City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) (16 page)

“Anybody see you come in?”

“I don’t think so. I live in a smallish apartment house in North Beach, and we don’t have a lobby man after midnight.”

“Try the neighbors—one of them may have heard your radio. The cops can check the radio listings, too, so try to remember exactly what you were listening to, though unless the program wasn’t originally scheduled it’s not much of an alibi—listings are in the papers or
Radio Guide.
Why didn’t Mrs. Hart’s chauffeur drive both of you last night? Because of the jade?”

He nodded. “She didn’t want any of her employees gossiping about her comings and goings. Or to find out about the parure.” He ran a finger along his mustache thoughtfully, sadly. “Poor Lois. She was terrified of that necklace. She should have let Raymond sell the damn thing.”

Miranda raised her eyebrows in surprise. “She told you her son was responsible?”

His hands folded like a prayer, voice urgent and earnest. “You have to understand, Miranda. We were friends, Lois and I. We had a lot in common. It’s one reason she felt safe with me, she knew I’d never hurt her—or use her.”

She held his eyes for a moment, then stared down at her notes, tapping the pen against the desk. “There was a pickpocket at the show last night. I braced him—Fingers Molloy. A man I’ve never seen before left almost at the same time he did, maybe his partner. I’m wondering if he could be your shadow. Could you tell whether he split off after Mrs. Hart or followed you back home?”

“I kept an eye behind me for a few blocks, and thought I saw him on a side street—Post or Sutter. By the time I got home there was no one.”

Miranda scribbled in the Big Chief pad for a few minutes, then slapped down the Esterbrook and looked up to find Edmund anxiously watching her. She stood up.

“OK. We can strategize tomorrow. Just ring me first—I might be out. I don’t have any time to check into this right now, but I can’t turn down a friend. And there’s my own neck, too.”

He picked up the Borsalino and walked toward her smiling, hand outstretched.

“Thank you so much for coming to the aid of an old colleague, Miranda. I feel much better now, about both of our chances.”

She placed her hands on his shoulders. “We served on Devil’s Island together. And I’m glad to know you got out. See you tomorrow.”

They walked to the door, the architect standing straighter than before.

“By the way—you seeing anyone on a regular basis?”

He reddened, hand on the doorknob. “Just ended a relationship not too long ago. It’s so awkward when you run into old lovers, especially at social functions. I was glad to get out of that exhibit.”

She patted him on the back. “We’ll get through it. Be seeing you.”

He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Be seeing you, Miranda.”

*   *   *

Checked her wristwatch when the St. Patrick’s church bells starting ringing. Took her a minute to realize the phone was ringing, too, shrill insistence blending with the sonorous warning to gather, confess, and repent. Miranda picked up the phone, still thinking about Edmund.

“How are you, Miranda?”

Goddamn it. Not Gonzales, not now.

“Busy. You should know that, Inspector. I spent an hour at the Hall this morning, getting grilled by Fisher, who doesn’t like grilling people, and for that I’m thankful. He’s a good man in a hard position, since O’Meara and Brady, the Bobbsey Twins, think I’m a Red and apparently garroted my own client.”

He made a noise in the back of his throat. “I will speak to them, Miranda, perhaps a word from me will help. I have some small standing I did not have before, thanks to my work with the Dies Committee. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Comes with the territory.”

She lit the cigarette with the One-Touch Ronson, heart beating hard through the silence on the other end of the phone.

“I—I am sorry about last night. I do not normally drink so much or act so poorly. I’ve also sent a note of apology to Mr. Sanders. My behavior was … not myself.”

Miranda dragged on the Chesterfield and fell into the chair. “Apology accepted. I’ve got to go.”

Slight hesitation, then smooth again, rough spots swallowed like a poison pill. “Shall I see you again, Miranda?”

“In the funny papers. I’ve got to go, Gonzales.”

His voice was soft. “I will be here if you need me.”

She dropped the phone in the cradle, loud clang, and leaned back in the chair, watching the smoke curling from the end of her cigarette, watched it form a dragon before the currents from the window and the hallway slid under the door and dismembered it.

Goddamn it.

Fourteen

Miranda opened the Big Chief tablet and turned the pages back to her list.

Art dealer, Mexico.

