“I don’t know. He just seemed . . . I guess, I guess it’s hard for me to believe that anyone on that yacht could be a murderer.” Her eyes drifted while her forehead creased. “Yet, somebody must have been. It’s not like she could have stabbed herself and then thrown herself overboard.”
“Not likely. Anyway, we now have reason to believe she was killed in the galley. More specifically the cooler.”
“The cooler?”
“It appears that a case of red wine was smashed and used to cover up the bloodstains.”
His words brought the vision of Forster standing in the threshold of the ice-box clothes and arms stained red followed by a vision of Forster stabbing Eva through the ribs, and then one of him in an alleyway, lying in a pool of his own blood, as he probably was if Horace was so sensitive about her sensitivities not to mention the exact nature of his demise.
“You okay? You look a little piqued.”
“No, I just . . . .” Unable to finish her sentence, she ran to the nearest thing with a drain, which happened to be the kitchen sink.
Horace waited patiently in the other room while she lost the entire tunafish sandwich that she had eaten earlier for lunch when she finally got up from the couch to dump her coffee, about an hour before Horace came round to tell her the news, and ask a few more questions.
For the next several minutes, she bitterly endured the sweat beading on her forehead and the hot chills that convulsed throughout her body. Finally, her frame settled, and her mind began to conquer her stomach once again. She reached for a glass and filled it from the tap. She gurgled, spat (as quietly as she could), then dabbed her forehead with a dishtowel, regaining her composure before heading back into the parlor.
She walked in with dignity and poise. And though Horace had indeed heard the unfortunate dismissal of Anna’s lunch from her interior, he did not smile, smirk, or even let on that he knew. His mind, however, was on overdrive. There is something here. Something important. But he was still at a loss as to how to go about getting it.
“Miss Kelly, I came down here to ask you some very particular questions, and I want you to take your time answering them.” Translation: Don’t lie to me.
“Yes, Inspector Horace.” She sat back down on the couch and folded her hands in her lap. Her head ached. Her sides ached. She wanted him to leave. She wanted to be alone. To think. There had to be something. Something she had missed. She needed to figure out what it was, but she couldn’t do that with this mustachioed inspector here asking her pesky questions and telling her that Forster was dead.
“We know that there was a recess in Flynn’s cabin. Do you know of any other secret compartments on the Allura?”
“There’s the bar of course,” she stated offhandedly.
“What bar?”
“You didn’t find the bar?”
“No, but I would be very interested to know where this so-called bar is.”
“In the cigar room.” Might as well be honest. This is a murder case after all. “It’s behind one of the panels next to the stairwell. I guess it sort of folds out. Please don’t tell Daniels I told you.”
“He knows that we have virtually destroyed one of the cabins with crow bars and hammers looking for such things. It wouldn’t surprise him if we found the bar as well. Any others?”
“There was one in the office cabin, behind Mr. Beltran’s desk.”
“Where?”
“In the wall next to the closet. Second panel I think.” As if you didn’t know. She had practically shown it to him. Made a point to look there several times during their interview.
“Do you know what was inside?”
“A bottle of gin, tonic water, glasses, and ice I think.”
“Anything else?”
“No. Excuse me inspector, but I don’t see what this has to do with Eva’s death.”
“Neither do I, but there is a rumor that something was being smuggled aboard the Allura beyond your typical illegal beverages. I would like to be the first to find it if possible. Miss Kelly, did you ever see or hear any mention about a set of plans, blueprints maybe?”
“Plans?”
Path chosen, he could not turn back. “I shouldn’t really be discussing it with you. I wouldn’t be except I think you may be able to shed some light on the situation. About a week ago, some plans for a Naval Dirigible went missing from the Goodyear-Zeppelin Airdock in Akron, Ohio.”
“Is that the airship you were talking about?”
“The USS Macon is the most technologically advanced warship of our time. I can’t tell you what would happen if they fell into the wrong hands . . .”
“What makes you think I would know anything about it?”
“I have received word that the plans for the USS Macon were traced as far as the Allura. It’s believed that they could be meant for the German Army and, if you’ve been keeping up with your politics, under the Treaty of Versailles, Germany is not allowed to own airships designed for war. However, it’s been recently discovered that the current government has recently approved a secret aircraft rearmament program, and knowledge of the new technologies built into the Macon would be highly prized both for offensive and defensive purposes. Miss Kelly, someone on board that yacht is a traitor. We need to find those blueprints before they’re beyond reach.” He paused, trying to read her expression. Unsuccessful, he continued. “Which brings me back to my question. While you were working for Mr. Beltran, have you come across anything that could be connected to the USS Macon or any set of plans? Or maybe something just struck you as odd; perhaps you even dismissed it at the time without realizing its importance. Even the smallest detail might help us out. Please Miss Kelly, think.”
She thought for a moment before responding. “I have not heard anyone mention the USS Macon. But I have heard some other things that might possibly be connected to it. Do you have any idea who the traitor could be?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Could it have been Fo . . . Flynn? How do you know it wasn’t him? You said so yourself he might be a spy. Couldn’t he be the traitor you’re looking for?”
