The Art of Detection (31 page)

     As dawn approached, this area of the water-front had become a hive of activity. Italian was the language of choice among San Francisco’s fishing fleet, and the boats were built and rigged along a more or less Mediterranean pattern. However, as we stood and studied the bustle, I noticed that in the less desirable corners of the mooring areas were one or two boats with a touch of exoticism to their lines and sails. I was not surprised to see that the men moving about on the decks were similarly alien. I turned to Ledbetter, half dozing as he leant against a wall.

     ‘I want you to put on the hat, button up your overcoat, and walk along the wharf to where that blue boat is just putting out. When you get there, take a dollar bill out of your pocket and hold it high in the air. Just stand there with it raised until I tell you otherwise.’

     ‘Er,’ he began.

     ‘You haven’t a dollar,’ I said for him, and reached for my note-case.

     I remained in the shadows, watching the reaction to Ledbetter’s movements. Most of the fishermen were too busy to pay him any attention; one of two glanced at him curiously, and kept glancing, attracted by the money in his hand. But as I had thought, once the furthest boats noticed his figure, the entire crew of one of the alien boats stood and stared. After a minute, I saw a figure slip from the boat onto the dock and trot in Ledbetter’s direction, only to slow, pause, and, after much peering and hesitation, retreat.

     I quickly left my post and gathered up my young assistant, hurrying him along lest the boat leave its moorage before we could speak with the captain.

     ‘Can I take off this damned hat now?’ Ledbetter panted behind me.

     ‘We are finished with it,’ I answered, and heard a faint plop as it landed in the water.

     When we were within speaking distance of the boat, which was rapidly casting off to depart, I said loudly, ‘We are nothing to do with the police. I will pay you for the answer to a question.’

     The crew continued its rapid movements, but one figure stopped to listen. I came to a halt at the edge of the boards and called, ‘Please, I will pay. I just need to ask about the man who had you take him across the Bay in the mornings.’

     The boat drifted farther away, but then the man spoke some words over his shoulder and the vessel’s outward progress slowed. After a moment, the anchor went down, and the man climbed into the small boat to row himself back within talking distance. He stopped twenty feet away, his oars playing in the water to keep him in his place. I squatted down onto my heels.

     ‘What you want know?’ he asked.

     ‘About three weeks ago, a young man with light hair made an arrangement with you to carry him across the Bay several mornings a week.’

     The fisherman did not answer, but neither did he deny it. I went on.

     ‘Where did you take him?’

     All I needed, in fact, was mere confirmation, but the question would do as well as any other.

     He studied me, looked more closely at my companion, then grunted, ‘Fo’t Barry. He go Barry dock, near lighthouse.’

     ‘Why did he come to you rather than ask one of the Italians?’

     The man shrugged. ‘He speak some Chinee. Live in Manila, know Chinee there. Mebbee like Chinee. Who know?’

     ‘Who indeed,’ I agreed. ‘Thank you, I hope I have not unduly delayed your day’s work.’ I looked around and spotted an empty tin that, according to the label, had once held pineapple. I pushed a five-dollar bill into it, stepped on its open end to secure the money, and tossed it under-hand into the skiff at the man’s feet. He nodded, then pulled at the oars, taking himself back to his boat.

     With age, a man’s bones become weary, and stiffen with a night’s fog; I will admit that I regretted the lack of taxi ranks in this part of town, and that I was relieved beyond all proportion when Ledbetter spotted a cab driving in the direction of the Ferry Building, and whistled it to a stop.

     I had not paused to reflect how very long my day had been until I was walking down the corridor to my room minutes later. My overcoat felt as if it were lined with lead, and my fingers fumbled with key, then buttons, and finally laces. Then when I sat down on my piled clothing to remove my shoes, I heard the rustle of paper beneath me. I pulled my coat from the pile and felt for its inner pocket, then sat upon the edge of the bed to look yet again at the second item I had removed from the dead man’s person.

     Ten hours later, I woke half-dressed, inadequately blanketed, and with the letter still in my hand. An hour after that, bathed, shaved, and fed, I took up the envelope, which was addressed to ‘Joseph Raynor’ at a post office box, and slid out the letter. It bore the imprint of a law office in Los Angeles, dated the week before Raynor was last seen, and read:

Dear Sir:

     I received your letter, and the payment, which as you noted, serves to assure me that this is no stunt. You will understand, I think, that working in proximity to the area’s growing moving-picture industry, we are well used to stunts.

     However, taking your inquiry as a serious one, I would have to agree that, setting aside for the moment the question of criminal charges, the solidity of the contract would appear to depend heavily on sympathetic and close-mouthed servants and, in the event of ill health, a doctor of similar characteristics. I cannot tell you what the status is in foreign parts, although I can direct you to colleagues if you wish.

     I do not, however, believe it possible to avoid a lawsuit entirely. It is true, as you suggest, that personal possessions can legally be left to whomever one wishes, be it man, woman, or four-legged creature. Family inheritances would be a different matter, and if it came before a court, might well create an enormous string of legal difficulties. Speaking personally, I would relish tackling such a matter, but I can certainly understand that the person or persons involved in such an inevitably drawn-out court battle would do much to avoid it.

