Sal Kalakis sat on the hood of the coupe, numbly staring at a yard full of children playing kickball as if it were their last day of freedom. His mind was racing. He was confused. He sat there for a full half-hour until the sun was down, slipping his coat on and jerking a weed from the sidewalk.
After climbing into the coupe, Sal chewed the weed as he drove to Chappy’s, a well-known dive and popular police hangout. Chappy’s served three items, and three items only: draft beer, whiskey, and peanuts. Not a week went by that a policeman wouldn’t tell Chappy about something he should add to the menu. And not a week went by that Chappy wouldn’t direct the suggesting policeman to the hand-painted sign behind the bar. The sign read: “We only serve beer, whiskey, and peanuts. You want something else, go somewhere else.”
Several detectives whooped when Sal entered the crowded bar. Nearly every patron smoked, their jackets and ties off, their sleeves rolled up. To the right of the table where Sal was headed, two standing vice detectives screamed at one another, their fists on the table, neck veins bulging like purple cables. A third vice detective, a fellow Sal knew, held the combatants apart with both arms—although his effectiveness was somewhat impeded by his own laughter. After reaching his table, Sal turned to watch the scene. Thankfully a fourth officer, a lieutenant, broke up the argument and the normal din resumed.
“What’s with them?” Sal asked Captain Yarborough.
The captain lowered his beer and wiped his upper lip. “Arguin’ over whether the Babe’s record’ll ever get broken. Ya believe that?” He chuckled. “Th’only way that’ll ever happen’s if science fiction comes true and they create some sorta injectable miracle serum.”
Chappy arrived with two draft beers, sloshing them as he slid them onto the table in his haste. Sal took a long sip before leaning back in the chair and loosening his tie. “What a day. What a flipping day.”
He had just completed a five-hour interview of Eugene Remington, the proud new owner of Hillside, General Logistics, and just about everything else Neil Reuter once owned. Remington had been busy settling into his home office, working while Sal peppered him with questions.
“So, did ya solve it?” Yarborough asked in that tone he used to pester his detectives.
Sal cut his eyes over before staring back into his beer. “Musselwhite, Reuter’s financial guy—on Reuter’s behalf—sold everything, and I mean every-damned-thing to this fella Remington.”
“So?”
“So, I checked him out. Musselwhite’s straight up and down…a clean, hard-working businessman.”
“So?”
Sal took another gulp. “And I made Remington the same way: honest, straight-forward, successful. A rich sonofabitch, yes…but a square guy. I’d wager he’s telling the truth about snapping up the Reuter empire so quickly. He got it at an incredible discount. I’d have done it, too.”
“If’n ya had money…and brains.”
Sal fake-smiled. “Cute.”
“Yer point about all this is?”
“My point is that it appears Neil Reuter liquidated his assets, all of them, so he could murder Lex Curran and disappear with a pile of dough. Sound reasonable?”
“A’course it does,” the captain answered. He tapped two Chesterfields out and handed Sal one, lighting them both with a sulfury wooden match that he lit on his thumbnail.
“And that’s it, Cap. That’s all I’ve got so far.”
Yarborough puffed the cigarette and tapped the ash into one of the empty mugs. “Why now, Sal? If Reuter knew where Curran was, why would he wait two years and do it now?”
“Maybe Curran just surfaced?”
“So instead’a killin’ him right away, Reuter puts everything on hold so he can liquidate his estate?”
Sal shook his head. “That’s the same thing I keep coming back to also. Doesn’t make sense.” He hitched his thumb toward town. “But, don’t forget, the coroner said it appeared Curran had been held against his will, with all the striations and torture marks.”
“And you believe Reuter woulda done that?”
“Hell, no. He couldn’t have waited.”
“I agree,” Yarborough answered. “That night we went up to his home, I believed him immediately when he said he wasn’t the cause’a Curran’s disappearance.”
“I remember,” Sal said, nodding.
“The man burned rage for Curran. I didn’t make him as a fella who woulda waited around when that lizard surfaced, or had the tolerance to hold him captive.”
