A Place of Fog and Murder, page 2
Thought you were looking for someone or someone looking for you?
Her story was adjusting to the circumstances. I knew the type — truth was just a tool of the moment. Okay, so, she was still in some sort of trouble, and I didn’t let go of my Galahad response just because she was struggling to keep her story straight. I kept smiling for her and listening for those other footsteps.
Now? Nothing.
Not even a cousin, twice removed, of an echo.
The masculine footsteps had stopped. Maybe, he was waiting to see what I’d do, or what she’d do now that I was in the picture. More gut instinct here, but it wasn’t hard to put this scenario into clear scope.
She approached me, and her voice had a little throb in it, right where she’d put it on purpose. “Your ‘Crawler is coming. May I take it?”
And leave me here in the rain, with someone tailing you? Mere blocks from the creepy, secretive goings-on over at the Pointe?
Hell no.
“It’s very important I get where I’m going fast,” she pleaded.
Glancing up the street, and over toward the alleyway, I couldn’t see anyone. I hadn’t imagined those footsteps, had I? “We can share. That’d be fine by me. I’d like to get out of the ...” I let my gesturing at the clouds finish my sentence.
“Oh, yes, of course. Of course, we can share, that would be great, these cabs take so long, you know, and it would be better to share the cost anyway, don’t you think, two gals off to the races ought to share a cab, are you heading over to Union Street? Everyone’s always going over there.” she quivered, thinking her babbling made her sound confident.
“That’s us, two gals who shouldn’t be out alone, on a day like this. You sure you don’t need more than just a cab? Maybe a policeman or —”
“No, no! Just a ride. It's all I need.”
“It’s none of my business but you look to be in trouble.”
She opened her mouth. Something told me that she wanted to talk. “I’m ... I’m ... wait, here’s the cab,” she pointed.
Boy-howdy, you can bank on ‘Crawlers having good timing, especially when you don’t need them to. The mechanized cab was heading down the hill in our direction.
Okay, we’d get in the cab and I’d get her to start talking again. Not that I really had time for this, but I sometimes just can’t help myself. Shamus to the rescue.
“Look at me, all discombobulated. I’m just running terribly late, I’m all confused, silly me.” She had that affected, Mid-Atlantic accent I knew all too well. “I hope you haven’t been waiting too long, I mean, the weather is dreadful, don’t you think so, it’s just dreadful and I didn’t expect to be out, I would have packed an umbrella ...” We were back to the babbling.
The ‘Crawler’s locks popped for us. The passenger section slid out and she slid partially into the seats, not leaving enough room for me to get in. Nice. I’ll need to get pushy. I’ll need to get a good look at her too, once we were underway.
Her hands were shaking. She grabbed off her gloves before sliding a little further in. Still not enough room for me ... oh Wow-wee, she had a rock on her finger worth twenty-G’s if a dime. It found light in this darkness to sparkle.
“Latin Quarter, Broadway at Columbus,” she said to the brass speaker-horn. ‘Crawler, driver-less cabs were operated by dispatchers down by the wharf.
Honey, weren’t you going to Union Street? Ah Truth, the ever-flexible Demon.
Her head was covered first by a patterned scarf of roses and leaves, silk to be sure, and then a grey Fedora pulled way down. Gloves were now sitting in her lap. Overcoat, it still taking up too much of the seat. I’d needed to get closer to gander a look at her, while she faked a giggle and a fussed over making room for me. Finally. I could play along for a while longer.
Perky nose, in silhouette, plus pouty lips. Young, I thought, but couldn’t confirm it until I had a chance to look at her skin and eyes. Her jawline hadn’t started its slow descent into antiquity, as mine had.
A kicked-bottle made a startling racket in the dark. A man stopped where the neon light pierced into the alley, and faced me, knife in hand. That was definitely a knife. No imagining that. While it gleamed in the street light, he drew back so his face remained shadowed.
“Hey, you, hold it right there!” I shouted. Oh yeah, Lulu, that move was genius. Pure genius.
