Lethal Streets (A Flood and Flood Mystery Book 2)

by Will Rayner

  Sam filled his pipe. He needed a smoke; there was some pretty heavy thinking going on here. T.J. pulled out his Old Golds and offered one to Bracken. Jimbo accepted it with a murmur of thanks.

  “That’s it?” T.J. demanded. “No trove of deadly weaponry? No lists, no maps with big ‘X’s on them?”

  Sam ignored his son’s flight of fancy. “I would say substantial progress has been made,” he said. “Did you get a good description from Derby and Kneith?”

  “Indeed we did, Samuel,” Bracken said. “Which is one of the reasons I thought I’d drop in on you gents, of course it was.” Folded inside his notebook was a police artist’s sketch of Jane Brown. Bracken handed it to T.J. “A composite from co-worker’s descriptions,” he continued. “It seems to tally with the description you gave Detective Towser.”

  T.J. examined it. “That’s her, all right,” he said. “Except for the face. I never really saw her face. Tell me, how was she dressed at work? All in grey, I bet.”

  “That is a very good question, Thomas. Miss Brown did indeed favor grey, the other clerks say. Including a long, grey cloak.”

  “Well, we pretty well know what she looks like,” T.J. said, “and we know she’s as crazy as a March hare. But we don’t know what she’s gonna pull off next.”

  “Continued vigilance, laddies,” Bracken said. “Our watchers will stay in place. Miss Brown’s targets are well defined. Mr. Randolph Baggett and Thomas J. Flood. The thing is, if we concentrate on these two known targets, we should be able to catch her in the act.”

  The thing is, will I still be alive and kicking when that happens, T.J. asked himself?

  “I plan to go down and see Margaret tomorrow,” Sam said after Jimbo Bracken had made his departure. “A consultation with the medical staff is indicated.”

  “Sure,” T.J. said. He was still lounging in one of the client chairs.

  “I’d appreciate it if you would write down some notes about this afternoon’s discussion and give them to Agnes. We should keep our files up to date.”

  “Can do.”

  “And then I suggest you can call it a day.”

  T.J. realized he was being dismissed. He unfolded himself and strolled out, closing his father’s office door behind him. Should I dash off those notes right now, he pondered, or go have a beer first. Maybe take a stroll around, see if there are any grey splotches in the neighborhood. Of course, I could wait until tomorrow for those notes. The boss-man won’t be here to disturb me. That would mean I could have more than one beer right now. Decisions, decisions. Naw. Better get them out of the way right now. One never knows what the morrow will bring.

  Sam Flood refilled his pipe and took off his jacket. The retained heat in his office was a trifle sticky. He unlocked a desk drawer and took out his investment portfolio. Part of the discussion at the nursing home would be an attempt on his part to gain an estimation of how long Margaret had left. The agency’s finances were fine, but he wasn’t so sure about his own. His bottom line had suffered a sharp blow in 1929, but not nearly as much as some people. Randolph Baggett, for instance. Still, he had diversified enough before the crash that his private income along with his agency share was enough to take care of Meg’s expenses. For now. He reviewed the portfolio carefully and identified the investments he might have to sell if need be. There was also the house, of course. It would bring a tidy sum. The neighborhood was desirable and he understood that the market was relatively firm.

  The problem here was Thomas. The house was his son’s legacy. It would become his home in due course. Tomorrow, even, if that madwoman chooses me, he thought suddenly. Any pending sale, naturally, would have to be discussed with Thomas. It was a prospect Sam could not look forward to. He locked up his portfolio and sighed. He wondered how different things would be if he had told T.J. the guilty secret about the night his mother died. Despite their differences, despite Thomas’s attitude, he realized he still cared for his son.

  Sam put on his jacket, adjusted his vest and his tie and took down his fedora. Agnes was putting the cover over her Underwood. “Did Thomas give you his notes, Miss Wilkins?” he asked.

  “Yes, Mr. Sam. I was going to do them in the morning, unless …?” Her voice quavered with indecision.

  “That will be fine, Miss Wilkins. Good night.” Sam was mildly surprised. He had fully expected Thomas to fortify himself at a saloon before tackling a routine office chore.

