“Because we cannot be certain that he is the Raven, or that he is in any way connected with him.”
“I told you he’s a commie. Call the Secret Service! They’ll tell you. They asked me to watch him personally.”
“I am aware of that.” I am also aware of a few other things they told me when I checked your credentials, Jackass. “Just because he’s a communist, might be a communist, doesn’t mean he’s involved. We have no proof.”
“I gave you pictures!”
“Pictures of Smith talking on a phone in Monterey will hardly stand up in a court of law.”
“Smith’s a communist?” Beltran asked, momentarily coming out of a stupor.
Neither Hess nor Horace answered him. They were too busy with their own agendas: One blowing his top, the other trying to keep a lid on his.
“And if you would keep up with your politics,” Horace added with more sarcasm than he had intended, “you would know that communists and brownshirts don’t exactly mingle. Communists wouldn’t steal plans like that just to hand them over to the German Army.”
“Maybe he was stealing them to take them to his own Marxist friends. Ever think about that?”
“But Stuart was the buyer, and we know he was working for the brownshirts.”
“Smith is a communist?” Beltran inserted again, more of a question to himself than to the two others in the room.
“Maybe he knew that. Maybe that’s why he killed them.”
“But then he couldn’t possibly be connected with the Raven.”
“Who says the Raven’s involved? Are you sure that he’s not just covering up his tracks using the Raven’s MO.” So proud of himself to be able to use the police lingo.
“Because there are certain aspects unique to the Raven murders that the public doesn’t know about,” that you don’t know about, despite what you think. “These were present at Mr. Stuart’s murder as well.” Hess had no idea, but beneath Horace’s cool exterior, his core was beginning to boil, rapidly.
Hess did not have a quick answer for that one. So instead, he just glared at Horace and continued pacing. This allowed Horace to bring himself back down to a gentle simmer. Meanwhile, Beltran was still mumbling.
“I need to know exactly what you observed on deck.” Horace was able to say a little more calmly but with no less authority. “Did you see him talk with anyone in particular?”
“He didn’t talk much,” frustrating devil, “when he did, he usually talked to Toni.”
“Why is that you think?”
“Maybe he saw a commie friend! Or at least someone he could convert!”
“Do you think Mr. Ocello has communistic tendencies?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him!” though the thought had never occurred to him. “We all know that Italians are a bunch of Fascists.”
“Smith is a communist?” Beltran interceded blankly.
“Yes!” Hess shouted.
“Maybe.” Horace countered.
“He can’t be.” Hess and Horace looked at Beltran. “He’s Catholic.
37
The ‘Stache Has Its Say
* * *
They’re all here, what’s left of them.
Horace looked around the room cordoned off in the back of the hotel lobby. Comfortable chairs had been placed around the perimeter; radiators hissing quietly as the cold damp of summer fog once again descended upon the city. Coffee had been set on the sideboard, but few partook of the suspicious brew.
Mr. and Mrs. Ocello were sitting on the settee by the window. He was holding her hand, speaking to her in a lowered voice. Mr. Smith was sitting over there in the corner by himself as usual. As if by design, he had chosen the least comfortable seat in the room: a straight back, splintered oak chair without cushion pulled from a storage room. Hess was seated across from him in a plush armchair far on the opposite side of the room, making Smith way out of his reach; Horace made sure that was the case. Chef Moreau was seated next to a round table, as far away as possible from the loathsome American coffee. With him were Mr. Daniels and Mr. O’Connell.
Miss Kelly was also there, seated on the other side of O’Connell. Horace had sent Pike to bring her back to the hotel the previous evening. Whether she wanted to or not, she was going to have to stay here for the time being. Beltran had agreed to foot the money to put her up, even expressed his pleasure at seeing her again, as he had some brilliant ideas that had yet to be jotted down. Where was his charming typist when he needed her? It’s amazing how the mind, in all its resiliency, manages to cope with grief, supplanting it with other tasks to keep it busy. But alas, grief often reappears like a fit of Hay Fever in the growing season. You know it’s there, you expect it to return again and again before it runs its course, but when it does, you’re ambushed, beat blind, deaf, and dumb to the rest of the world around you until the fit is over. So it was with Beltran, for as soon as a quiet moment presented itself, there was no way to calm the heaving emotions that rolled through those giant shoulders. Una, though not as heartbroken as the man sitting next to her, was still feeling her loss and was finding her own comfort in consoling Beltran with her empathetic presence.
Harrison and Grist were standing outside the door. Pike was seated just inside next to the side table, with no qualms about drinking the instant coffee brought from the station. Hell, if no one else was going to drink any, why should it go to waste?
Horace stood. He had taken off his coat once the room started to fill with bodies. Their extra heat caused him to shed the unwanted wool. He had considered leaving it on. Laura said it added some distinction to his profile. Made him look more authoritative. Not that his size and bulk didn’t already do that, not to mention his ‘stache. More than one person had likened him to Mr. Roosevelt. How more authoritative can you get? A damn president! But he knew she was just trying to help. That’s why he loved her.
He looked around the room. Seeing that he did not command the attention he felt his rugged and authoritative looks should have inspired, he coughed, just loud enough to be heard over the hushed conversations and Beltran’s most recent outburst. That worked.