     Please let me know if you would like my help in making the arrangements you mentioned in your letter. However, I would urge you to come and talk to me first about the potential for prosecution this course of action could conceivably open you up to, with permanent effects on your future.

Yours,
Samuel Kapinsky

     I went downstairs to compose a wire to Mr Kapinsky, then deposited the letter in the hotel’s safe, and made ready for a third crossing of San Francisco’s Golden Gate.

     I presented myself to the major’s office, as arranged, at three o’clock in the afternoon. As I had feared, his superior had laid ham-fisted claim to the investigation; as I had hoped, Morris was not happy about it.

     ‘Don’t know why we have to turn it over to him,’ he grumbled when first I appeared. ‘I was doing perfectly well.’

     ‘Disruptive, eh?’ I asked in sympathy.

     ‘Exactly! Disruptive, that’s the very word. Man thinks I should bring the whole day’s schedule to a halt so he can talk to everyone on the post. Idiot.’

     ‘I don’t suppose I could be of service?’ I suggested. ‘Just to move him in the right direction and help him solve the case more quickly?’

     ‘You’d do that?’ Clearly, Captain Sigerson’s long-ago and fictional experiences weighed more with the major than any so-called superior’s qualifications. I hastened to agree with him.

     ‘Certainly. I owe it to the family to conclude this sad business as soon as possible.’ To say nothing of owing it to myself to finish here before one of the bereaved family could arrive and tell the major that they had not sent any lawyer.

     ‘Very well,’ Morris declared. ‘See what you can do. I’ll give you an officer to help you, what about--’

     ‘What about that young corporal you left with me yesterday?’ I suggested smoothly. ‘Seems a sensible lad.’

     ‘But Lieutenant Halston is free today while they’re clearing up the shooting range. He knew Raynor, might be able to answer some questions.’

     The last thing I wanted was a friend of the dead officer. ‘All I need is a man in a uniform, so as not to be continually stopped for an explanation,’ I assured Morris. ‘Corporal Larsen will be fine. If he can be spared.’

     He did not bother to respond to the preposterous notion that a corporal might be urgently needed elsewhere, merely raised his voice to call, ‘Baxter!’ The door opened and the adjutant looked in. ‘Get Corporal Larsen. He’s to be seconded to this gentleman until further notice, on or off the base.’

     Baxter saluted and closed the door. Before the major could move on to the next item on his calendar, I asked him what he’d thought of his dead lieutenant.

     ‘What do you mean, what did I think of him? He was a competent officer, but like I told you, he hadn’t been here long enough to get to know him.’

     ‘Do you think he looked upon the Army as a permanent career?’ I asked.

     At that, he sat back in his chair. ‘You know, when he first got here I’d have said yes, even though he was about as sickly as I’ve seen a man. But later on, I don’t know. His heart seemed to go out of it. Maybe just the malaria; fever does wear a man down after a while.’

     ‘You sound as though you would have been disappointed, had he left the services.’

     ‘I thought he had the makings of a first-class officer. Not just an everyday officer, and he’d have been wasted in peace-time, but given another war, Raynor could have made a hell of a name for himself. Had that kind of quirky way of looking at things that all the great commanders of history have had. The ability to rewrite the rules of warfare, if you follow me. ’Course, as I say, in peace-time that could make for terrible problems. Sort of like your own country’s Major Lawrence. If he’d spent his career drilling the ranks, he’d have ended up drinking himself to death, or putting a gun in his mouth. Instead, he goes out into the desert and finds the Arabs, and takes off like a rocket. That was Raynor all over. All he needed was a good war.’

     It was an unexpected insight, revealing and perceptive. I did not tell the major that the peace-time ranks were precisely where Lawrence had put himself, for indeed, I thought Morris was right about the man. Morris’s judgement, nonetheless, added another piece to my understanding of Jack Raynor: Idiosyncratic military minds also have a tendency to make bitter enemies.

     I thanked the major and left him to his paperwork, and in a very few minutes, Larsen came pounding up at double-time, red of face and as alarmed as one might expect at a summons to the commanding officer. He looked greatly relieved when he received his orders, but also puzzled, not understanding quite what my position here was.

     ‘Larsen,’ I explained, ‘the major wants you and me to try and solve Raynor’s murder before the police can.’

     That, he understood.

     The major’s key and his relayed command to the soldier standing guard over Raynor’s quarters opened the door. Before we could walk through it, a door down the corridor opened and a young officer with black hair and hazel eyes looked out, the slippers on his feet and a slim book in his left hand indicating that we had disturbed his rest. He propped the hand with the book against the door frame as he leant out, the three fingers draped across the volume’s cloth cover showing the scars and embedded gravel of an old injury. He looked at the three of us curiously.

     ‘What’s up?’ he asked, his question directed, I thought, at the guard.

     ‘Orders from Major Morris, sir. This gentleman’s the Raynor family lawyer.’

     The brown head nodded and his door closed as he went back to his reading. I appreciated this confirmation of the major’s efficiency: Clearly, the guard had been a continuous presence here.

     Once inside, Corporal Larsen stood with his back to the door, looking around him uneasily.