  ****

  Across the street, just around the corner on Sansome, Miss Jane Brown watched Sam Flood emerge. He is not the one, she told herself. He is not the evil one who deprived me of my vengeance across the bay. She let the elder Flood walk away without following. It is the evil one I want, she told herself. I must watch him because watching him will tell me what to do.

  Suddenly she noticed another watcher. A big man, who was not only watching the office building, but the street as well. He had the stink of authority about him. The chill stab of danger raced down her spine.

  Quietly Jane Brown faded away, shaking with frustration and rage. “Someone must die,” she whispered to herself on the slow walk back to her room. The red haze of revenge and atonement began to envelop her once more as she remembered her mother and the bad, bad years. The running, the hiding, the hunger, the cold, shivery places, the constant struggle to live a normal life. And the name her mother whispered in her illegitimate daughter’s ear as soon as she was old enough to comprehend.

  “Someone must die, someone must die.”

  Chapter 13

  The harsh sound of the telephone made T.J. spill his tooth powder all over the bathroom counter. “Goddamitallthewaytohellandbackagain,” he muttered. He rinsed out his mouth, grabbed a towel and headed for the phone. It kept ringing with the uncaring insistence of an inanimate object performing its duty. Who the hell calls this early in the morning, T.J. asked himself as he yanked the receiver off its hook.

  It was Jimbo Bracken. “Good morning, young Thomas,” the lieutenant said cheerily. “Sleep well, I trust – of course you did.”

  ‘What’s so important this time of day, Jimbo?” T.J. asked. He had a sudden premonition that it was about his father. Pop had been hurt or even killed!

  Bracken’s next words dispelled that fear, however. “The thing is, a gentleman named Hubert S. Loomis has been found dead at the foot of the Sutro cliff, indeed he has. Or who appears to be Hubert S. Loomis.”

  “Our Loomis? Baggett’s Loomis?”

  “Identification on his mortal remains suggests precisely that,” Bracken said. “Which is why I want you to hop into a squad car with me so you can take a peek at the body and verify our preliminary assumption.”

  “Why can’t you take Baggett? He worked for Baggett.”

  “Oh, young Thomas. The callous assumptions of the hale and hearty. Mr. Randolph Baggett is of advanced years, of course he is, and walks with a cane. He would have extreme difficulty reaching the bottom of the aforementioned cliff, let alone climbing back up again. Which reminds me, wear sensible footwear and sturdy clothes.”

  “Why can’t we wait until they haul the body up to the road?” T.J. asked.

  “Because, young Thomas, that will take a considerable length of time, yes indeed, and if this is our Hubert S. Loomis, I would suggest time is of the essence. Miss Jane Brown is still wandering the streets of this fair city and we must not dawdle. I will be outside that fleabag of yours in 20 minutes.” T.J. lived in a respectable residential hotel on Geary Street, but Bracken insisted on calling it a ‘fleabag’ from time to time.

  On the drive west along Geary Boulevard, the lieutenant gave T.J. some more details. The body was found just past dawn by scavengers looking for objects washed up by the tide. One of them had contacted the police precinct and a patrolman had scrambled down from the small parking area at the top. There were letters in the dead man’s pocket and a driver’s permit, all bearing the name of Hubert S. Loomis.

  “Hubert,” T.J. mused out loud. “I never knew his
first name. Have you told Baggett?”

  “Not yet. We wanted to make certain first. I’m not sure how Mr. Baggett will take the news. We’ll take a nurse with us. He may keel over.”

  “He’s a tough old bird,” TJ. said. “A little wobbly on his pins, but otherwise pretty solid.”

  ****

  The medical examiner arrived while they were searching among the rocks. Doctor Globall was a little portly, so T.J. watched with interest as a uniformed cop helped him edge down along the long rope attached to a cruiser’s bumper. He’s gonna have more trouble getting back to the top than I will, he thought.

  Dr. Globall made a swift but thorough examination of the body. “Indications of applied blunt force in several areas,” he told Bracken and T.J. “Some of it undoubtedly from contact with the rocks. However, he had been struck several times on the back of the skull beforehand with a heavy object – a crowbar, perhaps, or a tire iron.”

  “Baseball bat?” Bracken asked.

