The Art of Detection

by Laurie R. King

  Still she hesitated, before explaining, ‘I think he may be a soldier.’ The shrug of shoulders was eloquent.

  ‘Ah. Yes, that would create difficulties. A person such as myself, however, might gain access where you would be rebuffed.’

  ‘Impossible. If he is, and if his commanding officer got wind of where he spends his free time, he’d be in the brig before you could snap your fingers.’

  ‘My dear Miss Birdsong, kindly give me a modicum of credit. In a long and mis-spent life, I have at least learnt how to ask questions that lead nowhere.’

  ‘I couldn’t take the chance.’

  ‘You and your friend were, I take it, seen together in public?’

  ‘Occasionally.’

  ‘That alone is more of a risk than any queries I might make.’

  I have been told that my manner with the fairer sex, although far from intimate, can be remarkably comforting. So it proved with this artificial female. Our meal arrived, and as she ate, the singer spoke about other things, keeping up a flirtatious repartee with Ledbetter, but all the time her eyes kept coming back to my face, trying to decipher what lay there.

  Finally, when the plates had been cleared and I had settled the cheque, she studied me, then seemed to come to a decision, laying her pretty hand on my sleeve.

  ‘If you do anything to give him away, you will destroy the life of a fine man.’

  ‘Miss Birdsong, you have my word: If his superiors discover his secret, it will not be through me.’

  ‘I don’t know why I’m trusting you with this. I shouldn’t. But I do. His name is Jack Raynor.

  ‘I met him a little more than a month ago, my second night back at the Tiger. I’d only been home from Europe a few days, but the travel expenses for that trip were monstrous, so I came right along to work. He sent a bottle of bubbly to my dressing room after the second show, along with an enormous armful of pink roses and a note saying how much he’d enjoyed the show. I invited him back, along with about twenty others, and thanked him politely, and by the time the crowd thinned out he was gone.

  ‘But the next night he was there again, with the champagne and the roses--yellow this time. I had him back, told him to wait until the others had left, and then we went for dinner. He was a very sweet, well-spoken boy. No--a man. Quiet but very self-assured.’

  ‘He did not wear a uniform to the club?’

  ‘Heavens no!’

  ‘Yet you thought soldier rather than sailor.’ The San Francisco Bay was home to both Army and Navy personnel.

  ‘Yes. I’m not sure why. Perhaps it was the hair-cut and the straight back. Those generally say soldier, don’t they?’

  There might be a score of more definitive indicators, I reflected, but a singer in a port city such as this would have encountered enough of both varieties of military personnel to render an immediate impulse relatively trustworthy.

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘In his early thirties, perhaps. He’d spent time in the tropics, and had that kind of baked look to his skin that makes it hard to tell. And I think, too, that he’d been sick. Not now, but not so long ago--his skin was a little sallow, and he spoke once about fevers.’

  ‘But you think he was still actively in the services, rather than an ex-soldier?’ A man in his early thirties would have been in his middle twenties during the War, and could easily have left the service since then.

  ‘I really don’t know. Does it matter?’

  ‘All detail matters.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she said doubtfully.

  ‘What about his history? Is he from San Francisco? Did you ever meet any of his friends?’

  ‘He wasn’t from here, no. I got the impression that he hadn’t been in the city very long.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘He had that kind of new-kid interest in the place, kept coming up with items of local interest that tickled him. He especially liked our sizeable collection of dotty characters--he got a kick out of Emperor Norton, I remember. Have you heard about him? One of our local eccentrics of the last century, who got involved in some shady deal, lost everything including his mind, and then went around telling everyone he was the Emperor of California and making sweeping commands and pronouncements. Another eccentric he liked was Charley Pankhurst, a stage-coach driver down near Watsonville. “Mountain Charley” owned an inn, voted in elections, had a lot of friends in the area--only when Charley died, they discovered he was a woman. Yes, the San Francisco area has its fair share of characters.’

  ‘I see,’ I told her, taking care to keep my voice even, lest she think I might be so bold as to include her among the eccentrics. ‘What about Raynor’s friends?’

