Leave a Message for Willie

by Marcia Muller

  The little shop on Mission Street was empty this morning, except for the genial fat man, who sat in the same place he’d occupied yesterday. He smiled when he saw me and stood up. “You decided to take that gun?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? It’s a good deal.”

  “I’m sure it is, but I already have one of my own. And I’m afraid I haven’t been completely honest with you.” I took my wallet out and showed him the photostat of my license.

  Herman’s smile faded. “Private cop, huh? Who are you working for?”

  “Willie.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Originally I was to find out why the man who was shot in his garage was following him. Now I’m trying to prove Willie didn’t kill either Jerry Levin or Alida Edwards.”

  “Alida.” Herman sat down again. “That was one hell of a thing.”

  “Are you willing to help me – and help Willie?”

  He paused. “I’ll do what I can. No guarantees, though. I got a business to protect.”

  “I understand. You told me yesterday that you sold a gun to Selena Gonzalez. Can you describe it, in detail?”

  A strange look passed over his fleshy face. “I already did. High Standard Sentinel Deluxe. Nine-shot.”

  “I’m interested in anything peculiar about it.”

  “Like what?”

  But I wanted him to remember whether there was a chip out of the grip by himself. “Anything that would distinguish it from another gun of the same type.”

  “You mean, was the grip chipped.”

  “Yes,” I said, surprised.

  “No.”

  “Then why did you mention it?”

  Herman’s face returned to its usual jovial set. “Because it looks like Willie’s doing your job for you, little girl.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He was in here not an hour ago. You should see him - somewhere he’s gotten hold of a beat-up raincoat and a ratty felt hat and some of the most holey shoes you’d ever hope to see. No one would recognize him as the king of the flea market. Fits right in with the rest of the derelicts around here.”

  Dammit, Willie was carrying this detective business too far! “Did he ask you about the gun with the chipped grip?”

  “Yeah, but he didn’t ask if it was Selena’s. Wanted to know if I’d ever sold one like that to anyone he knew, though. And it wasn’t a High Standard; it was an RG-14, your Saturday Night Special. Willie’s ahead of you, girl. He knew its make.”

  I ignored the dig and said, “Had you sold it to anyone he knew?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “That little runner of his, Monty Adair.”

  Monty. He wanted to get ahead in the world. Obviously he felt it required the help of a gun.

  “Why did he buy it, did he say?”

  “No.”

  “When was this?”

  “About a year ago.”

  “Do you remember every gun you sell for that long?”

  “Naw, but this one I do because I’ve seen a lot of Monty lately.”

  “At the flea market, or here in your store?”

  “Both. That lad is real interested in guns.”

  “What’s he bought from you?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t have what he was looking for. I’m not a member of the Krupp family.” He chuckled. “And I didn’t send him to the competition; I figured he’s a smart kid, he can make his own way in the world.”

  I was certain of that. “Did you tell Willie all this?”

  “Oh, yes. He was most interested.”

  “How did he react – angry, upset, what?”

  Herman’s smile grew wider, his eyes almost disappearing into the surrounding fleshy pouches. “Cold, little girl. Cold and furious.”

  17.

  In the morning light, Monty Adair’s Pacific Heights highrise looked even less elegant; the marble façade was grimy and advertising circulars littered the floor of the foyer. I rang Adair’s apartment, and when I didn’t receive an answer, pressed another buzzer at random. After two more tries, the door lock was tripped and I went inside and took the elevator to the sixth floor.

  The hallway was empty. I went up to Adair’s door and knocked. There was no sound within. I knocked again, harder, and as I waited I glanced down. There were gouges in the wood of both the door and frame that looked as if someone had been kicking them. I didn’t remember seeing them last night.

  Behind me I heard another door open, and a woman’s strident voice said, “I told you to go away. If you don’t, I’m calling the cops.”

