The Chocolate Falcon Fraud (10 page)

Any real mystery reader or film noir fan would know about
La Paloma
.

“How clever!” I said. “I wasn't expecting a yacht right out of the movie!”

Then, since Aunt Nettie had never read the book or seen the movie, I had to explain that
La Paloma
was the name of a ship in
The Maltese Falcon.

“Interesting,” she said. “I would have guessed it was named after the famous song, but the
La Paloma
yacht certainly fits right in with the festival.”

“Except that the
La Paloma
in the book is a freighter. And it's not ‘the
La Paloma
,'” I said. “I just reread the book, and in it Sam Spade explains why ‘the
La Paloma
' is incorrect. ‘La' means ‘the' in Italian, so you don't need both words. ‘The
La Paloma
' would mean ‘the the dove.' So don't tell me that reading mysteries isn't educational!”

Aunt Nettie smiled. “Whatever they call it, it's nice to have an elegant boat here for the festival. I wonder who found it and invited them.”

“I understand the owner is an expert on Dashiell Hammett. Mary Kay found him.”

“Mary Kay McCurley? Is she chair again?”

“I think Warner Pier would have to give up the film festival without her.”

We joined the crowd under the party tent, and Aunt Nettie spotted a chair. She led me and my crutch to it, then immediately turned to talk with someone. She rarely left the shop, but knew everybody in Warner Pier; I hadn't figured out how she did it. I guessed it was because all the chocolate lovers in town hung out at TenHuis Chocolade, and who isn't a chocolate lover?

To my surprise, Joe showed up at my elbow. “You must have been on the way here when I called,” I said.

He nodded. “I heard your message. I'm surprised you're not at the hospital.”

“Tess is planning to stay there all evening, and I'll go in as soon as I leave here. But this afternoon Aunt Nettie and I spent a couple of hours trying to figure out where Jeff was before he came to our house. We found out something interesting, but I don't want to tell you about it in this crowd.”

Joe nodded. “Later, then. How about a glass of wine? White?”

“Sure. But I imagine you want to get a gander at the yacht. I don't want to hold you up.”

“Do you want to take the tour?”

“I'm afraid the crutch might be a problem. Dr. Jenkins is a boater, and I don't want him to catch me walking on this ankle.”

“We can probably get you into a boat and over there. You might not want to climb every companionway, but I'm sure they have a good place for you to sit. I'll find out how to get us on
the list. We all have to take turns because everybody wants to see the yacht.”

Joe headed for the bar, and I scanned the crowd. Still no sign of Hogan. But I did see Mary Kay, so I beckoned to her. One thing about using a crutch is that people wait on you. She came right over, gave me an air kiss, and pulled up a chair. “Hi, Lee.”

“Mary Kay, how'd you line up
La Paloma
? And this speaker who's such an expert?”

Mary Kay was an important part of the Warner Pier arts crowd. Creatively she was a weaver, and her studio was full of wall hangings, scarves, and place mats. Personally she kept her hair touched up and worked out, so she was definitely buff. Financially, like many artists, Mary Kay relied on a day job to keep the bills paid. She was assistant manager of our local branch bank, and for this party she was wearing her bank uniform: khaki slacks and a dark blue polo shirt with a logo on the pocket.

“The yacht is the perfect gimmick!” I said.

Mary Kay grinned. “I guess I should preen at the appearance of
La Paloma
, but I had nothing to do with it. The boat and its owner just showed up. He called me a couple of weeks ago, said he was a
Maltese Falcon
hobbyist, sent pictures of the yacht, and offered to take part. I checked into it and found out that he's spoken at a lot of noir conferences.”

“Did you have to promise not to burn the boat up, the way they do in the book and the film?”

“No arson allowed! We don't have to be
that
authentic.”

We both laughed, and I asked another question. “Mary Kay, is there a vendor named Valk signed up for the festival?”

“Valk? I don't think so.”

At that point Mary Kay jumped up to glad-hand someone else. As I turned away from her, I saw Aunt Nettie. Hogan had joined her, and she was excitedly talking to him, probably describing our discovery of Valk Souvenirs. I hoped no one overheard her. Almost immediately someone interrupted her, and I could see Hogan mouth, “Later” to her.

It's hard to see what's going on at a party when you're sitting in a chair, but I kept scanning the room. Lots of the participants had gotten into the spirit of “Tough Guys and Private Eyes.” There were at least a dozen fedoras, and I saw a sprinkling of double-breasted suits, vests, slinky dresses from the 1930s, and plenty of pinstripes. I saw Noel Kayro in animated conversation with someone, looking more period than ever. His wide-brimmed hat was worn tilted to one side.

Then the crowd parted, and I saw the most stunning sight of all. It appeared to be Sydney Greenstreet, in the flesh. And any noir fan knows that Sydney Greenstreet had a lot of flesh.

Greenstreet was the great character actor who portrayed Kasper Gutman, one of the main characters in the best-known film version of
The Maltese Falcon.
His large size and his suave aura were perfect for the role.

The man I saw across the room was both tall and large. He even had the thin white hair that Sydney Greenstreet had. He was dressed in 1930s yachting clothes—a blue blazer and white slacks. His shoes were white as well, and they weren't modern canvas boating shoes. They were white leather oxfords, again straight out of the 1930s.

I was sure I had never seen him before. I couldn't forget a person that distinctive. So I was surprised when he looked at me
directly, and his face lit up. He waddled toward me, smiling. He was acting as if we were old pals.

I racked my brain, but I still couldn't remember ever meeting such a person. But when he arrived in front of me, it was impossible to ignore his outstretched hand.

