The Bughouse Affair: A Carpenter and Quincannon Mystery by Marcia Muller, Bill Pronzini Page A
Authors: Marcia Muller, Bill Pronzini
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of a long criminal career. If he was guilty, the telltale scratches and gouges from Wilds’s nails would be evidence of it once John tracked him down.
Sabina rose, stepped back to lean against the wall while she steadied herself. The police must be notified, of course, but she shared John’s distrust of the local constabulary, and did not want under any circumstances to be taken in and questioned by them. Better an anonymous call from the nearest telephone. But first …
She scanned the parlor. Her initial impression of untidiness had been false, she realized then. The room had been searched—not ransacked but gone through in a systematic way. An old horsehair sofa drawn out of position, a floor lamp tilted against it, drawers partially open in tables and sideboards. And in the bedroom, visible through an open doorway, the mattress pulled half off the bed. Someone looking for the loot from her pocket-picking exploits at the Chutes and elsewhere? And if so, had it been found?
Averting her eyes from the body, Sabina began a hurried search of her own. There was nothing for her to find in the parlor. In the bedroom she looked in the small nightstand next to the bed, then in a heavy armoire thick with a violet scent that emanated from a satin sachet bag on a hanger. The armoire was filled with clothing and an array of different styles of hats, some with veils—the costumes Wilds had worn on dipping excursions. These, too, had been searched by the murderer; there was nothing left to find.
Sabina spied a large trunk under the room’s one window. Its top was hinged open, the tray askew on the floor, the contents of both piled nearby. A worn quilt; a child’s rag doll, one eye missing; a dictionary whose main use apparently had been to press and dry flowers; an empty cut-glass perfume bottle; an old, cracked leather man’s purse; a handbag beaded with what looked to be real pearls but probably weren’t.
Sabina examined the purse, found it empty. The late Henry Holbrooke’s billfold, judging from his widow’s description. If so, the cash he’d carried had been removed and either spent or stashed elsewhere.
She set it aside and examined the beaded bag. Regular handbags were not fashionable these days, but small, decorative ones with a dainty strap that hung from the wrist were sometimes used in the evenings. This one was old and worn, but of good quality—a Corticelli manufactured in Florence, Italy, a type Sabina had long admired but could not justify the expense of purchasing. She flipped the little mother-of-pearl clasp and felt inside. Also empty.
When she turned from the bench, a thin sprinkling of dirt particles on the bottom window ledge caught her eye. The particles appeared to be moist, freshly strewn there. And were, she found when she picked one up between her thumb and forefinger. Likely it had come from a box of geraniums hanging on a hook outside.
She raised the sash and looked more closely at the box. One of the plants was tipped slightly against the other. She thrust her hand into the dirt between the two, felt roots and, toward the bottom, the object that Clara Wilds had hidden there—a small sack of dark blue velvet tied with a drawstring.
Sabina emptied the sack onto the bed. A diamond stickpin, two gold pocket watches, a large ivory watch fob, a hammered silver money clip with an intricate design, a handful of similarly valuable items, and a thick roll of greenbacks bound with a rubber band. Literally buried treasure. Clara Wilds’s murderer had fled the scene of his crime empty-handed.
Or had he? There was no way of telling.
Sabina flipped through the greenbacks, found the total to be in excess of two hundred dollars. Then she gathered up all the items, returned them to the blue velvet sack, and tucked the sack into her reticule. After a moment’s reflection, she added the cracked leather purse. There had been no question that she should confiscate everything herself; if she left the items
Sabina rose, stepped back to lean against the wall while she steadied herself. The police must be notified, of course, but she shared John’s distrust of the local constabulary, and did not want under any circumstances to be taken in and questioned by them. Better an anonymous call from the nearest telephone. But first …
She scanned the parlor. Her initial impression of untidiness had been false, she realized then. The room had been searched—not ransacked but gone through in a systematic way. An old horsehair sofa drawn out of position, a floor lamp tilted against it, drawers partially open in tables and sideboards. And in the bedroom, visible through an open doorway, the mattress pulled half off the bed. Someone looking for the loot from her pocket-picking exploits at the Chutes and elsewhere? And if so, had it been found?
Averting her eyes from the body, Sabina began a hurried search of her own. There was nothing for her to find in the parlor. In the bedroom she looked in the small nightstand next to the bed, then in a heavy armoire thick with a violet scent that emanated from a satin sachet bag on a hanger. The armoire was filled with clothing and an array of different styles of hats, some with veils—the costumes Wilds had worn on dipping excursions. These, too, had been searched by the murderer; there was nothing left to find.
Sabina spied a large trunk under the room’s one window. Its top was hinged open, the tray askew on the floor, the contents of both piled nearby. A worn quilt; a child’s rag doll, one eye missing; a dictionary whose main use apparently had been to press and dry flowers; an empty cut-glass perfume bottle; an old, cracked leather man’s purse; a handbag beaded with what looked to be real pearls but probably weren’t.
Sabina examined the purse, found it empty. The late Henry Holbrooke’s billfold, judging from his widow’s description. If so, the cash he’d carried had been removed and either spent or stashed elsewhere.
She set it aside and examined the beaded bag. Regular handbags were not fashionable these days, but small, decorative ones with a dainty strap that hung from the wrist were sometimes used in the evenings. This one was old and worn, but of good quality—a Corticelli manufactured in Florence, Italy, a type Sabina had long admired but could not justify the expense of purchasing. She flipped the little mother-of-pearl clasp and felt inside. Also empty.
When she turned from the bench, a thin sprinkling of dirt particles on the bottom window ledge caught her eye. The particles appeared to be moist, freshly strewn there. And were, she found when she picked one up between her thumb and forefinger. Likely it had come from a box of geraniums hanging on a hook outside.
She raised the sash and looked more closely at the box. One of the plants was tipped slightly against the other. She thrust her hand into the dirt between the two, felt roots and, toward the bottom, the object that Clara Wilds had hidden there—a small sack of dark blue velvet tied with a drawstring.
Sabina emptied the sack onto the bed. A diamond stickpin, two gold pocket watches, a large ivory watch fob, a hammered silver money clip with an intricate design, a handful of similarly valuable items, and a thick roll of greenbacks bound with a rubber band. Literally buried treasure. Clara Wilds’s murderer had fled the scene of his crime empty-handed.
Or had he? There was no way of telling.
Sabina flipped through the greenbacks, found the total to be in excess of two hundred dollars. Then she gathered up all the items, returned them to the blue velvet sack, and tucked the sack into her reticule. After a moment’s reflection, she added the cracked leather purse. There had been no question that she should confiscate everything herself; if she left the items
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