  I turned. She was a plump woman who wore so much makeup that her face looked like a mask. She stood, feet apart, hands on hips, her thickly penciled eyebrows raised at the sight of me. “Oh,” she said, “you’re someone else.”

  “I’m looking for Mr. Adair.”

  “You ought to be able to tell he isn’t home. You people don’t give up easy, do you?”

  “People?”

  “You and the guy who was here before. Although I got to admit you’re a better class of visitor.”

  “There was someone else here? What did he look like?”

  “A bum, that’s what. In a raincoat and floppy old hat. Looked like he ought to be hanging out at Wino Park. He kicked the door.” She motioned at the gouges. “See?”

  “I see. Did you talk with him?”

  “Sure I talked with him. What do you think I’d do, with him kicking the door and yelling? I told him it wouldn’t do no good. Monty’s gone to his country place, left early this morning like he always does.”

  Adair must be getting ahead in the world, if he had a country place. “Where is the place? Near here?”

  She shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “What did the bum do when you told him Mr. Adair wasn’t home?”

  “Growled at me. But he left. I tell you, when people like that start coming into the nice neighborhoods! And me, needing my mornings quiet. I mean, I got to be downtown at the department store pushing cosmetics at one, and the morning’s the only time I got—”

  “Does Mr. Adair go away to the country every week?”

  “Huh?”

  “You said he went away like he always does.”

  “Oh, yeah. Tuesday through Friday, regular as clockwork. Then he’s back here on the weekends. He’s a dealer in art goods, and that’s when he does most of his business.”

  “Art goods, huh?” I smiled faintly. “Well, I guess I’ll have to catch him on Friday.” I went over and pressed the elevator button.

  “Hey,” she said, “do you know who that bum was?”

  “Do I look like I would know any bums?”

  She eyed me critically, frowning so hard I feared for her makeup job. “Nowadays you can’t tell.” Then she went inside and slammed her door.

  I went to my office at All Souls and called the Oasis Bar and Grill. When I asked whether Willie had picked up my message, the man on the other end of the line sounded wary. There were no messages waiting, he said, so Willie must have called in. I left a second one, repeating the first, then hung up and buzzed Hank on the intercom. He said he had talked to Greg Marcus about the murders and would come to my office.

  In a minute, he entered, ducking his head to avoid the sharply slanting ceiling, and sat down in my tattered old armchair. He looked tired, rumpled, out of sorts. “You heard from Willie?” he asked.

  “Not since his message last night. I’ve heard of him, though. Our paths keep crossing.”

  “What in hell is he doing?”

  “Playing detective.”

  “Christ! What does he think we have you for?”

  “Willie doesn’t strike me as the type to sit back and do nothing, particularly if he thinks he’d be doing that in jail.”

  Hank merely sighed.

  “Tell me what Greg had to say. I assume you talked to him because you couldn’t get through to McFate.”

  “Right. I’m afraid you don�
��t have a lead; the Levin murder weapon was something called an RG-14.”

  “Doesn’t matter – now. What else?”

  ”Alida Edwards was stabbed twice in the neck. There was very little sign of a struggle. The stabbing was quick and efficient, as Greg put it; the killer knew what he was doing.”

  “What time did she die?”

  “Within an hour of when she was found. They were able to establish it by body temperature.”

  “Who found her? I’ve assumed it was a passerby.”

  “Right, a guy from one of those nearby apartment houses who likes to park his car over by Kezar.”

  “Hmm.” I paused. “Hank – do they really think Willie followed her down there and killed her?”

  “They want to. Two killings, two nights. It fits.”

  “It’s too pat.”

  “Cops like pat situations. Besides, there’s another detail on the Levin case that makes it look bad for Willie. There was no sign of forced entry at his house.”

  “Then Levin must have had a key.”

  “Or have been let in by someone else who did.”

  “No.” I thought of Selena’s story of her meeting with Levin. “I think he managed to get hold of a key.”