  ‘I never met any, and I don’t even know--well now, wait just a tick. He did one time let slip that he had a friend who talked about music and books. Oh dear, I’m so bad with names. Joe? Gary? I’m sorry, it was just in passing. And there was a night, we were leaving the club to walk back to my apartment, and he spotted someone he knew. That fellow was even more of a soldier than Jack--he might as well have been marching on the parade ground. You know, heels down, shoulders back?’

  ‘Did you speak with this man?’

  ‘Oh no, Jack steered me away from him right quick.’

  ‘Pity.’ It sounded more and more as if the man Raynor was indeed on active duty, if he was so chary of meeting a fellow soldier while in the company of Billy Birdsong.

  ‘To return to his presence at the Blue Tiger--You saw him there with some regularity?’

  ‘After that first time, he would show up three, four, sometimes five times a week. After the third night I invited him home, and…well, he turned out to be a real sweetheart.’

  ‘Quite. And when was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘Five nights ago. When he left, Friday just before dawn, he said, “See you tomorrow”, meaning Saturday. But he didn’t show up, and I haven’t seen him since.’

  ‘Could he not simply have been taken away by unexpected responsibilities?’

  ‘Well, he had something to do Friday night, but once before when we’d had a date and he couldn’t make it, he sent me a note--a post-card, sent to my home, an innocent message but just something to let me know he wouldn’t be there. Something like, “Tell your Aunt Tillie she’ll have to see the sights without me, hope to get there tomorrow.” That’s when he told me about the fevers--he’d been too sick to come.’

  ‘But this time you’ve had no post-card.’

  ‘Not a word.’

  ‘Very well, I shall see what I can find out about your friend. Is there anything else he said that would indicate his employment, interests, habits?’

  ‘Well, he didn’t like to talk about his work at all. We talked mostly about music, and art, and Europe. Not about what he did during the days. He liked to chat about imaginary things, and what he’d like to do with his life. He’d pose a question, and we’d both talk about that. Things like, if you were a painter, who would you be? Or, where would you live if you didn’t have to work? And, what one thing would make you give up everything else?’

  ‘What did he say to that last?’

  ‘Love, of course. We both agreed that love was better than anything.’

  I shook off this claptrap of a sidetrack. ‘If he was a soldier, you would say that he was an officer?’

  ‘I assumed he was. He was educated and well-spoken and he had no shortage of spending money. I don’t know for certain. Stranger things have happened.’

  ‘They have indeed,’ I agreed. Just the previous year I had worked on a case involving a baronet who changed his name in order to enlist as a common soldier, with harsh consequences. ‘Can you give me a description of Mr Raynor?’

  ‘I have a photograph, if you’d like to see it.’

  That gave me pause: If he had granted her a photograph, it indicated more than a casual fling.

  ‘Yes, I would like to see it.’

  She opened the clasp of her bag and took out a sm
all cabinet photograph some four inches tall and three wide, popping open the lock and holding the resulting silver clamshell out on her palm. I took it from her, and saw a fit young man in his early thirties, pale of hair and eye. He was clean shaven, easy to look upon, and faced the camera with a tilt of the head that could have been confidence, or a trace of defiance. Still, the lines gathering at the corners of his eyes suggested an easy good humour; at the same time, the inward set of his lips told of secrets unspoken.

  ‘His eyes are blue?’ I asked.

  ‘Blue as lapis lazuli,’ the singer answered. ‘He’s more tan than he appears in the photograph, although in certain lights he appears a little sallow-looking. And you can’t tell from the portrait, but he’s about as tall as you, though heavier around the shoulders. He has a scar about an inch and a half long just above his left jaw-bone, which you can’t see there. And I don’t know if it matters, but he has a little mole the shape of a kite on his back just above the belt-line.’

  I handed her back the portrait; she tucked it away with care. ‘And can you give me a more specific idea of the days and times he came to the club?’