He retreated further back on seeing me point at him and turned on his heel to flee the scene.
“Stay here,” I commanded the scared gal.
I had my heater out from under my skirts in less than two seconds. An old-fashioned weapon, but damn if it didn’t do the job.
Pushing away from the cab, I braced against the brick building and checked down the alley. A figure, in silhouette, down by the lit cigarette ad, ran away, stumbling, and trying to not be there in a big hurry. His confidence level had changed; he wasn’t running as surely as before. I moved quickly into the alley, gun held up with both hands.
He stopped only long enough to get a look me over; not that I got anything better than a crappy eye-balling of him. His silhouette gave me bits to mark him by, not much else. Overcoat. Narrow brimmed hat. Compared with the trash bin he ran past, I decided he was tall. His coat could conceal virtually any body size, but my quick impression was one of athletic health. Not much to go on, but better than nothing.
“Miss,” I called back toward the ‘Crawler, “if that guy was following you, I think you can relax now. We should take you to the police, so you can —”
The cab door slammed shut and the ‘Crawler sped away.
She left me here.
Alone.
Knowing someone had been chasing down the alley.
Damn it.
The rain started coming down in much bigger drops and I swear I thought I saw a flash of lightning.
The fog horn cried out and I detected a slight snicker in it.
Abyssinia, doll, as they say. Be seein’ ya.
Whatever trouble you’re in, Sweetheart, isn’t my business anymore. I sure hope no one leaves you stranded in the rain.
Grabbing up my damp skirt to put away my heater, I cursed her a couple more times.
It got quiet again and I felt conspicuously alone. Again. After listening for anything normal, the wailing trumpet of Louis Armstrong started floating down from one of the apartments to challenge the foghorns to a duel.
Wet, or cold, or both, I still had a job to do. One way or another, I was getting soaked.
Did I mention I could be a real sap sometimes?
Chapter TWO
Fear does several things. It pours ice down your spine. It makes your legs fail you. Your senses telescope down to a pin-point and you forget the feeling in your hands. It’s not just in your mind – it’s physical and visceral. But we humans were built to respond by either fleeing or freezing. A P.I. has to fight such responses or die trying.
If only it were that easy.
~Lou Tanner, P.I., Notes for female Pemberton Graduates, 1935
I MADE MY WAY BACK to my office, taking odd routes where I could see if someone was tailing me. Uncle Joe taught me that, and it's my habit now.
Tanner Private Investigations greeted me on my office door.
Tarps still protected my recently acquired, previously misused furniture. Drying paint fumes filled my nose. The walls and the window sign weren’t done yet. Oh well. The painters said it would be another day. My satchel fell over on the secretarial desk. I righted it, cautiously, then seeing nothing exploded, I backed away. The pins coming out of my wig set loose waves of relief on my scalp and freed the monster headache waiting in the dark. My feet hurt, my hair hurt, and I was damp through and through. But — I was alive. And there awaited something decidedly alcoholic in my desk, in the next room.
Sauntering over to my desk, the clunk of my shoes kicked off provided some satisfaction, countered by my tugging on one particularly disagreeable hairpin.
The door slammed closed behind me.
I spun to face it, a heavy paperweight giving my knuckles extra gravitas.
Agent Mason, jerk Bruno, G-man, and tasteless dresser stood with his hands buried deep in his overcoat pockets. I saw that slight lump under his arm, no doubt his shoulder-holster complete with government issued rod.
I felt my sass rising in my chest, wrestling for room with my pride. Walking out to him, I decided the sooner I got this over with, the better.
He stuck out his hand, demanding without actually asking. I looked at his hand and tossed the wig into it. “I told you not to go in a disguise. They can see right through that sort of ...”
“Relax. They didn’t.”
“I told you not to.”
“And I assessed the situation and decided to ignore you.” I gave him my back to stare at. I had a bottle of something medicinal in my desk, like every good detective should, and I wasn’t offering him any. Not a drop.