  “How? Willie told me he’s very careful about his keys. Alida didn’t even have one.”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll try to find out.”

  Hank stood up. “I’m due in court in an hour. Try to check with me later.”

  “Okay.” I swiveled my chair around, propped my feet on the armchair, and sat staring at the wall. It was painted pale yellow and was full of thumbtack holes from my various attempts at decoration. When the travel poster of Greece I’d hung there last September had gotten torn and curled at the edges, I’d finally resigned myself to the fact that the office was too small and cheerless to bother sprucing up. Actually, it looked better unadorned.

  Suppose, I told myself, Selena had copied Willie’s keys for Levin. She was a liar; there was no reason to believe she hadn’t. But how could she have gotten hold of them? At the flea market, of course. And I remembered seeing a key duplicating stand there.

  I got out the phone book and looked up Mark Marchetti’s number. He answered on the first ring. “Sharon,” he said when I’d identified myself. “I was just on my way out.”

  “This will only take a second. How can I reach the vendor who duplicates keys at the Saltflats?”

  “Bill? He works at the Stonestown shopping center during the week.”

  “Thanks.”

  “While I’ve got you on the line – Selena told me you’re a detective. I don’t care for being fooled that way.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to go into it at the time; I needed to locate Willie in a hurry.”

  “I take it you haven’t.”

  “No, but not for lack of trying. Thanks for the information, Mr. Marchetti.” Quickly I depressed the receiver and looked up the Stonestown Key Shop in the phone book. The man who answered my call said his name was Bill and yes, he was the person who worked at the Saltflats on the weekends. Yes, he knew Selena Gonzalez. No, she had not duplicated any keys within the past two weeks. None of the flea market vendors had, as far as he could remember. In fact, business out there had been lousy and they were thinking of closing the stand.

  I hung up and leaned back in my chair, once more at a dead end.

  Keys. Willie’s house keys. Where did he keep them? On a chain, like I did with mine? A chain with other keys, such as car keys. In Willie’s case, truck keys.

  I closed my eyes, blotting out the yellow wall, and pictured a scene from Sunday. Willie, handing someone his keys and asking him to get something out of the truck. Willie, saying something about receipts being in the glove compartment.

  “Take them in case you need them,” he’d said. And then he’d handed the keys to Roger Beck.

  I sat up straight and reached for the phone. Would Marchetti know if there was a key duplicating stand at the San Jose market? It was worth a try. I called his number, but there was no answer. Of course, he’d said he was just on his way out.

  But hadn’t Willie said the San Jose market had an office that was open all week? I called Information, got the number, dialed again. Yes, the woman in the office told me, there was a key stand at the market, and the man who ran it owned a keyshop in downtown San Jose. But he was on vacation this week, and the shop was closed.

  “Was he also on vacation last Sunday?” I asked.

  “No, he was here. But he left yesterday for three weeks fishing in Idaho, like he does every year.”

  “Well, thanks anyway.” I sat drumming my fingers on the desk blotter, then pulled the notebook where I’d scribbled Beck’s phone number and address out of my purse. I called Oakland and talked to a woman who said she was Beck’s landlady. Roger was at work, delivering bread for the Crescent Bakery; he was usually back home by three.

  I looked at my watch. It was already one-thirty. After Beck finished his delivery route he would have to return the truck to the bakery and complete whatever procedures were required of the drivers. Crescent Bakery was a large plant in West Oakland, visible and easily accessible from Highway 17; if I left now I might be able to catch him there.

  18.

  I grabbed a sandwich in All Souls’ kitchen – making do with the end pieces of a loaf of whole wheat bread and some highly suspect tuna salad – and then headed for Oakland. Traffic moved at a crawl over the Bay Bridge, with one lane blocked for repair work. It was the time of day when the semis that had made San Francisco deliveries from ships at the Port of Oakland were returning to the East Bay. They clogged the bridge, jockeying in and out between passenger cars, and giving off great blasts of diesel smoke. The fumes combined with the heat to make me faintly nauseous, and my sinuses began to throb. To keep my mind off my head and stomach, I tried to concentrate on how to approach Roger Beck.

