Free The Spook Lights Affair by Bill Pronzini, Marcia Muller Page A

mystery?”
    “Theories? What theories?”
    “I have two. Surely you have hypothesized the same?”
    “I told you, I haven’t spoken to my partner today. How could I have any theories yet? All I know is what was written in the blasted newspaper.”
    “Which rather lurid account yielded two possible explanations for the evening’s curious events, both perfectly sound, though of course neither may be the correct one. We must have more information before we can be certain of the truth.”
    Quincannon made an ominous rumbling sound in his throat. “I don’t want to hear your damned theories. What did or didn’t happen to Virginia St. Ives is none of your business and I’ll thank you to keep your long nose out of it.”
    “Tut, tut,” Holmes said mildly. “As you know from our past experience together, I’m quite a tenacious fellow once I’ve caught the scent.”
    “You’ll catch something else if you don’t go away and leave me be. Can’t you see I’m busy?”
    Surprisingly, the bughouse Sherlock didn’t put up any further argument. He said, “Ah, yes. As you wish, then,” and got to his feet, taking his time about it; adjusted his cape, and made his way slowly to the door. But instead of walking through after he’d opened it, he turned, and said, “Before I take my leave, may I ask how your investigation is progressing?”
    “What investigation?”
    “The recent Wells, Fargo Express robbery.”
    This startled Quincannon enough to unhinge his jaw. “What makes you think I’m investigating that?”
    “Three things I observed during our brief visit. No, four, counting the contusions on your forehead and temple.”
    “I don’t know what the devil you’re talking about.”
    Holmes smiled his enigmatic smile. “You needn’t worry, John. I am merely an interested observer in that matter as in the one on Sutro Heights. I have no designs on the reward.”
    Quincannon said, somewhat lamely, “What reward?”
    The answer was a widening of the smile and a broad wink. “If you should change your mind and decide to seek assistance or counsel, I shall remain at your service. The Union Hotel, room twelve.” And with that, the Englishman was gone.
    For several seconds Quincannon sat fuming and puzzling. A pox on the conceited twit! What three things had he observed, or was that balderdash? Yet he seemed to have guessed that the contusions were related to the Wells, Fargo investigation, and how was that possible? And how had he known about the reward? Quincannon refused to credit the Englishman with special deductive powers, but there was no gainsaying the fact that he had an uncanny knack for both guesswork and stumbling upon a surprising amount of covert information. It must have something to do with his derangement. Crackbrains could be very shrewd, especially one who claimed to be a famous deceased British detective.
    The office was blue with smoke, most of it a foul leftover reek from the godawful tobacco Holmes preferred. Quincannon opened the window behind his desk, letting in a wind-driven swirl of fresh air and the clanging passage of cable cars on Market Street below. Then he finished opening the mail—not a single check, drat it—and was in the process of laboriously writing a report (he hated writing reports) on a recently concluded case when Sabina finally appeared.
    “Oh, John,” she said. “Good, I’m glad you’re here.”
    “And I’m glad you’re here. Where have you been?”
    “Trying to make some sense of what happened last night. You know about that by now, I’m sure.”
    “From everyone but you, it seems.”
    “Yes, well, I’m sorry, but I thought you might not be in this morning and I wanted … oh, never mind.” She looked and sounded frazzled as she shed her lamb’s-wool coat, unpinned her hat, and hung both on the coatrack. “Have you been bothered by newspaper reporters?”
    “Only one. And not for long.”
    “There’ll be others, no doubt.” Her nose wrinkled as