“Where is it?” Mason was the kind of guy who makes your skin crawl when he talks. His sentences tended to end with a squeak, as if he wasn’t sure if he would stop yacking.
“Didn’t your mother ever tell you, you get more with honey than vinegar?” I turned and pointed down at the satchel and glowered. “Help yourself, or do you need me to serve it up on a tray, with a sprig of mint?”
Mason didn’t like it when I talked back to him. He hadn’t since the first time I’d sassed him. Too damn bad.
He scrounged around in my satchel to find the file. Once he opened it, he ignored me, so I poured myself a shot of Bourbon from the bottle I retrieved from my desk. Glass in hand, I strolled back into the front office.
“I was guessing you were more of a Rye girl, being from upstate New York.” He didn’t bother looking me in the eye.
“You need to do better homework. I lived on both coasts and one-time overseas. I drink what I like.” I sarcastically saluted him. Resting my sore backside on the edge of the front-office desk, drinking deeply, observed him. Not that I really wanted to. I wanted to go to bed.
His hazel eyes raced across each page inside the file. “You know what’s in here?”
“Nope. Nor do I want to.” I continued to sip.
He finally looked up at me with a disingenuous smile. “You should. Turns out we have —”
“Stop!”
“I thought you were curious about —”
“What part of S.T.O.P escapes your understanding? I don’t want to know. I didn’t want to know about the goings-on at Hunter’s Pointe either, but you set me up for that one. Happily, I know nothing about your current hustle. Call it ‘willful ignorance.’ Any honest sleuth wants nothing to do with dangerous, paramilitary nutjob nonsense. I’m done. Got it? Done. Do I need to spell it for you too?”
At first, he seemed annoyed, then amused. “I didn’t ask you earlier, did you see anything interesting at the Pointe, when you were there?”
“No! I met your contact outside the security perimeter.”
“Liar. Oh well, it doesn’t matter. We got what we needed tonight. And they ain't the wiser, or so you tell me.”
“Sure, they are.” I drank deeply, letting him see the gorgeous amber contents of my glass. “Maybe your current mark followed me here.” Now I was the one lying, but I needed to gauge his reaction. As much as he acted like one, Jim Mason wasn’t a fool.
“You don’t need to worry.” He needed to convince himself more than me.
“Just like that. I don’t need to worry.” Oh Sarcasm, my best friend.
“I wouldn’t worry about it. I told you, you were only getting a file for me. They ain't the sort to get too upset. Now, the boys at the Pointe? Those militia boys enthusiastically play soldier. Still ... maybe you don’t need to worry about them either.”
“You should. Don’t blackmailers get their comeuppance in the end?” I asked, allowing the alcohol to end my sentence for me. “You got what you want, how about you ante-up with my license and badge, and that damn fake report to the War Department.”
Laughing, he waved me off. “I didn’t bring those out tonight. I wasn’t sure you’d be successful. Besides, I might need another favor.”
Another?
Damn him ... another!
I didn’t want to be right about this, but I was. The blackmail never ends. He’d never stop, because men like him never do. He forced me to do his bidding at the cost of my career and my livelihood. Probably my life. That was how it worked.
Rage can be a funny thing. I don’t remember too much between his gregarious comment and my planting my heater right between his shocked and terrified eyes. He raised his hands in a warding gesture.
When it comes to rage, I can be ambidextrous.
I switched that sweet derringer to the left hand and prodded his coat with my right. Out came his rod, and he swallowed either a curse or a protest.
“Hold on, Lou, I’ll bring them by tomorrow. I promise.” He coughed and raised his hands as if to ward off any attack.
When this angry, I become a whole other person — someone you don’t ever want to meet. “No,” I spit through my teeth, “you’ll meet me tomorrow morning at Crabtree’s Signal Tower, at Kearny and Market, eight a.m. You’ll have my documents, a signed declaration stating you’ve decided you haven’t any complaint about me, your so-called report to the War Department, and my badge.” Each word came out with force.