“You know, Miss Kelly, that’s the second time you’ve stumbled over his name. Please tell me, do you know him by something different, something besides Finnegan or Flynn?”
She shrugged, “Between Finnegan, Finn, Flynn . . . He’s had so many names; I’m not even sure what I was going to say.”
He smiled with understanding. She was hiding and he knew it. The question was why. “It can get confusing pretty quickly, can’t it? He decided to try a different tactic. “Actually, we do know he was involved. We found a portion of the plans among his belongings.”
“I’m sorry, a portion?”
“A portion. There seems to be a page or two missing. You see, he couldn’t have been acting alone.” Silent expectancy. Nothing. “We also have to consider the possibility that the Raven is somehow involved.”
“I’m not sure I understand. Who is this Raven everyone keeps talking about?”
“No one really knows. His name has been loosely associated with various bootlegging and smuggling crimes, and through some recent events, we’re coming to understand that he controls most of the rumrunning trade along the Pacific coast. But perhaps that’s not what he is most well-known for. Maybe you’ve heard about some of the gruesome murders happening up and down the western seaboard here. Murders where the victims’ eyes have been routinely gouged out and the bodies burned. If he is responsible, he has built himself up quite an empire on being both ruthless and evasive, and you can bet with prohibition on the verge of repeal, it’s as good a guess as any that he will be looking for ways to branch out. Maybe now you can see why I might be interested in anything you can tell me.”
“Yes, I see. And do you think this Raven was on board the Allura?”
“Not necessarily. He likes to control things behind the scenes, pull the strings, give directions, but nothing that will give us a hint of who or where he is.
His influence is so overreaching, if the Allura has been used at all in smuggling liquor for him, it’s most likely that she’s just one boat in his ring of many.”
“Do you think he could be responsible for Ms. Lorraine?”
“Possible. It is possible that she was working with the Raven herself. But the question is, Miss Kelly, have you heard or seen anything that could shed light on the situation?” How many times did he have to ask?
“Like I said, I have not heard anything about any airship.” She paused to think. “I did overhear two people speaking in German in one of the staterooms and I do believe they were saying something about some ‘plans.’”
“When was this?”
“The first night I was on board. Beltran woke me up in the middle of the night for some dictation. As I was on my way to the office, I passed one of the rooms and heard two people talking. I believe it was in German.”
“Any idea who they were?”
“I’m pretty sure one of them was Mr. Smith. I know he’s from that part of the world, and I found out later that it was his cabin.”
“You have no idea who the other was?”
“No, whoever it was never raised their voice above a whisper.”
“Smith gives us a lead. Do you have any idea what they were saying about the plans?”
“I can’t be sure, but I think Smith was asking where they were and saying something about ‘time.’ I couldn’t make out any of the rest.”
“Interesting.” Horace pulled out a small notepad and pencil (the first time Anna had seen him with one) and jotted down some notes. “You speak German yourself, Miss Kelly?”
“Low German. Not fluently. My grandmother was Mennonite. Immigrated from Russia, but they were German before that.”
“I see.” He scratched the side of his mustache with the butt of his pencil, keeping his eyes on his notes.
Anna’s eyebrows knitted. “It could’ve been Mr. Hess.”
He looked at her over his spectacles in doubt.
“The other voice. It could have been Mr. Hess.” She couldn’t understand his hesitation. “I was told that he’s a member of the ‘Friends of Germany.’ And I did see him coming out of Smith’s room the first day I was on board. I suppose it is hard to imagine him speaking anything other than English though.”
At least he could agree with the last statement. “You’re right, it would be a connection, but we have sources that tell us otherwise, reliable sources.”
What did he mean by that? Surely he couldn’t be insinuating . . .
She nodded. A new thought occurred to her. Why shouldn’t she tell him? She didn’t have to go into detail, but it could be useful, if not in the investigation, at least in sending the inspector on his way. She could tell he suspected something. Maybe this twisted bit of information would satisfy him. “I guess there is something else you should know, Inspector. I didn’t want to tell you at first, because, well, here it is. I knew Flynn, I mean I didn’t really know him, but I met him, before the Allura that is.”
He showed no signs of shock, but waited silently for her to continue.
How annoying he is! “It was on the train coming out here. He told me his name was Forster. I believed him. We shared a few meals. He seemed a perfectly nice man, funny even.” She paused. “There was this other man, a Mr. Brown. He warned me about him. Mr. Brown warned me about Forster that is, I mean Flynn, but I didn’t believe him at the time. Guess I didn’t want to. But if what you tell me now is true, it would explain a few things.”
Horace’s face became serious, “Go on Miss Kelly.”
“You see, I didn’t see Mr. Brown anymore after that. From what he said, I thought he and Flynn would be getting off the train together, but . . .” she gasped noticeably, “Do you think Flynn had something to do with his disappearing like that?”
“If what I have heard is true, I don’t doubt it.” His gut felt like it was imploding.
Her head drooped. Her hands clutched the couch cushions as if she were afraid she would fall off into an abyss. Why won’t he just leave?