  ‘To be absolutely certain I’d have to look at my diary. But I do know that in the early days he would only be at my first set, then half-way through the second he’d stand up, give me a wave, and race away like Cinderella from the ball.’

  ‘You mean he left at midnight?’

  ‘Not as early as that, but pretty much like clockwork at, oh, say one o’clock.’

  ‘Those were the early days. And later on?’

  ‘After the first week or so, when I got to know him better, we’d meet in the afternoon before I had to come here, and have a little early supper. And later still, Jack began to stay for both sets, have some dinner afterwards, and take me home. Sometimes he even sleeps for a little while before waking up at around four-thirty to leave.’

  ‘But there have been some days he didn’t have to leave early,’ I said, and when she nodded in agreement, I asked which nights those might have been.

  Her pretty brow wrinkled in thought, creating lines that confirmed my suspicion of her true age: a good seven or eight years older than her missing friend.

  ‘Mostly he’s free weekends, so sometimes he’s with me from Friday afternoon until Sunday night. It’s really lovely to have all day Sunday together. Jack likes to go to church, then maybe out to the beach or take the ferry across the Bay. Once we took the trolley out to see how that new museum is coming along, the one out near the ocean, and afterwards we went down to ride the Ferris wheel, then had dinner at the Cliff House. He’s very knowledgeable about art, isn’t as well versed in music, likes good food but hasn’t a clue about wine. He’s a confident dancer, he has a lively sense of the ridiculous, lovely manners, and an eye for clothes. He’s…I’d have to call him a gentleman.’

  ‘I see. Well, when you have your diary to hand, I would appreciate a more exact reckoning of his times in the city.’

  ‘I’ll do it as soon as I get home.’

  ‘Tomorrow will suffice. Send it to me at the St Francis, if you would.’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Now, when he leaves you in the mornings, have you happened to see which way he goes?’

  ‘Early on, he’d walk straight down towards Van Ness. You know, east of my place. Now, though, he goes just one block in that direction and then turns left.’

  ‘That would be going north?’ She agreed, and I reflected that habitually rising at four-thirty in the morning to watch one’s friend depart indicated a high degree of affection.

  ‘One last thing. Your necklace. How long have you had it?’

  The singer’s hand went to the luminous gem nestled at her throat. ‘He gave it to me eight days ago. Our three-week anniversary, he said. He brought the pearl from the South Pacific himself, and had it made up.’

  ‘I should like to borrow it, if I may.’

  The singer’s fingers tightened protectively. ‘Why?’

  ‘That necklace appears to be the only piece of evidence Raynor has left behind.’

  ‘How do I know this isn’t some elaborate con, you disappearing with my pearl as soon as my back is turned?’ She nobly refrained from glancing at the third party at our table.

  ‘It would be an elaborate con, indeed,’ I remarked, but had to agree that she deserved some concrete reassurance. I started to pull my note-case from my pocket, by way of surety, then stopped; there was something more appropriate than mere money. If, that is, I trusted the singer with it.

  With some reluctance, I removed the emerald stick-pin from my neck-tie and held it out. ‘This was given me by a lady I held in the highest esteem. I would have given my life for her, and this was a token of her thanks for a service rendered. As ransoms go, this may be the possession I hold most dear.’

  The thing glittered on the palm of my hand. In a moment, the pearl on the chain spilt onto my palm beside it; then the pearl lay there alone, while the stick-pin was fastened onto the bodice of the singer’s dress.

  I took my leave of guide and chanteuse, and walked through streets that seemed to shimmer with a contralto voice, like the fading image of sudden brightness on the eye.

  The next morning, I went in search of the silversmith who had made the pearl necklace. I began on Market Street, at the large emporium called Samuel’s--not that I thought they had produced it, as a glance showed me that most of what Samuel’s carried was manufactured elsewhere, but I hoped that they could recommend a direction for me to set my enquiries. As indeed they did. Mr Samuel himself, once I produced the name of a mutual acquaintance, proved highly knowledgeable about his competitors in the trade, and willingly suggested the sort of silversmiths who might have made the setting for the pearl. I found my man at the third such establishment, a bijou house of treasures situated just two streets from the hotel.