Sal sipped his beer. “Maybe he got a read on where Curran was being held without anyone knowing it. He might have decided to do it the careful way. People change their minds, especially when the risk of jail is looming.”
“The timing about all this just doesn’t make sense,” Yarborough muttered.
Sal tapped the notebook in his pocket. “I did learn something interesting. Reuter had a visitor. It wasn’t till after that that he liquidated. And the killing, assuming he did it, happened immediately following the liquidation.”
“Who was th’ visitor?”
Sal removed the miniature notebook. He kept one solely for each case he worked, and right now this was his one and only. He flipped back to the first series of pages, from his previous day’s interview with Agnes Gentry, Reuter’s longtime maidservant. Sal licked his thumb, flipping the pages until he found the one he wanted.
“Here it is. The maid told me about a dame who visited Reuter, and then he went on a serious bender.”
“Who was she?”
“The maid didn’t know her name. Said she was a younger woman, early thirties, maybe. Said she came to see Reuter and right afterward he went on a wicked binge—worse than normal. Then, he wakes up one night, dries out, and starts settling his estate.”
Yarborough leaned back and laced his fingers over his round stomach. “God, I wish I was rich. Get drunk for a week. Sober up. Sell all my shit. Get drunk again. Whadda life.”
“The dame, boss, the dame.”
“What’s yer point about her?”
“Maybe she’s who he’s with.”
“Maybe she was his wife’s old friend, simply stopping by to see how th’ poor widower was doing?” Yarborough countered. “And her presence set him off.”
Sal studied his notepad a moment. “Gentry, the maid, said the good-looking dame brought him a letter…a letter, chief…and Reuter later told Gentry the woman was a childhood acquaintance, and to mind her own damned business.” He thumped the pad. “Gentry told me that Reuter held on to that letter through the whole bender, reading it constantly to himself, sometimes working himself into a fit of either misery or some sort of peculiar rage.”
“I don’t see the significance,” Yarborough said with a shrug. “No way to know what was in that letter. My guess is it was some sort of sympathy note and the letter brought back memories of his dead wife.”
“She’s the key, Cap.”
“Th’ wife?”
Sal crushed the cigarette onto the tabletop and glared at his captain. “I’ve not slept in over thirty hours, boss. Would you mind not pricking me around more than usual?”
“Okay, okay,” Yarborough said, holding his palms up. “So th’ young lass delivered some sorta message. This sent Mister Reuter on a week-long drunk, then th’ lad woke up, sold everything, blew a tunnel in Lex Curran’s head, and disappeared.”
“I think she told him where Curran was hiding.”
Yarborough frowned at that but didn’t disagree. “Well, have ya found out who she was?”
“If she was a childhood friend, she shouldn’t be too hard to find, right?” Sal stood. “Tomorrow, I’ll do a little more background on the honorable Mister Reuter.”
“Have another beer, boyo.”
“I haven’t seen the wife and kids in days, and tonight’s my wife’s stew.”
“Stew?” Yarborough curled his lip. “B’lieve I’d stay and drink.”
“You haven’t had her stew,” Sal answered w
ith a wink. He slid his tie in the pocket of his jacket before heading out of the bar. The single beer made him sleepy. Because of his need for food and rest, Sal made a conscious decision to put the Reuter investigation to bed for the evening.
There would be plenty of time for it tomorrow.
His detective’s coupe rolled quietly down Lombard before Sal popped the clutch and stabbed the gas, tires squealing as he bullied his way into the evening traffic.
~~~
Four Days Later
Everything pointed back to the mysterious girl. Other than a peculiar series of dead ends that Sal seemed to encounter whenever doing any sort of governmental background on Neil Reuter, the early crux of the case most definitely seemed to be Reuter’s nameless female visitor. Reuter’s housekeeper, Agnes Gentry, recalled his mysterious visitor telling him that she was staying at the Whitcomb Hotel. Apparently Gentry came in at the end of their meeting, and to her it first appeared to be nothing more than an attractive young woman telling a gentleman which hotel he should find her in. The housekeeper, no less than three times, informed Sal of her shock at the young woman’s brazenness. Each time Gentry mentioned the flagrancy, she also complained about the lack of morals in this “libidinous, lascivious generation of youth.”