“I want to thank you all for meeting me down here.” Not that any of you had much of a choice. “As you know, we are now dealing with two murders.” Actually six if you count the other four Raven murders, but who’s counting? “We believe they are connected. Now, we are not here to point fingers,” looking at Hess. “But if any of you have anything to add to your statements, even the most insignificant detail may help us solve these crimes.”
He was met with silence. That was to be expected of course. “Mr. Daniels, we will be able to return the Allura back into your possession tomorrow as we have now learned all that we can from her. I would ask you to stay in town for a few more days, though. I hope you understand.”
“Yes, of course I understand.” His lips were saying yes, but his body was saying, Hell no!
“As for the rest of you, I cannot keep you here interminably; as of tomorrow you will be free to go your own ways. But, as with Daniels, I am stressing my sincerest hope that you will remain within the vicinity until we can come to a more satisfactory solution. Mr. Beltran, I am sorry we were unable to locate Ms. Lorraine’s remains. Ms. Stuart. The morgue will complete the cremation process this evening. Your husband’s ashes will be available for you to put to rest according to your wishes tomorrow morning.” Beltran reached his hand over to hers, it wasn’t clear if it was to give her moral support or to support himself, but she responded returning the grip of his hand.
The room lapsed once again into silence. Horace remained standing there looking from person to person, face to face, eyes to eyes, as if he anticipated any one of them to suddenly leap up just bursting with a confession, but of course, he didn’t expect anything of the kind. After several minutes of tortuous silence, when he felt he turned the screws just tight enough, he concluded. “Very well then. If any of you have a sudden change of heart, an officer will be available in
room 204, should you wish to speak with someone. He will know how to reach me.”
“And where will you be?” asked Smith voluntarily, to more than one person’s astonishment.
“At home,” he replied, then muttered, “for the first time in several days.”
He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t show any further signs of acknowledgement to any one of them. Didn’t even tap his hat to the ladies as he put it on his head. Just grabbed his coat and motioned to Pike. “Is the car ready?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good, I’m tired of this place.”
“Yes sir.”
And they left. Everybody saw them. The car pulled to the curb outside the tall windows. He came out the side door, got in, and left. The vile ‘Stache was gone. But is he gone for good? Miserable cops. Can’t trust what any of them say these days.
38
How to Trap a Rat
* * *
Anna’s heels clicked softly on the wooden planks, muted by the surrounding fog. Vainly she looked up and down the pier, much of it cloaked in that heavy mist she had become oh so familiar with. She strained to listen for any sign that she was not alone, but heard only the sound of water and the occasional foghorn signaling out at Alcatraz. It was well past 11:00, almost 12:00. Surely, at this time of night, no one was out here. The nightclubs downtown were still noisy with laughter and music. But out here on the docks, the fish mongers still had a couple hours of sleep before they would begin filling this part of darkness.
As she approached Pier 7, the Harbor police dock, she pulled her thin sweater tighter around her shoulders, but that only made her shiver more as the sweater itself, had become damp in the night air. Out of the obscurity loomed the Allura. It rocked eerily in the water, dark and empty. A sleeping leviathan. Breathing and heaving menace while it slumbered. She proceeded up the ramp, ignoring the clear warning of her inner ego. She wouldn’t be there long. Just get them and go.
However, there was something bewitching about being on the yacht alone at this time of night. Her bare hand slid along the rails, wicking up the moisture that had condensed on the polished teak. It’s too bad. I would have liked to spend more time here. I don’t suppose there could be any harm in me staying on for an hour or so. Who in their right mind come here tonight? Me. Foolish girl! And very likely someone else. But I’m out of time!
Reminded of her purpose, she entered the cigar room door. Using her hands and the dim light filtering in from the distant street lamps on The Embarcadero to guide her, she made her way to the stairs. Reaching her object, she descended the narrow steps into the pitch black abyss of the stateroom level. She flipped the switch on her pocket torch. A faint shaft of light emitted from its head and then flickered off. She shook the flashlight, a little too hard. Scheiße! Hands still wet from the rails, it slid treacherously from of her fingers and landed on the floor with a bang, the bulb flashing back on with a strong steady beam.
Anna froze. Nothing. No other sound. She looked behind her up the stairs. Nothing. Cold sweat beads dotted her brow. With a shaky hand she picked up the torch. It flickered, but then persevered to light the narrow passageway ahead of her. She made her way to the office door. Turning the knob, she thought she heard a faint scratching sound from within. Heart beating wildly in her throat, she paused and listened. A beastly squeak made her shudder, yet calmed her fears at the same time as she remembered the rat problem Shamus had mentioned. Nothing she couldn’t handle. She stepped inside, and sure enough a 7 inch with a 5 inch tail scurried across the floor, over and under Beltran’s desk. Fortunately, she didn’t need anything over there. She walked with purpose to her own desk, picking up the sheets of paper that had been disregarded by Inspector Horace. Sifting through them, she picked out the ones she was after, leaving behind the bulk of the others. Lifting the flap of her leather satchel, she placed the pages neatly within, and quieter than the rodent she disturbed, slipped back out the door into the corridor.