  “No. The points of impact are too concentrated. Something heavy with a small diameter. He may have been dead before he went over the cliff. I will determine the exact sequence at the morgue later.” He looked around the foreshore and up at the cliff-top. “I assume preparations are in hand to remove the body.”

  “Indeed they are, my good doctor,” Bracken replied. He was interrupted at that moment by a shout from one of the patrolmen searching the area. The cop was holding up a blunt object.

  “Voila,” Bracken said. “That looks like a crowbar, indeed it does. We will bundle that up along with the remains of the late Hubert S. Loomis and see what the lab boys can find.”

  T.J. never did see how Dr. Globalll made it up to the roadway. He was too out of breath from his own climb. He was given a ride back to his hotel in another squad car and decided he’d better take a shower. And get around to brushing my teeth, he told himself.

  ****

  Packy Shannon and Pete McDonough met in the back of a McDonough Brothers bail-bond office only steps away from the Hall of Justice. Shannon looked relaxed, but McDonough knew he was a tightly-wound coil of explosive energy. “Don’t see you in these parts too often, Packy,” he said with an air of bonhomie.

  Shannon ignored McDonough’s attempt at pleasantries. “Those snoopers from Los Angeles are getting in the way,” he said curtly.

  “Only just a little bit,” McDonough said. “We’re still in control, believe me.”

  “My boys tell me the cops are getting so nervous they might try to shut some of our places down. One of them has already tried. And they’re going to nail Dolly Fine, one of my top madams. They’ve been wiretapping her. And stuff is still being leaked to the papers. Isn’t there any way you can toss a bigger monkey wrench into the works? Did you try and buy anybody off?”

  “Very discreetly, Packy. The lead guy is a former FBI agent and he would love to nail me on a federal rap like that. I think he’s running out of steam, though, a little bit. We’re trying to throw up a lot more roadblocks. Not everyone on the grand jury is in the D.A.’s pocket.”

  “I guess those clowns at the Hall haven’t figured out yet that a new crop will move right in once these LA meddlers move on,” Shannon said. “There are plenty of bent coppers ready to go on the arm.”

  “It would take a while, though. The system we got now didn’t happen overnight, you know that, Packy. It took a lot of fine-tuning.”

  “Vido tells me there was a green Nash parked just down the block when I was having a meeting at Luigi’s a little while ago,” Shannon said. “The driver sat in the front seat, didn’t get out, didn’t move. Any ideas?”

  “The boss gumshoe drives a green Nash, courtesy of the Commission.”

  “So this outatown bird is taking a gander at me, is he? Won’t do him any good.”

  “He might have seen you coming in here today,” McDonough said.

  “So what? Maybe I want to talk over a bail problem one of my boys is having. What’s so sinister about that?”

  McDonough shrugged. They say I’m a pretty tough egg, he told himself, but I wouldn’t want to cross Packy Shannon. He’s about as sinister as a guy can get.

  ****

  “Ah, my two favorite Sherlocks,” Lieutenant James T. Bracken said, slipping into one of Sam’s client chairs. Immediately, his hands started searching his pockets.

  Omigawd, he’s loaded those dead stogies again, T.J, thought. “Nice to have you drop in, Jimbo,” he said. “Things must be pretty busy over on Kearny Street.”

  “Indeed they are, young Thomas,” Bracken said. “The thing is, the boys have sort of pieced together the events leading up to the unfortunate demise of one, Hubert S. Loomis.”

  Bracken’s fingers had finally extracted a cigar butt. He put one of his kitchen matches to it and made sure the stub was glowing nicely. Sam quickly filled his pipe in self-defense and T.J. lit an Old Gold. “It appears our Mr. Loomis was washing the car in the driveway,” Bracken continued, “when along comes our murderous miscreant and spirits him away.”

  “Where were your coppers?” T.J. demanded. “They were supposed to be guarding Baggett’s digs.”

  Bracken lapsed into an embarrassed silence. “Well, yes, a very good point and a troubling one,” Sam added. “Just exactly where were they, lieutenant?”

  “Well, the squad car was parked in front, as per instructions, but the driver had to … ah … answer a call of nature.”

  “And?” Sam asked curtly.

  “And the thing is, there was no second officer assigned to the car. The dispatcher … ah … erred, of course he did. He has been properly disciplined. So, apparently, our Miss Brown forced Mr. Loomis into the Packard and persuaded him to drive away. To the Sutro cliffs.”