Then, she made certain—absolutely certain—that if Sal were to find any evidence of a relationship between Reuter and the beautiful girl, Gentry wanted to be the very first to know.
“Why?” Sal had asked, purposefully torturing the nosy old soul.
“I know what’s good for my Neil. And that…that tart is not it.”
Sal had been unable to contain his laughter.
Per routine, Sal checked the Whitcomb and, sure enough, a young lady who matched the description of Reuter’s lady caller had stayed there. Her name was listed in the register as Meghan Herman. She had stayed there for nearly two weeks and the savvy concierge was able to validate Reuter, upon seeing his picture, as one of her guests. They’d chatted in the hotel lobby—nothing else.
While at the Whitcomb, Sal interviewed a number of employees, none of whom had anything useful to tell him other than the fact that Meghan’s phone bill was excessive. Unfortunately for Sal, there were no records of the numbers she called—just a bill for nearly $40.
The balance of his past week was spent tidying up all other angles of the case, none of which proved helpful. That pointed the needle back at Meghan—she was now in the spotlight. The star of the show. Meghan with an H.
But Meghan Herman had proven difficult to find, even with the telltale H.
The neighbors from where she had grown up, which happened to be directly behind where Reuter had first lived, had long since moved. Sal checked her school records, finding out about her admission to Cal Berkeley. He phoned the registrar, learning that Ms. Herman had graduated with a degree in business. According to the registrar, Meghan and a group of other women had campaigned fiercely to be allowed to matriculate with a business degree—something which, until that time, had been reserved solely for men. However, the school had lost touch with her since. They didn’t have her current address.
With nowhere else to turn, Sal eventually used the oldest trick in the detective’s handbook. When all else fails, when no one knows where a particular person might be—forget universities, forget family, forget friends. Instead, follow the money and call Uncle Sam and the one department who jealously tracks the whereabouts of every penny-earning American citizen with great fervor: the Bureau of Internal Revenue. It was always Sal’s last resort due to all the red tape. After establishing that he was indeed a detective and, yes, he did pay his taxes, it only took a few minutes for the snippy clerk to pull Meghan Herman’s most recent address. She lived in Boston, Massachusetts. No husband was listed.
The Boston Police Department assisted Sal in reaching her. They arranged a Tuesday call for him from their precinct, which Sal currently awaited while enjoying a cup of coffee in his own precinct. He was drinking his coffee—not Harry Cato’s. Sal had made the brew so strong he already had a minor case of the shakes.
“Call for you, Kalakis!” came the voice from the other room.
“Put it through to my desk.”
Sal snatched up the earpiece on the first ring. “This is Detective Kalakis.”
“Hello, detective. This is Meghan Herman. The Boston Police politely insisted I speak with you.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thanks for calling. In the interest of time, I’ll be direct.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“You recently visited the home of Neil Reuter?”
“Excuse me, detective, but before we begin, might you tell me what this is in reference to?”
Sal cleared his throat. “It involves the murder of a man named Lex Curran.”
“He’s dead?”
“So, you know who he was?”
“Of course. My brother Jacob and Neil were best friends.”
Sal had heard the same from others. He put a check mark beside Jacob Herman’s name on his pad. “I understand you hadn’t seen Neil in many years?”
“Correct. But I still followed all that happened with the murder. So tragic.”
“Indeed, ma’am. So, after Curran was found dead, Neil Reuter was nowhere to be found. In fact, he’s still missing. And you, Ms. Herman, were one of his last visitors. Might you tell me what you discussed?”
“I came to San Francisco, personally, to tell him my brother had been killed.”
Sal straightened. How had he missed this? He cleared his throat. “Would you mind detailing that for me?”