She tapped the Esterbrook against her lips, trying to remember the name of the dealer at the Picasso show, the man with the sandy goatee … what did he say? “
You know what Jews are…”
and “
far from the only source.
” And then Jasper humiliated him, hurt him physically. She remembered his expression of pain and how forcefully the professor had shut his mouth.

Warden? Wearden? W-something. Shit.

He’d done business with Jasper before, fit the anti-Semitic dogma. And they’d huddled together, murmuring something about Kirchner and Warsaw and
entartete Kunst
 …

She reached for the directory, thumbed through and dialed the number.

“Museum of Art.”

Gruff voice. Possibly the Cyclopean woman from the registration desk.

Miranda cleared her throat. Time to play Social Register.

“Good afternoon. I attended your current Picasso exhibit last night.”

Pause, with the implication that the museum should contemplate how very fortunate it had been.

“And what is the reason for your call, Madame?”

Tough customer. Miranda turned up the frost, let it bite through the phone, equal parts impatience and iceberg.

“I have been contemplating a significant bequest. Before I consult with your director, however, I would like to have my collection appraised. There was an art dealer at the exhibit whom I found very congenial, and I unfortunately have misplaced his calling card. Would you be so
kind
”—she punched the last word like a boxing bag—“as to look up Mr. Warden’s information for me? I’m sure you’ll find it in your registration book.”

Quiet choke, vocal constipation.

“Cert-tain-ly, Madame.”

And the hell with you, too, sister.

“There are a number of names that sound like Warden, Ma-dame. I will read out the names and cities. Perhaps one will sound familiar.”

Barely concealed sneer, resentment of the rich, their taste, their tempers, their unfortunate and unfair ownership of what is known as Art, largesse upon which museums depended. Miranda almost felt sorry for her, remembering the debutantes and society matrons lining up to get their pictures taken with
The Acrobat.

“Thank you. I shall commend you to the director.”

The woman cleared her throat, above flattery. “Mr. and Mrs. Frank Warden, Burlingame. That is W-a-r-d-e-n. Mrs. Connelly Warden, San Francisco, same spelling. Mr. and Mrs. Taylor Wardin, Hillsborough, W-a-r-d-i-n. Mr. Hugo Wardon, San Francisco, W-a-r-d-o-n. Mr. Anthony Weardon, Berkeley, W-e-a-r-d-o-n. That is all, Madame. May I inform the director and curator of your interest in a bequest?”

Miranda gave it her haughtiest. “Thank you. My estate attorney will contact them.”

She dropped the phone in the cradle quickly, took a deep breath, then laughed. Looked around the office at the Martell’s calendar and the tattered, dusty page of the
Chronicle
on the wall by the radio, rotogravure from the opening day of the Fair.

Murmured: “Some bequest.”

She opened the directory again, eyes squinting at the faded black ink. Only seven art galleries. Most centered in Union Square, most just branches of large houses in New York.

She couldn’t remember a companion for the slight, precise man with the sandy goatee. He was probably one of the single men on the list, either Hugo Wardon or Anthony Weardon, if he even bothered to sign the register. Since there was no phone listing for a Wardon or Weardon gallery, she’d just have to play society dame again and call them all.

Miranda lit another cigarette. Ran her finger ran over the raised letters of the State Department report—heavy typewriter keys—finally pausing in the middle of a paragraph.

Jasper received a grant of five hundred dollars from the Pioneer Fund.

He eyes widened. She reached for the phone, dialed the memorized number.

Three rings and an answer.

“State Department.”

“Mr. MacLeod, please. It’s Ugly Duckling.”

She smoked furiously, hunched forward over the phone.

Rattle and the sound of papers shuffling, a click. James.

“You caught me just when I was leaving the office. Something else?”

“I know you’re heading back to Washington tomorrow, but I need more information. Anything and everything about art dealers or galleries Jasper patronizes, if anyone’s bothered to check. This report is too general … I’d like specifics.”

“We’d like them, too, ducks, that’s why I hired you. That report is what we have … and all we have.”

“What about the agent who made the report? It reads like a synopsis with a few details, and maybe he…”

His voice was sharp. “Like I said—that’s all we have. And it’s all the agent had time to write before someone put a knife to his throat.”

