I said, “Your wife doesn’t seem to care much for Mr. Emerson.”
“I guess she doesn’t.”
“May I ask why?”
“Personal reasons.”
“Do you feel the same way?”
“Carl and I get along all right.”
“Would you consider him a friend?”
“Not really. A business associate.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Six years. He was with Honeywell when I went to work there; that’s how we met.”
“How would you describe him generally?”
“High-powered,” Bexley said without hesitation. There were traces of bitterness in his voice, just as there had been in Orin Tedescu’s yesterday. “When he makes up his mind to do something he goes out and does it. On his terms. He doesn’t let anything or anybody stand in his way.”
“That sounds as though he might be a little unscrupulous.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. He—”
The woman’s voice rose again from the rear bedroom. One of the kids quit yelling, but the other one kept it up in an argumentative way. Then he broke off and let out a howl, as if the woman had smacked him one, and began to cry noisily.
Bexley winced. “Kids,” he said. “You have any?”
“No. I’m not married.”
“They get on your nerves sometimes.” He made a meaningless gesture with his cigarette. “What was I saying?”
“That you wouldn’t call Mr. Emerson unscrupulous.”
“No, I wouldn’t. Not exactly. I don’t want you to get the wrong impression; he hasn’t done anything unethical in building up our firm. Mid-Pacific is aboveboard in every way, Mr. Rable. Orin Tedescu and I see to that.”
“Meaning Mr. Emerson might do something unethical if you weren’t around?”
“No, I don’t want to imply that either.”
I made a couple of squiggles in the notebook, just for show. Bexley watched me write with the book balanced on one knee, and when I looked up again he asked, “What happened to your arm?”
“An accident.”
“Car accident?”
“Yes. Even insurance investigators have them now and then.”
He smiled sympathetically. “Must be difficult, trying to do things with one hand.”
“It is,” I said. “Can you tell me if Mr. Emerson has ever been in trouble?”
“Trouble? You mean with the law?”
“With anyone at all.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Lawsuits, anything like that?”
“No.”
“What about his personal life?”
A little boy about five or six came running into the room; his face was scrunched up, wet with tears. “Daddy, she hit me!” he wailed. “Mommy hit me!”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Bexley said. He glanced at me, said, “Excuse me a second, will you?” and got up and scooped the little boy into his arms and carried him out of the room.
I looked around at the potted plants. It’s not Bexley, I thought. He wasn’t putting on an act for my benefit; the things he’d said so far, the domestic stuff, had the feel of authenticity. Unless I was losing my sense of judgment, he was just a guy with a wife and a couple of kids and a thinly veiled dislike for one of his business partners.
I listened to muffled voices and then silence as the little boy stopped crying. Bexley came back and sat down again and said, “Sorry about that. I had to play peacemaker.”
“No problem.”
He lit another cigarette; he’d got rid of the other one while he was out of the room. “You were asking me about Carl’s personal life, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m not sure I ought to talk about that. He wouldn’t like it if he found out.”
“He won’t find out, Mr. Bexley. These interviews are strictly confidential.”
“Yes? Do you mind telling me if Mr. Tedescu talked freely when you interviewed him?”
“He was very cooperative, yes.”
“I’ll bet.” Bexley’s mouth quirked into a sardonic smile. “I’m surprised Carl listed him as a reference.”
“Why is that?”
“They’ve had their differences in the past.”
“Over business matters?”
“Primarily.”
“Would you care to elaborate?”
“I’d rather not. It doesn’t have anything to do with what we’re discussing here.” He paused. “Just what sort of policy did Carl apply for, anyway? Life insurance?”
“Yes. Property insurance as well, on his home in Burlingame.” ^
“May I ask who’s the beneficiary on the life policy?”
“I’m not at liberty to divulge that.”
“Sorry. I was just curious. Carl doesn’t have any relatives, and it certainly wouldn’t be Tedescu or me. Or his ex-wife.”
“Do you know his ex-wife?”
“Just to talk to. I haven’t seen her since the divorce.”
“What was the reason for it? The divorce, I mean.”
He shrugged. “Carl never said. But it wasn’t an amicable split, I can tell you that. Not the way he acted after it happened.”
“How did he act?”
“Oh, angry and upset. The divorce was her idea, not his; he didn’t seem to want it.”
I nodded. “How would you characterize Mr. Emerson’s present life-style?”
“I really can’t answer that question.”
“No? Why is that?”
“He keeps his private life pretty much to himself.”
“You don’t socialize with him?”
“No. An occasional business dinner, that’s about it. We’ve never been to his house, he’s never been to ours. As I said before, my relationship with him is strictly business.”
“I see.”
“Yes,” Bexley said.
“Can you tell me anything at all about his habits?”
“What do you mean by habits?”
“Well … does he use drugs, for instance?”
“Why do you want to know that?”
“Drug users are health risks,” I said.
“Really?” Bexley said, as if he didn’t believe it. “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if he smokes a little grass. Who doesn’t, these days?”