“I’m afraid I can’t provide much in the way of detail. I received word from the Austrian embassy that my brother had been killed in an explosion.”
“Austria?”
“Yes, detective.”
“Why was he in Austria?”
“I have no idea. Jacob and I weren’t all that close.”
“Was he working there?”
“I don’t know. Jacob exited the military a number of years ago and since then, I don’t really know what he’d been doing.”
Sal scribbled furiously. “And I understand you brought Neil a letter.”
“Yes. It was just the telegram informing me of Jacob’s death.”
“Was there anything more to the telegram?”
“It was infuriatingly cold and bland, detective. The only detail it gave was the explosion.”
“Did it say where in Austria he had been?”
“No.”
“Have you tried calling the Austrian embassy?”
“I’m Jewish, detective. I have a feeling I won’t get much help.”
Trying not to sound dejected, Sal said, “Do you have any idea where Neil Reuter may have gone?”
“No, sir.”
“A guess?”
“I truly wouldn’t know.”
Sal talked to her for ten more minutes, learning nothing meaningful. Afterward, following a solid hour of transcontinental phone calls, Sal reached the appropriate person at the Austrian Embassy in Washington. The man’s name was Leinster, the embassy’s legal liaison. He spoke with hardly any accent at all. After twenty minutes of questioning, Sal decided the man knew more about Jacob Herman’s death but wasn’t going to budge. He told Sal exactly what Meghan Herman had said—Jacob Herman was killed in an explosion. Sal learned the accident happened in the state of Tyrol. When Sal asked which city, Leinster promised to investigate and get back to Sal.
“How long will that take?”
“It depends on my communications back to Austria, detective. My guess is a week or two.”
Sal hung up the phone, feeling he’d been stonewalled.
He scribbled the word “AUSTRIA” in bold letters, all around his yellow pad.
Frustrated, Sal went for a walk, despite the rain.
~~~
In Boston, Meghan Herman departed the police station and made certain she wasn’t followed. She then made a phone call before hurrying to the American
Express office on Bunker Hill Street where she sent an urgent telegram.
It cost Meghan four extra dollars to send the telegram to a ship at sea.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The great ship shuddered under HER powerful, one-foot diameter steam horns blasting their baritone call, signifying that land was now in sight. It was the seventh and final day of the voyage, August 10th, just after sunup. Neil was sober and well aware that he had 36 days remaining before the children’s ship set sail.
After the meeting with the Fausts on the first evening, Neil drank for two days before drying himself out again, eating properly and occupying his time with calisthenics and completing his tedious German translation of Huckleberry Finn. Other than when he exercised, he kept to himself, taking his meals in his room and occasionally practicing his speaking with a German-born steward he had met on the afterdeck. But when England was sighted, Neil finally made his way back to the main deck, coffee cup in hand, leaning over the railing as the cool, salt air pushed his hair sideways over his head. And, as he viewed the seaside resort of Plymouth slide by in the distance, Gregor Faust appeared as if from the fog of the ocean’s surface, touching Neil lightly on his arm as it rested on the port rail of the ship. Neil turned, not sure whether to walk away or simply punch the squat man in his mouth.
“There’s one other thing,” Faust said, as if their conversation had never ended. He appeared pale and nervous.
Ignoring him, Neil turned his eyes back to the coast.
“Not out here,” Faust persisted. “Come inside.”
“Piss off.”
“You’ll want to hear this,” Faust said, walking away. Neil reluctantly followed.
The passengers who weren’t already above decks were rushing through the passageways to get to the main deck. After many days of sailing, the sight of land is a blessed relief, especially to those who might have suffered from claustrophobia or seasickness. Neil followed Faust as he moved through the Observation Bar Lounge, past the ship’s library, to a sitting area in the nearly empty Verandah Grill. They chose the first grouping of slung back leather chairs with a square table in the middle. The Grill was ornate, covered in high drapes and paintings, and topped with an arched, glass ceiling. At night it was transformed into the Starlight Club, the most popular destination on the ship. A waiter appeared immediately.
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