“I see.” Miranda sat back in the chair, Chesterfield between her fingers, gray ash slowly eating the thin white paper. “That’s something you might have mentioned earlier, James.”

“I warned you. I’ve been warning you. And it’s not too late. I can cover the expenses you’ve incurred, you can keep a hundred dollars for a retainer, and we’ll call it even. I’m not going to be able to sleep nights as it is.”

“You can’t get rid of me that easily. But thanks for the offer. I’ve got one more question: the Pioneer Fund.”

“Off-limits, ducks. Focus on the subject.”

Her face darkened. “What do you mean ‘off-limits’? It’s in the goddamn report, James. Jasper received money from them for research—don’t you want to know what kind of research?”

He lowered his voice. “Just let it be. Certain—certain people will attempt to label any exposé of the Pioneer Fund as a Communist plot. It’s the reality we’re working with, ducks. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? Jesus Christ, James, I read a report on them—a Pinkerton report, in fact, and we all know how Red Pinkerton is. They’re no better than the Silver Shirts and the Ku Klux Klan, just richer. The bastard who founded it visited Hitler and friends in ’35, came back all aglow with ‘better living through selective breeding’ …”

“No. N-O, no. Either continue on with the subject or quit, ducks, but don’t drag this into it. The Dies Committee—”

“I don’t give a damn about the Dies Committee, the Pinkerton report said—”

Two sharp raps on her office door.

Rick never knocked.

Miranda half-covered the receiver with her palm, whispered “Tomorrow,” and set it down in the cradle as quietly as she could.

“Come in.” Her eyes and voice were steady.

Allen craned his head around the front of the door, scalp shiny and pink, red tie askew and sporting a mustard stain.

“Did I hear you take the Old Man’s name in vain?”

She scattered ash from the forgotten Chesterfield, bent forward and rubbed it out in the tray.

“Since when do you wait for an invitation?”

“I always knock, sweetheart. I never know what I might be interrupting.” He winked, ambling toward the most comfortable of the wooden chairs. Sat down and crossed his thick legs. The brown wool trousers rode up too high, revealing gray socks.

Miranda pointed to his ankles. “Your wife throw you out?”

He grinned. “An astute observation, Miss Sherlock. She’s staying with her mother for two weeks. Did I or did I not just hear you mention Pinkerton?”

Allen Jennings, bald, mid-forties, with a potbelly and muscle that had run to fat. Not Hollywood’s idea of the best damn op she knew.

“What are you, Pavlov’s dog? This part of the training?”

He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a half-smoked Old Gold. Smoothed the stick between his fingers, struck a match on his shoe, and inhaled, shaking his head.

“Haven’t seen you much, kid. Thought I’d drop in and say hello, and being the good shamus that I am, I overhear ‘Pinkerton’ and ‘Dies Committee’ and my natural curiosity is aroused. Don’t quote me, but that’s a goddamn unholy combination. What are you up to?”

She rubbed the back of her neck. “Nothing I can talk about.”

The detective raised his eyebrows. Took a long drag on the stick and scratched his cheek.

“I’ve pulled a few of those myself. Got too old and the wife got too scared. It’s why I’m here, man Friday for lost dogs and divorce cases.”

She lifted her face to his. He shook his head.

“Just watch yourself and your back, because you can’t win. You think maybe you can, at first, you come in with ideals and believe the recruiting posters and the man who gives you the orders. But you can’t win. If you’re real damn lucky, you’ll break even. They change the rules on you, kid … sometimes in the middle of the game.”

Miranda plucked out two Butter Rum Life Savers from the roll on the desk and offered the tube to Allen. He waved at it dismissively.

“Been eatin’ lemon drops all damn day.”

She picked up the pencil and rolled it between her fingers.

“I appreciate the advice. Nothing I hadn’t figured on. What I could really use your help with doesn’t affect anybody else but me.”

He bent forward, tapping ash into the tray. “You’re the reason I’m here, kiddo.”

Miranda glanced at the wall clock. Ten minutes to three. Wondered what the hell had happened to Rick.

“I’ve got a car outside waiting for me. I’d like to tell you the story later.”

The Pinkerton stood up, grinning. “As good a brush-off as I’ve heard.”