I didn’t. But I said, “Hard drugs of any kind?”
“Not that I know of.”
“How about women?”
“Women? You mean is he a swinger?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose he gets his share. But he doesn’t talk much about it.”
“Is there any vice he might have that he does talk about?”
“Just one. And not much about that, either.”
“What would that be?”
“Gambling,” Bexley said. “It’s a big passion with him.”
I sat up a little straighter. “What sort of gambling?”
“You name it. Horses, football games, blackjack, craps. And poker—especially poker.”
“Does he play for high stakes?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. He usually wins, too. Or he does to hear him tell it.”
“Is there any place in particular he goes for poker?”
“Las Vegas. Three or four times a year.”
“How about here in the city?”
“None that he’s ever mentioned.”
There it is, I thought, the possible connection. Carl Emerson is a heavy gambler; Lee Chuck runs a gambling parlor for the Hui Sip tong; Jimmy Quon is a body-washer for Hui Sip. But Emerson was a Caucasian, and those Chinatown parlors were generally reserved for Chinese gamblers. How would Emerson get in on high-stakes games at Lee Chuck’s? Why would he want to, given the fact that there were plenty of other gambling spots in San Francisco?
I could not think of a way to pump more information out of Bexley without making him suspicious. And I didn’t want to blow my cover; Bexley may not have liked Emerson much, b
ut if he realized I wasn’t who I said I was, it might drive him straight to his partner to find out what was going on. If Emerson was the man behind Jimmy Quon, I did not want him to know I was on to him. There were others who might be able to tell me if Emerson and Lee Chuck were connected. Kam Fong, for one. Emerson’s ex-wife, for another.
I said, “Has Mr. Emerson ever lost enough gambling to put him in financial difficulty?”
“If he has, he’s kept it to himself.”
“Then as far as you know, he’s financially solvent?”
“As far as I know. That ranch he bought up in Mendocino County didn’t come cheap.”
“Ranch?”
“You don’t know about that?”
“No. There was no mention of it on his application.”
“Place called Seaview Ranch, somewhere near Mendocino. The village, I mean. Carl bought it about six months ago—his weekend retreat, so he says.”
“An expensive piece of property?”
“I don’t know what he paid for it, but you can’t buy real estate anywhere in California these days without shelling out a good piece of change for it.”
“True enough. Is there anything else you can tell me about Mr. Emerson that my company ought to know?”
“I can’t think of anything, no.” Bexley consulted his watch. “I have an appointment at eleven; I can just make it if I leave now. If you don’t have any more questions, Mr. Rable …”
“I think that’s about it,” I said. I put the notebook and pen away, and when I stood up Bexley did the same.
He said, “I’d like to ask you a question.”
“Go right ahead.”
“Are Carl’s policy applications going to go through?”
“That’s not up to me. I’m just a field investigator.”
“But you do recommend acceptance or denial?”
“In some cases, yes.”
“What I’ve just told you … will it have a bearing on your recommendation in this case?”
“It might. I still have other people to see.”
“Well, I hope I’ve been of some help,” he said.
“You have, and I appreciate it.”
“My pleasure.” He smiled at me. There was a kind of satisfaction in the smile, as if he thought maybe he’d said enough to turn me against Emerson and the prospect pleased him. “If you’ll just wait while I say good-bye to my wife, I’ll walk out with you.”
“Fine.”
He disappeared again into the back of the house, and after a moment I heard him talking to Mrs. Bexley. The North Coast Insurance card was on the table next to his armchair, where he’d put it when he sat down; I moved over there and picked it up and slipped it into my pocket. I was standing by the door when Bexley returned. He didn’t even look at the table as he caught up his briefcase.
Outside, he shook my hand and gave me another smile before he went to open his garage. He was in a much better mood than when I’d arrived. I may not have made his wife’s day, but I had sure made Bexley’s.
Now, I thought as I walked to my car, let’s see if somebody can make mine.
Thirteen
Twenty-eight sixty Vallejo-Street turned out to be an old brick apartment building at the foot of Russian Hill, just above the Broadway tunnel. The bank of mailboxes on the porch confirmed that Jeanne Emerson lived in 4B, but there was no answer when I pushed the doorbell next to her nameplate. It figured she had a job somewhere, being divorced, which meant she probably wouldn’t be home until later in the day. I could have canvassed her neighbors to find out where she worked, but it seemed a better idea to wait. I wanted to talk to her in private; people are much more apt to be candid in their own homes than in their places of business, particularly when you were trying to get them to discuss their personal lives.
I drove through the tunnel to Montgomery and then swung around to Portsmouth Square. By the time I got into the garage and parked the car, it was almost eleven-thirty. From a phone booth I called Leo Vail at Waller & Company, identified myself as Andrew James, and asked him what else he’d been able to find out about Mid-Pacific Electronics.