  The sleek but friendly young woman who greeted me took one surprised look at the article in my hand, settled me in a chair, and retreated to the back of the store, returning with her employer.

  ‘This is Mr Minovski,’ she told me. ‘He can answer any questions you have about your necklace.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said the gentleman in question, a wizened fellow with a full head of pure white hair, the characteristic stoop of the jeweller or watch-maker, and the identifying stains, scars, and calluses of the trade on his fingers. ‘What has happened to this little beauty? Surely my chain has not parted?’ He poured it from his palm onto a square of black velvet, bending over with his loupe adjusted for examination.

  ‘No, nothing of the sort,’ I reassured him. ‘I merely borrowed it from its owner, who has asked me to locate the young man who gave it to her.’

  The jeweller fixed me with an attentive eye. ‘The boy’s gone missing?’

  ‘Shall we say, he did not appear where he was expected to be. And it seemed to me that anyone presenting a lady with such a gift as this was not a mere casual acquaintance.’

  ‘Indeed no. He brought me the pearl, asked me to design a setting worthy of it, and offered half again my price if he could have it in half the time.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Annabeth, my dear, could you please look up the date for this kind gentleman? Lovely piece, this, I was quite happy with it. So was he, for that matter. Ah yes, here, it was two weeks ago, on the Thursday. I took a liking to the lad, and set aside one or two other commissions in order to give it to him in the time he asked. He picked it up on the Monday.’

  And gave it to Billy that night. ‘Did he leave a manner of getting into touch with him?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. Do you have anything there in the order book, Annabeth?’

  ‘No, Mr Minovski, he didn’t leave an address or telephone number. You remember, he said he was staying with friends and it would spoil the surprise if they found out? That was why he paid for it entirely when he ordered the work.’

  ‘Did he say anything else, about the pearl perhaps, or what he was doi
ng in San Francisco?’

  I had asked the question in general; Minovski answered. ‘Oh yes. I specifically asked about the pearl, since it’s such a beauty, and he said it came from Manila, or in any case, that’s where he bought it. He bought several, thinking to have them made into necklaces for his sisters, but he particularly liked the colour and lustre of this one. I asked him, purely from professional interest, how much he had paid for it, and although it had seemed to him quite a price, I assured him that he could make his cost back several times over if he cared to sell it here and now, it or some of the others he’d bought.

  ‘He laughed and said that the others were nothing near as special as this one, but that he’d keep it in mind if he found himself in need of cash. Mostly he was interested in a setting that would flatter the pearl, and decided on an old-fashioned, almost Baroque sort of work, heavy and ornate by comparison with modern tastes. You have to admit, it’s a splendid piece.’

  ‘It is indeed.’ More than that, it was a splendid mystery, who this gentleman was that had paid a year’s salary for a soldier for a singer’s token. I began to take my leave of the jeweller, when his next words froze my hand with the hat half-way to my head.

  ‘The young man seemed to think so, as well, since he went on to make enquiries concerning a pair of rings.’

  ‘A pair?’ I said sharply. ‘Wedding rings?’

  ‘He did not use the phrase, but when a man looks at designs for two matching bands, one makes assumptions.’

  I lowered the hat and sat for a time in thought. It was, I supposed, on the edge of possible that Raynor would be contemplating a pair of friendship rings to be shared with the singer. However, the stronger, and considerably darker, possibility was that the wedding bands were precisely that. After all, a man in Raynor’s situation--a ‘gentleman’ in his early thirties, with means, position, and apparently from a good family--might well be considering marriage, a conventional relationship with an unexceptional and appropriate mate. Indeed, the fling with Billy Birdsong might be just that, a final dance of Bohemian youth in San Francisco before the sombre establishment of a marriage elsewhere: That he had failed to tell her anything of his life pointed in that direction. The pearl necklace could well have been intended as a thank-you, and a wordless farewell, four days before he left the city.