincannon Mystery by Marcia Muller, Bill Pronzini
Authors: Marcia Muller, Bill Pronzini
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get what’s coming to you.”
* * *
The area known as North Beach was a misnomer. Though there had once been a beach there, Sabina had been told, the name derived from a nearby bayside resort called the North Beach. But in recent years the city had begun filling in the land to allow the building of fishing wharves, warehouses, and docks, and both beach and resort no longer existed. The heart of North Beach, Washington Square, was also a misnomer: it was not a square at all because Columbus Avenue sliced through one edge in a long diagonal. Just as ironic was the fact that the statue it was reportedly named for was not of George Washington, but Benjamin Franklin.
The neighborhood around the nonsquare was a lively one, originally settled by Italian fishermen because of its proximity to the waterfront where many plied their trade. Its relatively cheap rents, and nostalgia among the Italians because the newly made section of shoreline was said to resemble the Bay of Naples, added to the attraction. When Sabina emerged from the hack on the southeast corner of Union and Grant, the air was redolent with the mingled aromas of Italian cooking dispensed by vendors in pushcarts—garlic, basil, oregano, tomatoes. Why, she wondered, was her primary perception of places so often their food smells? Her overly healthy appetite was at work again, despite the grilled bratwurst she had treated herself to at the California Market.
She made her way uphill on Union and soon located the brown-shingled house. A small sign on the front gate identified it as PARSONS’ ROOMING HOUSE . A narrow lane and a weed-choked vacant lot bordered its far side, and as she approached she could see that entrances to the lodging house opened off the lane. Ground floor rear, Victor Pope had said.
The immediate area was deserted. Sabina turned into the lane, walked along one of the ruts to the steps that led up to the rear side entrance. The door, she saw when she neared the top of the steps, was slightly ajar. This gave her pause. She stood for a moment to listen. No sounds came from within.
A sharp rap on the door produced no response. Neither did calling out Clara Wilds’s name. After a few moments she pushed on the door until it creaked open all the way.
What she saw when she entered made her gasp and recoil. A female form clad in pale green linen lay sprawled on a rag rug before a small gas hearth. The woman’s face was turned aside and partially covered by strands of long brown hair, but there was no mistaking her identity. Nor the fact that she was the victim of foul play.
The weapon that protruded from her throat, surrounded by a welter of bright crimson, was the same one she’d used in the commission of her crimes—the familiar Charles Horner hatpin.
Sabina had seen violent death before—the vision of Stephen’s bullet-riddled body still haunted her dreams—but she had never become inured to it. Indeed, she questioned the veracity of those who claimed to be. Her legs were unsteady, her breath coming short, as she crossed the untidy parlor to kneel beside the dead woman.
The hatpin had been thrust deeply into the flesh just below the Adam’s apple, and the blood that had spilled from the wound was dark and coagulating. Dead not much more than an hour.
As Sabina started to rise, one of the outflung hands caught her attention—a dark gleam of red on two of the fingertips. A closer look revealed it to be blood mixed with particles of skin and a few short hairs under the nails. Clara Wilds had clawed and marked her attacker.
Sabina peered at the hairs without touching them. Brunette and silky, perhaps a man’s though she couldn’t be sure. According to the dossier on Dodger Brown, his hair was the color of his surname, but whether or not it was fine and slightly curly hadn’t been mentioned. John would know. But the Dodger was only one possible suspect; an extortionist and pickpocket made any number of enemies over the course
* * *
The area known as North Beach was a misnomer. Though there had once been a beach there, Sabina had been told, the name derived from a nearby bayside resort called the North Beach. But in recent years the city had begun filling in the land to allow the building of fishing wharves, warehouses, and docks, and both beach and resort no longer existed. The heart of North Beach, Washington Square, was also a misnomer: it was not a square at all because Columbus Avenue sliced through one edge in a long diagonal. Just as ironic was the fact that the statue it was reportedly named for was not of George Washington, but Benjamin Franklin.
The neighborhood around the nonsquare was a lively one, originally settled by Italian fishermen because of its proximity to the waterfront where many plied their trade. Its relatively cheap rents, and nostalgia among the Italians because the newly made section of shoreline was said to resemble the Bay of Naples, added to the attraction. When Sabina emerged from the hack on the southeast corner of Union and Grant, the air was redolent with the mingled aromas of Italian cooking dispensed by vendors in pushcarts—garlic, basil, oregano, tomatoes. Why, she wondered, was her primary perception of places so often their food smells? Her overly healthy appetite was at work again, despite the grilled bratwurst she had treated herself to at the California Market.
She made her way uphill on Union and soon located the brown-shingled house. A small sign on the front gate identified it as PARSONS’ ROOMING HOUSE . A narrow lane and a weed-choked vacant lot bordered its far side, and as she approached she could see that entrances to the lodging house opened off the lane. Ground floor rear, Victor Pope had said.
The immediate area was deserted. Sabina turned into the lane, walked along one of the ruts to the steps that led up to the rear side entrance. The door, she saw when she neared the top of the steps, was slightly ajar. This gave her pause. She stood for a moment to listen. No sounds came from within.
A sharp rap on the door produced no response. Neither did calling out Clara Wilds’s name. After a few moments she pushed on the door until it creaked open all the way.
What she saw when she entered made her gasp and recoil. A female form clad in pale green linen lay sprawled on a rag rug before a small gas hearth. The woman’s face was turned aside and partially covered by strands of long brown hair, but there was no mistaking her identity. Nor the fact that she was the victim of foul play.
The weapon that protruded from her throat, surrounded by a welter of bright crimson, was the same one she’d used in the commission of her crimes—the familiar Charles Horner hatpin.
Sabina had seen violent death before—the vision of Stephen’s bullet-riddled body still haunted her dreams—but she had never become inured to it. Indeed, she questioned the veracity of those who claimed to be. Her legs were unsteady, her breath coming short, as she crossed the untidy parlor to kneel beside the dead woman.
The hatpin had been thrust deeply into the flesh just below the Adam’s apple, and the blood that had spilled from the wound was dark and coagulating. Dead not much more than an hour.
As Sabina started to rise, one of the outflung hands caught her attention—a dark gleam of red on two of the fingertips. A closer look revealed it to be blood mixed with particles of skin and a few short hairs under the nails. Clara Wilds had clawed and marked her attacker.
Sabina peered at the hairs without touching them. Brunette and silky, perhaps a man’s though she couldn’t be sure. According to the dossier on Dodger Brown, his hair was the color of his surname, but whether or not it was fine and slightly curly hadn’t been mentioned. John would know. But the Dodger was only one possible suspect; an extortionist and pickpocket made any number of enemies over the course
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