“Not much, I’m afraid,” he said. “As I indicated to you yesterday, they’re quite a successful firm already and promise to be even more successful once they expand. Of course, a lot depends on their methods of expansion; they could be too ambitious, get in over their heads. But on the face of it, I think I can recommend purchase once their stock goes on sale.”
“What about Car! Emerson?” I asked. “I’ve done some checking on my own and I understand he’s something of a reckless sort.”
“If that’s the case,” Vail said, “your sources are better than mine. As far as I’ve been able to determine, Emerson and his partners have built Mid-Pacific on sound, shrewd business acumen.”
“Well, it doesn’t really matter. I’ve pretty much made up my mind to go ahead in any case.” I thanked him again, told him I would be in touch when Mid-Pacific made their official announcement, and hung up before he could ask me for an address and a telephone number.
There were fewer people in Portsmouth Square today, because of the fog and the raw wind off the bay. I cut through there to Grant Avenue. It gave me an odd feeling to be back in Chinatown, after what had happened yesterday and last night; I kept thinking this or that Chinese was looking at me as I passed, as if I wore some sort of brand that marked me as an enemy. Paranoia again, But the .38 on my belt was a reassuring weight just the same.
On Jackson, I walked down the narrow alley and into the passageway to Kam Fong’s door. But he wasn’t home today either; the same old woman stuck her head out of the same second-floor window and told me that in her broken English. Which left another visit to the Mandarin Cafe. If that was Fong’s regular noonday haunt, it was a good bet I’d find him there; my watch said that it was almost twelve.
Because it was still early, the Mandarin was only three-quarters full. I scanned the patrons from just inside the door; Fong wasn’t among them. There was an empty table along the near side wall, and I went over there and sat down to wait. I had nowhere else to go. If he didn’t show up by one o’clock, I would have to go back and camp on his doorstep; but that was something to worry about if and when the time came.
When one of the waiters came around I ordered a pot of tea and a bowl of soup. It was too warm in there again; I shrugged out of my overcoat. That made the arm sling even more prominent, and once more I had the feeling that some of the Chinese customers were giving me covert looks. Cut it out, I told myself. They’re just people. Theress no sinister alliance among the Chinese population; that’s a lot of racial crap and you know it. The only Chinese you’ve got to worry about are Jimmy Quon and his pals in Hui Sip.
The waiter brought my order. I managed to get most of the soup down, and I was working on the tea, watching the door, when Kam Fong blew in.
He took half a dozen steps toward the rear, saw me, did an almost comic double take, and reversed direction like a soldier doing an about-face on a parade ground. I got to him just as he was reaching for the doorknob. I caught hold of his arm and wedged him against the door with the right side of my body.
“You’re not going anywhere, Fong,” I said in an undertone. “We’ve got things to talk about.”
His eyes slid away from my face, rolled in a furtive glance over my shoulder. “Not here. Not talking here.”
“Where, then?”
It took him a couple of seconds to think of a place. “Cultural Center. You know it?”
“I know it.”
“Fifteen minutes. You come there, yes?”
He made a move for the doorknob again, but I held onto him. “If you don’t show up, Fong, I’ll come looking for you.”
He bobbed his head up and down. I let him go, and he was through the door and away in two seconds. When I turned around one of the waiters and two or three patrons were looking at me; but their faces showed nothing more than curiosity. As soon as I returned to my table, t
hey went back to minding their own business. End of incident.
I finished the rest of my tea, paid the bill, and made my way back to Portsmouth Square. On the east side of it, above the garage, an elevated pedestrian causeway spanned Kearny Street and led to the Financial District branch of the Holiday Inn; the Chinese Cultural Center was at the end of the causeway, on an upper floor of the hotel building. I crossed over and went inside.
It was a big place, museumlike, with several large sculptures, glass cases displaying other forms of Chinese art, an information counter, and an open shop area dispensing books and jade and ivory craftwork. There weren’t many visitors, and I didn’t see Fong among the few who were present. I moved toward the back. And there he was, looking nervous and frightened, half-hidden behind a massive stone sculpture of a dragon.
He let me prod him over near one of the windows; there was nobody else in the vicinity. But when he spoke it was in a stagey whisper, like a character in a bad play. ” Why you come to Mandarin again?”
“Why not? What’s the matter?”
“You know,” he said accusingly. “You talking to Lee Chuck. Telling him you know about Mau Yee.”
“All right, that was a mistake; I admit it. But I didn’t use your name.”
“Hui Sip finding out, they eat my pie.”
“Does Chuck suspect you?”
“No. Not yet, maybe.”
“Then don’t worry about it.”
“I worry,” he said. “Worry plenty. Calling you this morning, but nobody home.”
“Why did you call?”
“Warning you, don’t come back Chinatown.”
“Because Mau Yee is looking for me?”
“Yes.”
“I already know that. He tried to blow me away last night, outside my flat. He’s not going to get a second chance.”
Fong grimaced and muttered something in Chinese.
I said, “Is Jimmy Quon the only one after me? Or is it all of Hui Sip?”
“Not knowing. Maybe just Mau Yee.”
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