The Golden Gates

by C. R. Kliewer

  Horace reached the end of the gangplank just as the officers disappeared into the city after the fleeing form of Flynn. He stopped, cursed, turned to stomp back up the plank, thought better of it, turned again towards the city, cursed, and turned round again. He looked up at the yacht; the lights were on inside the cigar room and the dining saloon. Faces peered back at him through the windows, and quickly disappeared again as soon as they realized he had seen them. Always a crowd. Perfect. He cursed again and started walking. Reaching the top where Pike was patiently waiting for him, he realized the suitcase was still in his hand. He pushed the suitcase into Pike’s hands. “See this gets to my office.”

  “Yes sir.”

  He watched Pike descend down the gangplank, walk towards the car, and drive away before he finally made his way back to the cigar room and to those who were waiting impatiently for him to return so that they could leave.

  31

  Death by Deception

  * * *

  It’s all wrong! This was not how it was supposed to happen! He’d been made. As soon as he saw his suitcase in the inspector’s hand, he knew he had to get out of there. The gig was up. He had failed. It should have been eggs in coffee! Duck soup! Easy. But now he was on the lam and if he didn’t haul ass, they would be fitting him with a Chicago overcoat. His life was in jeopardy, and worse yet, he actually cared! Of all the harebrained ideas, it finally mattered to him. And there was only one person to blame: Anna.

  He was beginning to have his doubts about her. She was a Delilah. Sooths you to sleep, then betrays you to your death. The question was did she know she had ruined him? Was it just a cruel twist of fate that had placed her aboard the Allura, or was she a part of this whole damn thing? She gave off that aura of sweet goodness, a clean breeze coming in from the northern seas. He knew he was no good for her. He was tainted. Dirty. But alas, even auras can deceive. And now he was in Dutch.

  The jump into the bay had been a shock to his system; luckily they had been close to shore, so he didn’t have to swim far in that frigid water. But now he was cold, his piece was wet, and he was being pursued by more than one adversary. And if he couldn’t get away, his only hope was that it would be the coppers who got to him first. Of course, Raven has probably boughten a few of them off. A right mess, a right mess this is. He ducked into an alley, then into someone’s backyard. Started to climb a fence, but the pit bull on the other side made him think the better of it. He needed to get warm. A bar was out of the question. He looked like a drowned rat, and people would notice him right away. If he could make it back to his place without being seen, he could at least change clothes and reequip himself.

  Whistles.

  Dogs.

  He was being hemmed in, and he knew it. A raccoon treed by hounds, only he didn’t have a tree to climb. Shouts. Shots. His knees hit the pavement, a sharp pain radiated out from a cap, heightened by the numbness induced by the cold on the rest of his body. He got up and did the only thing he could think of. Run. He zigzagged around a few more corners and down a few more alleys, until . . . a dead end. Appropriate. His black humor reemerged. Footsteps sounded behind him. He turned around. Laughed. A low satisfied laugh. Hyperthermia setting in. He no longer felt his fingers. His toes were starting to abandon him. At least he would not be able to feel anything. Lights emerged from around the corner. Forster lifted his hands. More shots rang out and he went down, thankful it was over. There would be no more running.

  32

  A Closed Case Reopened

  * * *

  Horace sat behind his desk. He wanted to kick something, but didn’t dare rouse the suspicions of his secretary. The small leather suitcase sat on the floor where Pike had left it last night, untouched. What the hell was he supposed to do with it now? He and Pike had gone through it back in the cabin. Nothing. Just a change of clothes that the owner of the case could no longer use.

  The humble case tried its best to look like any other suitcase, tried hard not to draw his attention, a harmless insignificant object blending in with the other insignificant objects in the room. But Horace was no fool. He looked to his frosted glass-paned door. There were no shadows blocking the light; the typewriter keys of his secretary clacked incessantly. Getting up, he walked over to the door and noiselessly turned the key in the lock.

  Gently picking up the submissive case, he placed it on his desk and fingered the latches. With a snap, they popped open. Not even a lock to prevent the unwarranted search and seizure. He drew out the clothes. A shirt. A pair of slacks. Socks. Undershirts and shorts. A flask that bore the initials J.F.

  The case now sat empty, denying all involvement. He stared bleakly at its felt lining. A strange crease begged to be smoothed. He reached in to set it aright. It refused. The crease stood permanent. He traced the crease again. Hang on. He pulled out a pocketknife from his coat pocket and slid it into the side of the lining. The felt gave way without resistance. What lurked behind was paper, several large sheets of it flattened against the interior. As he gingerly pulled out the leaves, accurately scaled drawings and precise measurements began revealing their secrets. The streamlined hull. The advanced swivel propeller system. The cowling on the outriggers designed to reduce wind resistance. The precisely defined dimensions of the longitudinal girders and keel.