She had planned on leaving, really she did. There was no good reason, and definitely no smart reason for staying; she was not going to be one of those heroines who foolishly ran headstrong into a noose. But it was what Horace said, about the plans. Had she really missed a piece? If it was separated from the rest, and Horace hell bent on finding it, it was probably the most important section. If that’s the case, it could still be on board somewhere. And if it was, he would probably be coming for them soon. But could she just leave without trying? It was tempting. It was beyond tempting! She reached down and adjusted the seam of her dress. It was causing the right side of her hemline to rise as she walked. Not a very practical dress, is it? I guess if it wasn’t so damp, it would lay properly.
What was it they had found in Forster’s cabin? Clothes soaked in wine and blood. She had seen those clothes in the process of receiving their stain. She knew where the fluids had been mopped up. She knew that was the place, the place where Eva was stabbed then mutilated. Or was it mutilated then stabbed? She shuddered. But instead of heading up the stairs that led out through the cigar room, she opted for the ones that led down into the even darker lower decks. Turning left into the galley, she headed for the cooler. The door stood open. Indeed, the red did stain. Even in the low light of her tiny torch, she could see a dark, now almost black discoloration covering the floor and creeping up the walls.
Her fingers carefully avoiding the blemished areas, she slid the door open further and put one foot inside. She couldn’t bear to bring in the other at first, but from her vantage point, she could see that the main chamber of the cooler contained a small opening at the opposite end leading into the next chamber where the wine for the guests on board could be kept at the proper temperature and hidden by a false wall that was now roughly pushed aside. Strange. If the wine had fallen, most of the stain should be in that room. I wonder if Forster noticed this when he was cleaning it up. A draft made its way interior, reminding her that this was not an unhaunted space. As she turned to leave, her torch flashed about the walls and alit on a tiny piece of metal protruding from the wall. Reaching up, she realized where she had seen something like this before. In the office. The recess that slid open to reveal Beltran’s gin drinks also had such a protrusion in the lower left hand corner. There had also been that other recess: the one that held the first batch of the plans. She let her fingers slip over the small piece of wire and pushed. A small click was heard from the opposite side. Aha! Must be in the engine room. Now no longer concerned with avoiding the stains, she stepped back out of the cooler into the galley making an immediate turn round the corner through the door into the engine room.
Though steps away from her own cabin, Anna had not explored the engine room yet. No reason to. The two Winstons were the charge of the Allura’s engineers. It was rare to even see those whose job it was to ensure the Allura made her steady pace across the water. She thought about the other duties they must have had, each night, as the rumrunners pulled alongside the yacht to deposit and collect their nightly shipments.
Remembering those special qualities that made the Allura unique, she noted the infamous water tank across a small chasm in front of her. She would have had no clue its size was double that of a normal water tank, or that there were extra vents leading outside to release the gasses from the fermentation process. However, she thought anyone familiar with motor yachts would be suspicious.
In the center of the room, the floor opened up revealing the engines below. A metal staircase descending down one side made them accessible. Strange, she had never been curious about how they operated before, but now, at the time when she knew she shouldn’t linger, she wanted to know how they worked. They take up so much room, she thought as she looked over the side at the now silent Winstons. No time Anna! Read a book about them later.
She turned back around to face the wall the engine room shared with the galley, more specifically, the cooler. There it was. A panel that, when closed, looked just a small sheet of steel that helped make up the wall, rive
ts and all. Due to the latch she triggered in the ice-box, it now stood slightly ajar, a touch above shoulder height, at least Anna’s shoulders, chest height to most others. She reached up, opening it fully and looking inside.
She was being watched.
Glaring back at her was a pair of cloudy hazel eyes, suspended in time and clear liquid. There you are! I know someone who was looking for you. She was not talking to the globes that peeped at her through the wavy glass of the bottle, but a sheet of paper, neatly folded, propped up behind them. Now, how to get you. She may have disregarded addressing the pupils of the recently deceased directly, but she was well aware of their presence and was still squeamish when it came to dead bodies and their parts. And she knew quite well who these macabre orbs had likely belonged to in life. Clenching her teeth and turning her face slightly away, her eyes squeezing closed as far as they could go while still allowing her to see between her lashes, she reached into the recess passed the bottle, grabbing hold of the paper and pulling it out.
She placed the back end of her flashlight in her mouth so she could use both hands to unfold her ill-gotten gain. White lines, numbers, and images highlighted the cyan background. The top of a plane’s wing. A hook. An extension that attached to the hook. In a word? A trapeze. A steel frame that extended from the airship, allowing fighter pilots to descend to their F9Cs, take off, and rehitch upon their return to the mother ship. The Akron had a similar design, but as with most prototypes, significant improvements had been made when the plans were duplicated then altered to build the sister ship: USS Macon. Unfortunately, the significance of the design was lost on Anna, but she knew enough to know it was worth the extra time to find it, and the extra risk. She was in the process of refolding her treasure and sticking it in her bag when she heard a click behind her and froze; her flashlight dropped from her lips, clanging to the floor.
The Golden Gates Page 18