  “Meanwhile the jerk on guard duty is zipping himself up,” T.J. sneered.

  “That may be a little harsh, Thomas,” his father remarked.

  “All I know is, Randolph Baggett hired Flood and Flood to watch over him, and we did, and nothing happened,” T.J. growled. “The fuzz take over and bingo, we’ve got a dead body.”

  “I suggest it is not the positive image the police department needs at this moment,” Sam said.

  “At least it is a wake-up call for all concerned,” Bracken said.

  “Not for Mr. Loomis,” Sam retorted.

  “So now we have this dizzy dame inside a Packard,” T.J. said. “Mobility to spare.”

  “The crowbar?” Sam asked, tying up loose ends.

  “The crowbar had traces of blood and hair, indeed it did,” Bracken said. “The blood type is the same as that of the unfortunate Mr. Loomis. The fingerprint boys, bless their hearts, believe they may be able to lift a partial off it. Dr. Globall says the victim was struck twice, so he was still alive when he started bouncing off the rocks.”

  “How did Mr. Baggett take the news?” Sam asked.

  “He was shaken. Quite shaken. He did, however, bear up well. Stiff upper lip, as they say across the pond. He accepts the necessity of police presence inside his residence, as well as outside.”

  ‘What about me?” T.J. demanded. “You sure as hell ain’t gonna post a flatfoot at the foot of my bed.”

  “Or in this office,” Sam added. “We have a business to run. A confidential business.”

  Jimbo Bracken looked at the soggy butt of his cigar. It had gone out. Carefully, he placed it in Sam’s ashtray. “Gentlemen, I promise that homicide will do a much better job of watching over young Thomas here, without violating any of your … um … spaces.”

  “What about pop?” T.J. asked. “Isn’t he at risk here?”

  “I sincerely doubt that Miss Brown knows I exist,” Sam said. “She is far too focused on you, Thomas, and Mr. Baggett.”

  “I agree, of course I do,” Bracken said, “but we will keep an eye on Samuel’s residence, just in case. A discreet surveillance, in plain clothes.” He stood up and brushed some cigar ash off his vest.

  “Go with care, Jimbo,” Sam said softly. “She
certainly knows you exist.”

  Lieutenant James T. Bracken tipped his fedora in response. “Homicide is used to that, of course we are,” he said cheerfully.

  Chapter 14

  T.J. Flood struck a familiar pose in front of Agnes Wilkins’s desk, putting his hands on his hips in mock anger. “C’mon, doll,” he growled. “You gotta do better than announcing that a certain ‘Mr. A’ has an appointment at two o’clock. You know we deal in full names here, proper names. First, a dead body pops up, and now Mister Mysterious.”

  “He wouldn’t give his full name,” Agnes said. “Security reasons, he said. ‘Just call me Mr. A,’ he said.”

  “Did the voice have an accent, a foreign accent? Hey, it didn’t sound Italian, did it?”

  “Stop teasing Miss Wilkins,” said Sam Flood, who was nearby, looking into the city directory.

  “Well, I figure the Eyeties might have it in for us after we helped collar that shady Defiore customer. Mebbe Mussolini sent a thug over to push us around a little bit.”

  “Oh Thomas, you’re being silly now,” Agnes said.

  “Just having a spot of fun on a slow day,” T.J. grinned.

  When Agnes showed ‘Mr. A’ into Sam’s office, however, T.J.’s relaxed attitude quickly hardened into wariness. Their visitor was a square-jawed man with the disapproving aura of a grade-school principal counting his dwindling supply of chalk. He glanced at T.J. and did a double take. “You’re, you’re a private detective?” he gasped.

  “I didn’t know it was so obvious,” T.J. said cautiously.

  “But you consort with criminals!”

  “What’s this all about?” Sam rasped.

  “Yeah, what’s all this ‘criminal’ malarkey?” T.J. added. His wariness had been replaced by annoyance. “Hey, wait a minute. You’re the bozo who’s digging up dirt on our flatfeet, aren’t you?”

  “That is certainly one way of putting it,” Mr. A said. He sat down “Gentlemen, I fear we may have gotten off on the wrong foot. Let me formally introduce myself.” He handed Sam his card.