“Lou, I —”
“You wrote up that little piece of garbage putting my life in danger. You set me up to take the fall for you. They shoot traitors, you know, if they don’t hang them.”
“No, no, you got me all wrong, Lou.” His tone was desperate, and I took so much satisfaction in that. He took a tiny step back. “I was just kidding about favors. Sure — I’ll give you everything you asked for. You got my word.”
Liar. Coward. I thought it so hard, it came out of my mouth.
“Miss Tanner, do you understand how many laws you’re breaking right now?” Oh, he tried to sound tough, but I’d shaken him up too hard. “I gave you my word. I’ll give you back your badge, license, the report, everything. Scout’s honor.”
“I should take the word of an agent of the government who interfered with the proper conduct of the City and County of San Francisco and tampered with the U.S. Mail by intercepting legally issued licenses, then blackmailed a civilian with a false accusation? It’s a damn wonder the War Department isn’t here trying to arrest me.”
“I never gave the report to them. My word of honor.”
“Take your word of honor? What honor? Interfering with the mail is a Federal offense. Think your bosses like your dirty laundry showing up in the papers? Don’t fool yourself, I’ll do it — no, no — shut your yap — I don’t want to hear it.”
Mason went white as a sheet, maybe even a little green.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
My little .41 confidence maker was doing its job on both of us. “Eight o’clock, tomorrow morning. Got it, Mason?”
“So, what if I give you your little badge — what then? You think you’ll hop right into business and start makin’ a load? You’re a dame. No one will ever take you seriously. I’m the only one who giving jobs to you. Me. And I own your ass, Honey. I don’t have to give you nothin’.” The words caught in his throat in places, but he was planting his feet.
My heartbeat was pounding inside and outside my head. Everything shrank down to the point where I was keeping my rod pressed on his skull. “Crabtree Signal Tower — Kearny and Market,” I repeated slowly.
“Why should I? I’m a government agent. To you, I am the government. I can do whatever I deem —”
My answer was a right hook.
I broke his nose and when he tried to recover, I pounded him again.
Most girls don’t know they can do that.
I’m not most girls.
I left him on the floor, dazed and bleeding, and I unabashedly took possession of the all-important file. He crawled away from me, clutching his bleeding schnoz. The file he desperately wanted fit perfectly back in the satchel next to my copy of the Black Mask and D&S Detective Magazine.
I wondered briefly if he had any idea an average dame could do that to a full-grown man? Apparently not, and besides, I've never been an average dame. I strolled out as if nothing happened.
After such a performance, my only logical next stop? Stan’s Bar on Franklin. I didn’t care how wet I’d get hoofing it over. I wanted another drink and a chance to smoke the rest of the pack if I wanted to. All the way there, I fumed and replayed the incident over and over in my head, along with a variety of responses I was too sleepy to think of. Damn the consequences.
Drinking and smoking. The perfect combination.
I didn’t used to be like this — all anger and gun pointing. In fact, it's bad form to go waving one’s gun around, but as a PI, I sometimes need the motivator.
I needed to remain a class act, damn it.
I thumped on through the door of Stan’s, looking like a wet sheepdog, took a booth, and settled in.
The place was fairly empty. I guess the weather kept the regulars at home. A man arrived after me and took a spot at the bar. Now, there were two of us. He looked like the average down-on-his luck fellow trying his best to keep up his dignity. He took off his cheap but decent hat and ran his fingers through thick salt and pepper hair, leaving some of it sticking out in odd directions.
Stan himself walked up to me. In his late fifties and as wide as he was tall, Stan looked at me cock-eyed. “Bad day, Lou?”
“I’ve only been coming here for a couple of weeks. What makes you think —”
“I’m a bartender. Ya think I don’ know dat look? I know dat look. Bourbon? Neat?” I love his Big Apple accent. Reminds me of home.
“Yeah, you know me alright. Thanks. Oh, and Stan, put that fellow’s drink on my tab.”
