Moonstone Alley

The fog rolled off the bay and the city peeked out from under it—San Francisco, gray at the edges and wet with secrets. A Dalmatian in a trench coat moved through it, spots ghosting in and out, head tilted to aim his good ear toward the street. Barker hated missing things—sounds, meanings, clues.

He climbed the narrow stairway above the locksmith on Market. It smelled of metal shavings, old raincoats, and the faint tang of oil from the shop below. A bare bulb hummed overhead, throwing a tired light along the walls.

Inside his office, Barker hung his coat, tossed his hat on the desk, and set his pipe beside it. He struck a match, lit the bowl, drew once, then shook out the flame. Smoke curled, familiar and grounding. He settled into his chair.

A folded announcement on the wall above his desk caught his eye. He didn’t remember pinning it there. A gala in the Marina that night—viewing of the Moonstone before transport. Fancy affair, not his kind of room.

Footsteps sounded on the landing—steady, deliberate. Barker stayed still, listening. The steps stopped outside his door. He tamped his pipe, waiting it out.

Three sharp knocks rattled the frosted window.

He didn’t answer. Not a second time in the morning.

Through the doorframe came a faint scent—expensive, precise, out of place in this building of pawnshops, coin appraisers, and derelicts. He waited, pipe cooling in his paw.

Another set of knocks—firmer this time.

He relit his pipe, watching the flame flutter and go out.

The door burst open. A German Shepherd in a charcoal suit stepped inside, hat held in both hands, eyes lowered. Fog clung to his fur; he didn’t shake it off.

“Elmer Dithers,” he said. “Claims and Special Investigations.” He offered a card on heavy stock, then another—as if the first might’ve been defective—before sitting, knees precise, folder on his lap. One ear flicked, quick as a bad thought, then went still.

Barker took the card, let it warm in his paw, and set it on the desk. “Congratulations. Plenty of claims in this city.”

“Not claims. Prevention.” Dithers inhaled, smoothed the folder’s edge with his palm, and tried on one of his practiced smiles. “The firm carries the policy on a certain jewel. There’s to be a gala tonight, a public unveiling before transport. Our preference is for nothing to happen. Your preference, I assume, is billable hours without incident.”

“I’m a fan of quiet outcomes,” Barker said. “Name of the jewel?”

“The Moonstone.” Another ear flick. “Lady Duff Panettone is the owner’s representative on-site. We’ve reviewed security. We’ve… conducted diligence. I don’t anticipate a loss.”

“And yet you’re here.”

Dithers squared the folder. “Because my work involves the management of risk, not wishes. Exposure increases under public conditions. We prefer redundancy in the watch posture. Discretion is essential. The museum would rather talk about donors than deductibles.”

“Who’s paying me?”

“The carrier, through my office.” Dithers slid a typed sheet across—scope, rate, ‘observe and report.’ “You’ll be credentialed as an outside consultant. No heroics. Present, alert, invisible.”

“Anyone I should know besides Lady Duff?”

“You’ll meet the usual staff. Security. The owner’s household has assigned a… butler.” He disliked the word. “A parrot is present. Extraneous.”

“Birds talk,” Barker said.

“Not usefully.” He aligned the page he’d just handed over. “Sloppiness costs money. Arrival recommended at six-thirty. Badge on the door.” His ear twitched. “Two contacts, technically.”

“They breathe, you know,” Barker said.

“Pardon?”

“Crowds. In and out. Somebody lifts a glass. Somebody lifts a stone. It happens.”

Dithers considered the floor, then the window, then the folder. He squared it one more time and was done with it. “Attend, watch, report. If nothing happens, excellent. If something happens, I expect the first clear-eyed account on my desk before the Chronicle invents one.”

Barker nodded once. “I’ll be there.”

Dithers stood. “Invoice weekly. If you require anything, go through me.” He pulled a folded note from his pocket on company stationery. There were contact numbers in San Francisco, two crossed out, and a short list of names. “I don’t like surprises,” he said.

“Nobody does.”

Dithers gathered his papers with tidy precision, paused at the door. “No surprises, Mr. Barker.” He left, the door clicking shut without warmth.

Finally, it was quiet. Barker listened the way you listen to a radio when the song fades, hoping for one more note, certain there isn’t one. He tamped his pipe, relit, and let the quiet rest a moment. It was too much to hope for.

There was a presence at the door. Not sound at first, but scent. A trace of perfume slipped under the frame, the note that didn’t belong in a hallway of dust and tired carpet. It was sharp at the start, then softened into something powdered and expensive.

There came a single soft knock. Precise. Controlled.

He opened the door, reluctantly.

Lady Duff Panettone stepped past him before he could move aside, as if entry had already been granted and he was lazily catching up. Pearl gloves. Tailored coat. The perfume was stronger close-up—refined, layered, insistent. She wore the kind of poise you earned from a lifetime of trampling others.

“Mr. Barker,” she said, low and unhurried. She crossed to the chair opposite his desk and sat without waiting to be asked, draped her hands lightly on the armrests, and waited.

“Lady Duff Panettone,” Barker said.

“You were recommended to me,” she said. “Quietly.”

“By who?”

“A mutual acquaintance.” A measured tilt of her head. “Someone who appreciates discretion. They recalled you prevented a blackmail from… escalating. No headlines. No fuss.”

Telegraph Hill had traveled farther than he thought. “What can I do for you, Lady Duff?”

