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brewmaster,” Malloy said. “The man who shot himself.”
    â€œShot himself, eh? You’re sure this flycop didn’t do it?” His tone implied that he’d like nothing better.
    Quincannon said, “I had no reason to, nor could have done it if I had. I have no key to these doors—both of which were locked by Lansing when I got here. And still are, as you’ll soon see.”
    â€œThen why were you chasing Lansing?”
    â€œI can’t say without permission of Mr. Willard.”
    Elias Corby stepped forward. “It couldn’t have anything to do with Otto Ackermann’s death, could it? That was a tragic accident.”
    â€œWhat’s that?” Kleinhoffer said. “There’s been another death here recently?”
    â€œLast week. Poor Otto, our brewmaster, slipped off a catwalk and drowned in a vat of fermenting beer. A terrible way to die, terrible. But it was an accident, as I said. The precinct officers who came to investigate ruled it as such.”
    â€œFirst the brewmaster, then the assistant brewmaster—an accident and an apparent suicide. Sounds fishy to me. Well, Quincannon? Is there some sort of connection or isn’t there?”
    â€œI can’t say without—”
    Kleinhoffer snapped, “Scheisse,” glared daggers at him, and then turned to Malloy. “You have the key? All right, open the doors and let’s have a look at the stiff.”
    Malloy hastened to do his bidding. Kleinhoffer and his usual shadow, a burly sergeant named Mahoney, shouldered their way inside, taking the foreman with them. Quincannon made no attempt to join them; it was unnecessary—he’d already seen all there was to see in the utility room—and Kleinhoffer wouldn’t have allowed it anyway. The other coppers, four bluecoats, held him and the rest of the onlookers at a distance.
    The Prussian and his shadow blundered around inside for ten minutes, making a good deal of noise in the process. The workmen all gave Quincannon a wide berth, as if he’d been revealed as a none-too-savory and possibly dangerous spy. When the two plainclothesmen reappeared, Kleinhoffer attempted to question Quincannon again, using thinly veiled threats this time. This tactic got him nowhere, the threats being nothing but empty bluster. Grumbling, he and Mahoney proceeded to interrogate Jack Malloy and several other employees, none of whom had anything pertinent to tell.
    Two nearly simultaneous arrivals put a halt to the questioning. First came the morgue wagon and a pair of attendants with a stretcher, followed less than a minute later—and not a moment too soon, by Quincannon’s reckoning—by Mr. James Willard.
    *   *   *
    â€œCaleb Lansing, a murderer and a thief,” Willard said in mournful tones. “My God, I can hardly believe it.”
    â€œThere’s no doubt he was guilty of both crimes,” Quincannon said.
    Kleinhoffer said sourly, “So you say. How do you know he killed the brewmaster for the steam beer formula? According to the bookkeeper, the official verdict is that Ackermann drowned accidentally.”
    â€œThe official ruling was wrong.”
    â€œSmart flycop. Think you know everything.”
    â€œMurder when murder’s been done for profit, yes.”
    The three men were in Willard’s office, where they’d gone for the sake of privacy. The news of Lansing’s betrayal and apparent suicide—a second death by violence in the Golden State in a week’s time—had shocked Willard into a lather; his florid features were mottled, veins bulged and pulsed in both temples as if he might be in danger of a seizure. After a brief consultation out of Kleinhoffer’s hearing, he had agreed to permit an explanation of why he’d hired a detective to investigate Otto Ackermann’s demise. Which Quincannon had then given as succinctly and in as little detail as