  Beck actively hated Willie. Even on Sunday, when I hadn’t known the story of Beck and Willie’s ex-wife, I had been able to tell that much. If he assumed I was not on Willie’s side, he might tell me much more than he would if he thought I was out to help his weekend employer. He might even slip and tell me something really valuable. Besides, I had to face it – there was no way I was going to force a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound truck driver to tell me anything he didn’t want to.

  The Crescent Bakery occupied a square block between a big warehousing operation and a furniture factory. A dozen of their white trucks with the familiar crescent-shaped roll on the side were parked within a fenced-in area by the loading docks. I pulled up at the curb and watched as more and more of the trucks drove in. They backed up to the docks, where workers off-loaded the plastic racks that had held bread and rolls, then moved to permanent parking spaces. The white-uniformed drivers emerged with clipboards and went into what looked like an office. It was after two-thirty when I saw Beck’s burly form ambling across the lot.

  After a few minutes I got out of my car and started over there. Several of the drivers were standing around, smoking and talking, and they looked at me curiously. I sat down on the bottom of the steps of the office, and they looked away, obviously assuming I was someone’s wife or girlfriend, here to pick him up. When Beck came out and started down the steps, I stood up.

  “Mr. Beck,” I said.

  He looked at me blankly for a moment, then surprise spread across his puffy features. “You’re Willie’s new runner, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Sharon McCone.” I reached into my purse and took out the photostat of my license. “Actually, Mr. Beck, I misrepresented myself the other day – both to you and to Mr. Whelan.” I held out the photostat.

  “A private detective?” He glanced anxiously around at his co-workers.

  “Yes. Is there some place we can talk?”

  “Is this about Willie?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I don’t know anything about him. I haven’t seen him since Sunday night when I met him at
the Oasis and we split the take from the market.”

  “I didn’t expect you had. What I need from you is background information on Mr. Whelan. You could be a big help to me.”

  Beck hesitated. His eyes, sunk deep in his fleshy face, were thoughtful. “You say Willie don’t know you’re a detective either?”

  “I operate under cover most of the time.”

  “Why are you checking up on him?”

  “Well, Mr. Beck – look at the nature of his business. And now he’s evidently killed two people.”

  Still he paused. “Who are you working for?”

  “I’m cooperating with the San Francisco Police Department. Leo McFate is in charge of the case.”

  He nodded, seeming reassured by my naming names.

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?” I asked again.

  “You got a car?”

  “Yes.”

  “You could give me a ride home. Mine’s in the shop. I was going to get a lift from one of the other guys, but you could save him the trouble.”

  “Sure. It’s this way.” I led him across the lot to the street. We got in the MG and Beck directed me toward the Lake Merritt area of Oakland.

  “What I’m interested in,” I told him as I drove, “is Mr. Whelan’s relationships with his runners. I know there’s bad blood between you two—”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Mr. Whelan.”

  “He told you about Barbara?”

  “His…I mean, your ex-wife? Yes.”

  “Thinks it’s pretty funny, does he?”

  “Yes. I guess he does.”

  “You’d think he’d have some sympathy, wouldn’t you? I mean, she walked out on him first. He ought to know what it’s like, to have a woman like that use you and then leave you and take everything you have. But no, he thinks it’s funny. What do you want to know about Willie and his runners?”

  I had him where I wanted him. Now I would have to go very carefully. “Well, let’s start with Sam Thomas. What’s the relationship there?”

  “Friends, I guess. Do you know Sam?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know he’s a drunk. Willie makes excuses for him, calls him a war casualty. Hell, lots of us were over there in ‘Nam and we didn’t come home and stay plastered day in and day out. But Willie feels sorry for Sam and puts up with some of the damnedest shit. So they must be friends.”