“There is a public viewing this evening,” she said. “You’ll have heard—the Moonstone.” She didn’t lean forward; it would ruin it. “My trustees have arranged for additional eyes in the room. I prefer those eyes to belong to someone who will not perform.”

“I watch,” Barker said.

“So I’m told.” Her gaze moved—window, coat rack, desk, him. “You are known for restraint. I value restraint.”

“Most clients want noise when the lights go out,” Barker said. “They like to hear they’re safe.”

“What I like,” she said, “is to know that nothing unanticipated will occur.”

“Insurance sent a man,” Barker said. “German Shepherd. Polished vocabulary. Redundancy in the watch posture.”

There was a slight lift of her brow. “Mr. Dithers. Helpful in his way.” Barker waited. “The museum’s confidence is public,” she said. “My confidence is not.”

The clock ticked once.

“Tonight isn’t about security,” she said. “It’s about appearance. I need someone who understands the difference.”

Barker let that settle. “Who signs my check?”

“My office. You’ll find us punctual.”

He didn’t smile. “Anything you’d like me to know before I start attending?”

She rose. The gloves stayed uncreased. “Only that I dislike surprises.”

“You’re not the first to tell me that today.”

“Then we’re aligned.” She reached the door, paused just long enough to leave a shape in the silence. “Your reputation suggested you would know what not to say.”

“Usually,” Barker said.

“Do keep to that.”

She left. The door closed with a soft finality that made the room feel even smaller, and her perfume lingered a moment longer, suspended. Barker stood, unsure what had just been agreed to and what had been assumed of him.

He needed air.

Barker grabbed his coat and hat, stepped out, and headed down the stairs to Market. The morning had shaken itself awake—streetcar wires humming overhead and a sharp snap of electricity from the line, a bus sighing to a stop, shoes on damp pavement.

The morning air hit him with more honesty than the office had. Barker walked west along Market, the city shaking the night out of its coat. A streetcar hummed past, overhead wires giving a sharp snap of electricity as it cleared the intersection. A bus sighed to a stop. Someone argued with a newspaper box that refused to open.

He bought a cup of coffee from a cart near the corner—thick, hot, and strong enough to hold its own in a fight—and a folded Chronicle from the stack. The vendor gave him the once-over, taking in the coat, the spots, the hour.

“Long morning already,” the vendor said.

“Starting to look that way,” Barker answered.

He took the coffee and paper to a narrow strip of bench that faced the street. Steam curled under his nose. He let the first sip settle him. The quiet here wasn’t real quiet, but it was city-honest—noise that didn’t ask for anything.

Duff’s perfume still lingered in his head. Appearance, not security. He didn’t like jobs that came dressed as something else.

He unfolded the paper. Headlines bragged, scolded, and promised better lives. None of it mattered.

He skimmed past the front-page noise and flipped to the inside sections, where the city revealed its face.

On page three, a small boxed item sat between a society luncheon and bridge-club results:

A Turkish Arts & Antiquities Liaison is expected to attend this evening’s Moonstone viewing, according to museum sources. No elaboration. No name. Just enough to make Barker’s ear tilt.

He turned the page.

Herb Caen held court on the green sheet, tossing off observations like cocktail olives. Mid-column, Barker caught a line that snagged:

“Pacific Heights dusts off its tiaras tonight as the well-heeled gather to admire a jewel that’s seen more vaults than views. One hopes the evening sparkles as promised—and that nothing goes missing but the shrimp.”

Barker snorted into his coffee. Caen always knew the punchline before anyone told the joke.

Turkish liaison. Sparkle. “Nothing goes missing.”

He folded the paper to dog-ear that page and slid it under his arm. Mornings made promises this city couldn’t keep.

He drained the last of the coffee, tossed the cup, and headed back toward the stairs.

He wasn’t expecting quiet, but he wasn’t expecting company either.

Back up the stairs, toward the office, he set his paw on the knob—only to find a small Jack Russell mother blocking it, a sagging cardboard box of pups at her feet. All white-and-tan, not a spot among them.

“You,” she said. “Chiseler.”

Barker blinked once. “I think you’ve got the wrong—”

“You left more than your hat behind.”

He raised the Chronicle, half a shield. Not the first time he’d heard that tone.

She nudged the box with her snout. The side gave way and the pups spilled out—four quick bodies scrambling across his floorboards and into the office. One shot under the desk, another clambered onto his chair, a third made straight for his Raiders cap on the radiator, the fourth dove into the wastebasket with a crash of paper.

Barker swept two pups up with his forearm and nudged them toward the hall. The third had his cap by the brim and dragged it in triumphant circles. Barker retrieved it—damp now—and set it out of reach. He caught the last pup mid-pounce and steered all four out to the landing.

The mother was already rounding them up with brisk little nips. Barker guided the final pup out and closed the door on the small parade as she herded them downstairs.

He exhaled. Five seconds of quiet.

Then he heard small paws hustling up the stairs, gaining speed.

The door pushed open and a fifth Jack Russell—late, breathless, ears a size too big—skidded inside and grinned up at him.

“You can’t stay here and mooch,” Barker said.

The kid wriggled his nose. “Moxie. With an x.”

Barker opened the door to hand him over. The hallway was empty. Only a torn corner of the cardboard box lay flattened on the stairs.

He shut the door. Duff’s scent still clung to the room, softer now. “Sure,” he muttered. “Make yourself at home.”

He picked up his hat, considered the damp edge, and saw Moxie’s tail wriggling from under the sofa.

“Should’ve stayed in the car.”