They both sat a few more moments in silence before Horace spoke again. “Are you sure you are feeling alright, Miss Kelly? I could call a doctor.”
“No! I mean, no thank you. It’s just a headache, perhaps some bad tunafish.” Why wouldn’t he just go away already? It doesn’t make any sense! Nothing makes sense anymore! Her head was swimming in fog. Unless, the fog began to lift. Unless . . . . That would make sense. She looked back at the inspector. Yes, that makes sense.
The clock on the mantle ticked mercilessly away. It was Horace who broke the silence again. “Miss Kelly, it’s absolutely imperative that you are completely honest with me. What is the exact nature of your being here in San Francisco?”
The question was unexpected but not unprepared for. “I’m sorry Inspector Horace, I thought I had told you. I’m working as a typist in my aunt’s temporary help agency.”
“And your job on the Allura?”
“I am, was filling in for Beltran’s clerk.”
“Nothing else?”
“No.”
He rubbed his eyes; the left with his fingers, the right with his thumb. This was getting him nowhere. “Is there anything, anything else you can tell me about the goings-on on the Allura?”
She looked him straight in the eye. “No.”
And they both knew she was lying.
34
Blackbird
* * *
I was wrong. It wasn’t Finnegan. Rather Eva was wrong. Poor chap. Good thing the police got to him before I did. I might have done something I regretted. A black smile hid behind thoughtful lips. So who is it then? Sharp eyes shifted from one form to the next, dissecting each of them from the back of a descending elevator. They settled awhile on one pair of shoulders. A very good possibility, but how can I be sure? I guess I need to be patient. Just need a little time that’s all. I can afford that. I got all the time in the world. The eyes darted to the back of another. And there is still one thing I need to take care of that may help to speed the process.
35
Message in a Bottle
* * *
Una Stuart woke the next morning in her suite to the sound of cable car bells echoing in the streets below. How dismal this trip was turning out to be. Apparently, she had been playing at gruesome death and tortuous dying for so long that when she finally encountered it in real life, it seemed just another day on set. She’d seen Eva die several times on screen already, and after just a few hours, nay within minutes of discovering her body floating in the water, the initial shock had worn off and boredom set in. Being confined to a hotel, even a luxurious one such as this, was trying. Especially when there was not a drop of gin to be had.
Reaching her arm out to where her husband was sleeping, she rolled over, eye mask still covering the lids underneath. She intended to voice a complaint, ask when they were going to be able to leave and go off and have some gin,. . . uh fun, but when her hand reached the spot where the top of his hairy chest should have been, it dropped and hit the mattress underneath instead. She sat up on one elbow and slid the mask back onto her forehead. “Stu, Honey?” She rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “Stu?” She focused her eyes on his pillow, to where his were staring back at her, through clear glass and straight alcohol.
*
It was no use. Mrs. Stuart knew nothing of her husband’s affairs. It was unclear whether she knew anything at all beyond the percent alcohol of gin and how to make the blood of an audience curdle.
Did she know that her husband had left the room last night? No. Did she have any idea who might have wanted him dead? No. Did she have any idea how the bottle of eyes made it onto the pillow next to her? No. Did she know of her husband’s involvement with Germany’s aircraft rearmament program? No. Did she know of her husband’s plans to purchase a set of blueprints describing the trapeze hook-up for an F9C Sparrowhawk? Sparrow-what? No. Did she know that he was secretly dealing wit
h the Raven to smuggle something out of the country? No. Wait . . . gin maybe? No. Horace was beginning to wonder if she had taken too much bleach to the head if not alcohol to the body.
In the meantime, Raven was starting to become more daring. But at least, with this last murder, he had connected himself directly to the Macon. Apparently Stuart’s involvement was known from the start. Damn feds! And there could be no doubt it was Raven who had murdered Stuart. They found him on a secluded stretch of Baker’s Beach, several miles away. The body burnt and teeth extracted, a detail that had not been leaked to the press, thankfully. The eyes were gouged and bottled; only this time they were not found at the scene but in bed, making it much easier to identify the victim. With a safe ID, it was easier to piece together a trail. A taxi driver attested to having picked up Stuart the night before and had driven him to Baker’s Beach:
No, he was picked up alone. No, he hadn’t seen anyone else on the beach. Did he have anything to add? Mr. Stuart was a horrible tipper and carried a small briefcase.
A briefcase that was now missing. And as for the contents of that briefcase? Well, that was another thing that Mrs. Stuart did not know. Hell, she didn’t even know what the damn thing looked like.
At least he knew one thing for certain. Raven was somehow involved. Was he involved in the initial theft of the plans? That was still unclear, but he had shown he was ready to kill for them. Had done so. Twice. If not more
36
A Red Herring
* * *
“I don’t understand! Why you haven’t arrested him already?”
Mr. Beltran, Mr. Hess, and Inspector Horace were sitting in Beltran’s suite at the top of the Mark. Correction, Mr. Beltran and Inspector Horace were sitting, Hess was pacing back and forth shooting his mouth off.
The Golden Gates Page 17