  Horace thumbed through them, marveling at the engineering minds that could design such a craft. So this is what they were after. The question was: what would be the consequence now that they were out of reach? If this had anything to do with the Raven, the backlash would be swift, and violent. It may already have begun with the death of Lorraine. What was her connection? And what had she done to warrant her termination? At least he knew one thing: What to do next.

  He picked up the phone.

  *

  10 minutes later he replaced the receiver into its cradle with tired frustration. All expectations of being able to concentrate solely on the Raven murders had disintegrated with just one word: Trapeze.

  “Trapeze for the Sparrowhawk? Let me check.” He thumbed through the pages again. “No, I don’t see any pages that show a trapeze design.” Hell. How was he supposed to know about it? I didn’t design the damn thing. So pages were missing. And he was expected to get them back. Why couldn’t the feds solve their own problems? He had enough of his own. One being the mounting body count in Raven’s wake.

  33

  One Fish, Two Fish, Dead Fish, Tuna Fish

  * * *

  “Dead?”

  “He was cornered last night in an alley off of Front Street. He pulled a gun. They had no choice but to shoot. I don’t want to bother you with the details, Miss Kelly. It’s not something that a young lady like you should have to hear. But there are still some questions I need answers to, and I am hoping you can help me with a few of them.”

  Inspector Horace and Anna were sitting in Aunt Jane’s front room, the afternoon sun falling in a dusty haze through the front bay windows. Unlike the others, Anna had a place to come home to last night and since money was tight, she opted for Aunt Jane’s instead of a hotel. Beltran had offered to put her up with the rest of the party, but she said she couldn’t possibly accept. Something told Horace that it was not concern over her employer’s finances that prompted Miss Kelly’s refusal.

  Anna herself was surprised Horace had even allowed her to cross the bay. When permission was granted, O’Connell looked as if he was going to offer her a ride himself, though how he would get her there was not immediately evident. But before the offer could be given, Horace stepped in donating Harrison’s services as well as the use of a police speeder. As for the rest of the party, they had decided to install themselves at the Mark Hopkins Hotel on Nob Hill, being but a short distance from Harbor Police Station, and reasonably comfortable. It was way out of Horace’s pay grade, but for the party aboard the Allura, it would have to do. The crew of the Allura, however, had to find other, cheaper accommodations. Anna had been the only one permitted to travel any sort of d
istance. Even then, she had overheard Horace give Harrison instructions about staying close by.

  Anna arrived home later that night only to find her aunt gone, a note on the table explaining that she had gone up to Napa for the weekend with some friends. After opening a can of cat food, What will people think of next?, and placing it on the kitchen floor for Sam, Anna had gone upstairs and fallen into bed, making sure she dispatched the alarm before allowing herself to drift off to sleep.

  As she slept, her visions took on that strange realism that often deceives the dreamer into believing: This is no dream. She was back on board the Allura. The yacht was empty, drifting in the middle of open water. She was searching for something. But couldn’t remember what it was. Walking around the starboard side, a shadow flitted in front of her. She couldn’t make it out. She called to it, but there was no answer. It turned to walk away. She made to chase it, but stumbled, her hand coming down hard on the rail, bracing her fall. As she leaned over the rail, she looked out into the water. Bodies. Bodies everywhere. Some with eyes, looking glassy and cold. Some without. Some in the process of losing them as large black birds alit on their faces. Ravens. Crows. Some as big as vultures. Turning into vultures. Large turkey vultures with ugly, bald bloodied heads. She tried to scream, but was choked. A hand grasped her throat. She couldn’t turn to see her attacker. The birds, attracted by the struggle looked her way. Then the noise! In unison they started cawing and croaking, urging her attacker on. The hand started to squeeze tighter. The birds took flight, coming toward her. She tried to hide her eyes. She raised one hand to cover them and the other to ward off the black birds. All the while, the hand constricting further around her throat.

  She woke up in a sweat. Twisted sheets wrapped around her body. The silence in the room was almost as unbearable as the unrelenting noise of the birds in her dream. It took her a moment to recall exactly where she was. Another moment to realize she was alone. And yet one more to remember the night before.

  Forster. What happened to Forster? She couldn’t think of him by any other name. He had always been Forster, J. Forster, to her. She had heard the splash, had rushed to the window like everyone else. Hess had made some snide remark about how he hoped the bay would take him. Everyone seemed to be of one mind. Finn was the one to blame. Finn had murdered Eva. Finn had brought the curse of the Raven upon them. Hell, he probably was the Raven. Even O’Connell looked like he was having second thoughts. Anna couldn’t believe it. She wanted to shout that it wasn’t possible. But that would draw unwanted attention to herself. And that was the last thing she wanted. The last thing she could afford. The only person who seemed to be of a different mind was Smith. Not that he contradicted anyone, but nor did he offer any support to their theories. He just sat there, silent . . . and cold.

  He’s here. You be careful, damn careful. Forster’s words replayed in her mind. Was that why she couldn’t bear to stay in the hotel with the others? Was that her real reason for insisting that she be brought back to Sausalito last night? The thought that the Raven might be one of them? That and a feeling of guilt? No matter what the reason, she still had a job to do; she knew she would eventually have to go back to finish it. But she had to get away, had to, even if it was only for one night.

