The Art of Detection

by Laurie R. King

  I raised my eyes, then looked past him at the nighttime street. ‘I believe,’ I said slowly, ‘that I need to find a male prostitute.’

  His dropped jaw said that I had succeeded in amazing him, yet again.

  ELEVEN

  Martin Ledbetter was only somewhat reassured when he found that it was a specific prostitute I sought, and not for any carnal purposes. ‘Er, you don’t know who he is?’

  ‘I know a possible nom de nuit, if that be the proper phrase, and I know more or less where he plies his trade. I am relying on you, Mr Ledbetter, to lead me to him.’

  As we made our way in the direction of the sighting, I explained the situation: acquaintance of Jack Raynor seen with a person who might be a failed dancer with trans-vestite proclivities, where seen, accompanying whom.

  ‘And you think I know him?’

  ‘I should doubt it, as your circle is somewhat more exalted than his. However, you may know the sorts of places someone of that sort would ply his trade. A street-corner, do you think, or inside an establishment?’

  ‘Did his, er, client know he was a trans-vestite?’ Ledbetter asked.

  ‘That,’ I told him, ‘is indeed the question.’

  It was now close to three o’clock in the morning, and I had my doubts that we would find the person in question still lingering at a street-corner or inside a speakeasy. Ledbetter knew the area as well as I had thought, and one or two of the denizens claimed some degree of recognition to my description of the person we sought, but in the end, the hour was too far advanced, and the hypothesis was not to be proved that night. I should have to return on the morrow, when the working girls, and boys, are fresh.

  However, this did not mean that my work was done.

  ‘You perhaps should go home, Ledbetter,’ I suggested. ‘You look as if you could use some sleep.’

  ‘The night is young,’ he protested, although a moment before he had been stifling a yawn.

  ‘Very well, perhaps you could recommend an all-night diner, at which we might while away an hour. Preferably along the water-front.’

  He located a small building, little more than a hut with greasy windows, that nonetheless was warm and smelt pleasingly of fresh coffee and bacon. The other patrons were either early labourers on their way to work or revellers endeavouring to sober themselves for the trip home; I reflected with amusement that my companion and I fit with either category.

  The coffee and breakfast fare restored us both to a second wind, and provided a layer of insulation against the damp air when we went out of the door at a quarter to five.

  My valiant young guide paused in the doorway to get his cigarette alight, then asked, ‘Where to now?’

  ‘Fisherman’s Wharf,’ I told him absently, occupied with studying the figure he cut. ‘I say, wait here for a moment.’

  I went back inside, and within two minutes had made the necessary arrangements, returning with a hat in my hand. ‘Put this on,’ I told him. He took it with fastidious fingers, wrinkling his nose at the pomade stains that darkened its interior. Admittedly, it was not a very nice hat, but it was the only one in the diner that was neither a cloth working-man’s cap or a tall formal article such as the one I wore. All we required was the silhouette.

  He lowered it with distaste onto his slick hair; I studied the effect, and nodded. ‘You may take it off if you prefer, and save it until it is needed. Come now, dawn will be here shortly.’

  ‘Why are we going to Fisherman’s Wharf?’

  ‘We seek an informal water-taxi service.’

  ‘But the hire-boats are down closer to the Ferry Building.’

  ‘Miss Birdsong lives on the southern slopes of Pacific Heights. When Raynor left her flat in latter weeks, he was in the habit of turning due north. This would lead him directly up the hills; if he were heading for the ferry, he would turn east, as he was wont to do in earlier days, in order to avoid the steep climb. I believe that in the early days he was dependent on the ferry to take him across the Golden Gate. Later, he made other arrangements.’

  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.

  ‘Sir, what are we looking for?’

  ‘Anything the Presidio men might have overlooked,’ I told him, settling at the desk for a look at those tantalising envelopes: If Jack Raynor had a fiancée for whom he was contemplating the purchase of wedding bands, there would surely be letters.

  A less experienced investigator might assu
me that the two items Raynor had carried on his person, the Birdsong photograph and the enigmatic letter from the Los Angeles lawyer, had been in his breast pocket because he attached a high degree of emotional import to them. I knew, however, that their presence over his heart could as easily be due to any number of factors, from a recent receipt to a general disinclination to leave problematic documents where others might find them; indeed, he may even have had them with him the night he died because he planned to tear them into a thousand tiny pieces and set them free on the wind from the Pacific--such romantic notions were not unheard of, in a man in his situation. But he was, I had no doubt, genuinely fond of the singer, no matter what his plans for marriage might be; clearly, despite the lawyer’s cautiously enigmatic wording, Raynor intended to leave Birdsong something in his will in the face of potential family objections.

  Still, however problematic the signed photograph of a trans-vestite singer and a lawyer’s letter might be, there would be no reason for Raynor to conceal his love-notes from a fiancée. I expected to find them. I did not.

  Instead, the three letters in the drawer were from his mother, his brother, and his sister.

  The mother possessed what appeared to me an excessive interest in the game of whist, and furthermore assumed a similar obsession on the part of her son. Only at the very end did she add the lines, ‘I would of course adore seeing you this summer, if you decide to come home for a time, and we can talk about your plans for the future at that time. If only California wasn’t so very far away!’

  The brother’s letter addressed Jack Raynor’s summer plans with slightly more detail, all of which underscored Major Morris’s unvoiced fears about the renewal of his lieutenant’s contract with the United States Army. The brother, whose name was given as Edward, seemed most concerned with Jack’s possible desire for the summer house, which Edward hoped to use for the entire month of August.

  It was the sister’s brief note that hit the nail square:

  Dearest Jack,

  As you asked, I haven’t said anything to the family, although really I think you’re being a little silly about this. If you love this girl, then we surely will, and there’s no need to go straight back to California. You know how Mummy adores planning a party, she’s going to be so disappointed if you go to a registry office.