Free The Plague of Thieves Affair by Marcia Muller Page B

dispatched Lansing in the utility room and subsequently escaped proved that.
    The issue, however, turned out to be moot.
    Corby was not in his office or anywhere else on the premises.
    Impatiently Quincannon waited in the bookkeeper’s cubicle. He might have revealed Corby’s guilt to James Willard, but his client also had yet to put in an appearance. Just as well. It better suited him and his sense of the dramatic to reserve explanations until after all the facts in a case were known to him and the felon in custody.
    Ten o’clock came and went. Still no sign of Corby. Or Willard, for that matter.
    By this time Quincannon had worked himself into something of a lather. Enough of this blasted inactivity. Action was what he craved, his hands on Corby’s scrawny neck if the rascal gave him even the slightest bit of trouble. He quit pacing the cubicle, as he’d been doing restlessly for the past several minutes, slapped on his derby at a forward-leaning angle, and went to determine if his quarry could be found at his boardinghouse.
    The answer to that was yes. He rattled his knuckles sharply on the door, once without a response, then a second time, and if that last knock had gone unanswered he was prepared to pick the lock for another quick search. But his sharp ears picked up stirrings inside—the creak of bedsprings, followed by the muted shuffle of approaching steps.
    Corby’s voice, hoarse and wary, called out, “Who is it?”
    â€œJohn Quincannon.”
    â€œâ€¦ What do you want?”
    â€œOpen the door and I’ll tell you.”
    â€œI … I’m not feeling well. That’s why I didn’t go to work this morning. A touch of the grippe…”
    â€œYou’ll soon feel worse if you don’t open the door.”
    There were a few seconds of silence. Then the latch lock rattled and the door opened partway, just far enough for Quincannon to see that Corby was in his nightshirt and that his eyes were bleary from more than just interrupted sleep. His beard-stubbled cheeks had a sunken, grayish tinge. A touch of the grippe? Bah. Severe hangover was more like it. The bookkeeper had, in fact, spent much of last night in the company of demon rum, either by way of celebration or in an attempt to assuage a guilty conscience.
    â€œWell? If you’re here on behalf of Mr. Willard—”
    Quincannon said, “On his behalf and mine,” and threw his shoulder against the door panel. Corby, driven into a backward stagger, emitted a bleat of protest as Quincannon entered and thrust the door shut behind him.
    â€œWhat … what’s the idea? You have no right to barge in here—”
    â€œOn the contrary. I have every right as a duly licensed upholder of the law to make a citizen’s arrest.”
    Fear crawled into the little man’s bloodshot eyes. “Arrest?”
    â€œFor the murders of Otto Ackermann and Caleb Lansing and the theft of Ackermann’s steam beer formula.”
    â€œThose are ridiculous accusations. Lansing is the one who stole the formula and killed poor Otto. And he wasn’t murdered, he died by his own hand—”
    â€œIt’ll do you no good to lie or deny, laddybuck. I know the two of you were partners in the first crime, hired by Cyrus Drinkwater through his West Star brewmaster, Xavier Jones. And that it was your hand, not Lansing’s, that put the bullet in his heart. I also know the clever method you employed afterward to avoid detection. The yellow hop dust, lupulin, gave you away.”
    Corby’s face was a deathly gray color now. He avoided Quincannon’s piercing gaze, swinging his head in wobbly arcs as if seeking an avenue of escape.
    â€œYou have two choices,” Quincannon said. “You can come along peaceably to the Hall of Justice, or you can be carried there unconscious and trussed up hand and foot. Which will it be?”
    Corby’s desperation lasted until