  After rubbing the sleep from her eyes and reorientating her mind to the fact that she was in her room and not on board, Anna got up to look out her window. For once the sky and the bay were clear. She could see all the way down to the piers. But she took no joy in it. She dressed slowly without energy or enthusiasm in a navy print dress that she found hanging in her closet. Apparently Aunt Jane had done some shopping while she was away, for there were a few other things also labeled “Anna” hanging in there. It was a pretty dress, with a cinch waist and flutter sleeves. A little tight. Probably Moreau’s doing. Made her shoes look like fossil remnants, but that was what she had. It doesn’t matter now anyway. Normally, she wouldn’t have sounded so entirely ungrateful. In truth she was, . . . very grateful, but she didn’t have the spirit to display of any type of emotion, much less one of gratitude. She was just glad that Aunt Jane wasn’t there to witness her despondency.

  As she walked downstairs, she felt the relief of having the old musty house to herself. She brewed a pot of coffee in the kitchen and mindlessly poured herself a cup. Taking it with her into the front room, she sat down on the modern velour sofa waiting for whatever it was she was expecting to happen that day.

  She sat there all morning, the cup of strong black coffee turning cold in her hands, neglected; her mind too consumed with dark shadows and shrouded labyrinths to remind her hand to lift the cup to her mouth. She wondered. Wondered what had become of that man who jumped into the bay. And she worried. As frustrating as he was, she couldn’t help herself. If she hadn’t met him on the train, things might have been different. She might have been a little more emotionally detached. But he had laughed with her. At her. And she at him. It had seemed as if that journey together had been a brief spot of needed sunshine for the both of them in a world that was becoming increasingly unforgiving. Of course, for Forster it probably didn’t have anything to do with the economy.

  Forster. The very thought of his name brought her back to the present moment. Back to the man sitting in front of her. Back to reality. Forster is dead.

  Despite the warm sun outside and the wealth of soft fabrics inside, the room felt strange, empty, and cold. In an armchair richly upholstered in thick mohair sat the inspector. His eyes had turned a curious shade of blue behind his round spectacles. As if he had just realized something.

  He had.

  This news affected her more than he expected it would, and Horace didn’t know what to do about it. He had unknowingly tread on ground that wasn’t entirely stable. He needed to proceed cautiously or the ice underneath would crack.

  Suddenly aware that she had given away more of herself than she should have, Anna straightened and resumed a more distant attitude towards the deceased criminal.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say? Mr. Finnegan is dead? It hardly seems possible.” She said with as much detachment as she could muster. “And you say he may have been involved in the murder of Ms. Lorraine?”

  “Miss Kelly, I . . .”

  “He seemed so harmless.” Well not exactly harmless, there was that incident when Eva had tried to blackmail him. “Everybody liked him.” Except maybe Hess after the Bloody Mary incident, that is if he ever found out.

  “There’s something else you should know,” he wanted to see how she would react to this bit of news, “Jack Finnegan was not his real name.” No surprise on her part answered one question and raised several others. “Since you asked earlier, I thought you should know. His real name was Jacob Flynn. He was wanted in Chicago, Philadelphia, and Miami for prohibition violations and rumrunning. It is also rumored that he worked on the side as a triggerman and had even accepted a contract out on Alphonse Capone, but the feds got to him first. But that just scratches the surface. As to what he was doing on the Allura? We are still trying to figure that out. It’s been suggested that he may have been spying for the German Army, possibly aided through a group called the Teutonia. I think he was just the type to sell his allegiance to the highest bidder. Tell me Miss Kelly, what do you know about the USS Macon?”

  “No. That’s not possible.” She replied absently. It took a moment to realize that he had actually asked her a question that didn’t pertain to Forster. “What? No. I mean yes. I mean, I think I read something, somewhere about its being built, an airship right? But honestly, I couldn’t tell you much about it. Are you telling me that Fors . . . I mean Finnegan, Flynn is, was a spy as well?” It was all so confusing. “Not possible.” It didn’t make sense. It doesn’t fit.

  Interesting slip of the tongue. “What makes you say that Miss Kelly? You only knew him for a couple of days. From my understanding, you were too occupied with Mr. Beltran and the rest of the party to have spent any real time around him. And what do we reall
y know about the people around us?”

  Anna bit her lip. Why was she so hesitant to tell him about the train? What she knew. Or thought she knew. He’s a cop. She should tell him. But something held her back. Did Forster deserve this bit of protection, even after his death? She couldn’t even count on his name being Forster. Finnegan. Finn. Flynn! And even those short hours they spent together on the train taught her that he was a liar, carried an unlicensed gun, and avoided personal questions at all costs. He had never said who he worked for. Never said what kind of agent he was. Never said where he was going, at least not on purpose, or why he was going there. Could all that have been a sick joke on his part?