“Mrs. Woodyard,” he said in an insinuating voice. “My inspiration.”

I nearly yanked my hand away. What did he mean? “Have we met?” I asked.

“Not in person. But we've spoken.” He gave a little bow. “I am Abel Grossman.”

A memory began to stir, but it didn't exactly bubble to the surface. I must still have looked blank, because the man spoke again.

“You kindly put me in contact with the mold maker who provided me with the wonderful souvenirs for this wonderful occasion.”

He reached into an inner pocket and produced a small object hanging from a chain. He handed it to me, and I saw that it was a miniature version of the famous figurine in
The Maltese Falcon.
It was made of black plastic, and it had rhinestone eyes. It was about an inch high.

“Please accept this small token of my appreciation,” he said.

I took the necklace. “Memory finally stirs! You called about having the molds made. And our chocolate mold maker wouldn't help you.”

“No, but he referred me to a more suitable company. So ultimately you were responsible for the falcon molds.”

I looked the little black bird over. “This is lovely.”

“I appreciated your referral.”

“It was no trouble. All I had to do was reach for my Rolodex.” I held the small falcon up. “This is a great souvenir.”

I extended it back toward him, but he shook his head. “It's for you. I plan to give them away, and I'd like you to have the first one.”

“Thank you! And it won't melt the way our chocolate version will. I only wish I had a chocolate one to give you in exchange. I'll make sure that you get several tomorrow.”

Joe came back then, and I introduced him to Grossman. We all chatted politely, and I asked Grossman how he had known who I was, since we had never met. Mary Kay McCurley had told him I was using a crutch, he said.

Grossman told us he was from New York State and kept his yacht on Lake Erie, not too far from Buffalo. We made polite remarks about how far he'd come for the film festival. Grossman in turn told us his crew had brought the boat through Lakes Erie and Huron, then along most of Lake Michigan to reach Warner Pier. He himself had flown here, he said.

“You are a real hobbyist,” I said.
With a fortune to spend on your hobby,
I thought.

“I'm not a hobbyist at all,” Grossman replied. “The black bird is my lifework.”

If that remark left me looking as amazed as Joe did, my lower jaw must have been resting on my bosom.
The Maltese Falcon
book and film are works of art, true, but how could they be a “lifework”?

Joe took a guess at an explanation. “Are you a researcher?” he asked.

“Ah yes,” Grossman said. I'd already noticed that he was using the somewhat affected manner of speaking that Sydney
Greenstreet used in the motion picture. “I am a researcher. And a collector. Also a speaker and a writer on the topic of Hammett's great novel.”

He gestured toward the river. “I hope both of you are coming out to
La Paloma
for my announcement.”

“Announcement?” Joe sounded wary.

Grossman shook a finger. “Oh yes. This festival is the beginning for a new project for me. I'd like you both to be present when I announce it.”

Mary Kay appeared at his elbow, and Grossman moved away.

“Well, Joe,” I said, “do you think you can get me into a rowboat and onto that yacht—without a hoist? I'm not a lightweight.”

“Tony is here. He'll help lift.”

Tony Herrera was an old friend of Joe's, and, yes, he was strong and agile. So we put our empty wineglasses on the table and moved to the dock, where people were lining up for yacht tours. Tony joined us, and he and Joe were able to lower me into the small boat without dropping me overboard. The man at the oars assured us he and Joe could help me out at the other end of the trip. And inside of five minutes I was settled in the main lounge of
La Paloma
and had accepted a new glass of white wine from a steward in a white jacket.

The yacht was beautiful, and I wasn't surprised to see that it had 1930s decor. Its design was stark, with cantilevered stairways—boat people call them “companionways”—connecting the three deck levels. The dominant color scheme was white for draperies and furniture, with bright-colored cushions. There were a lot of chrome accents. Of course, in the film
La Paloma
is a freighter. I couldn't see that the yacht had any direct connection with
The Maltese Falcon
, but it was beautiful in its own way. Which was not my way, but it was worth seeing.

Joe toured the whole yacht, paying special attention to the mechanical aspect, the way a boat lover should. Most of the boat fanatics hovered on the “flying bridge,” an extra open-air bridge that is on the highest point of the vessel. I always kidded Joe that it was there so that the captain could run the boat and join the party at the same time. Which was okay when the boat was anchored in a river, as
La Paloma
was that evening.

After thirty minutes or so, Joe came back, sat beside me, and gave an enthusiastic report on the yacht's amenities and modern technical equipment. He'd met the captain, and was obviously impressed with the man's knowledge of his craft in two senses of the word—both his nautical skills and the particular boat he was in charge of.

The man knew his job, Joe said, and also had every detail of
La Paloma
's abilities and equipment stored in his brain. The only thing Joe had missed about him, it seemed, was his name.

“I just called him ‘captain,'” he said.

By that time, I noted, most of the film festival committee was present. Mary Kay McCurley took a seat near us.

She didn't look entirely happy. “I wish I knew what's going on,” she said. “Grossman says he has an announcement.”

“He told us that, too, but he didn't explain.”

Mary Kay shrugged. “He didn't tell me either. But I doubt it's about the film festival. And that's my big deal right at the moment.”

Sure enough, in a few minutes Grossman took his place at the top of the companionway between the lower deck and the
next one up. He leaned on the banister and some shrimpy guy who looked a lot like Wilmer, another of the characters in
The Maltese Falcon
film, rang a gong to attract the group's attention. About fifty people were now present, and we all looked at Grossman.

Grossman formally welcomed everyone to his yacht and assured us that the bar would continue to be open indefinitely.