by Mary Miley
‘I suppose because I owe it to Barbara Petrovitch. She’s a good person, and I do feel sorry for her. And I’m working with Carl on that other case, too, about Kit’s mother. I can’t very well tell him I won’t help him any more with the Petrovitch murder but please help me with Rose Ann’s murder, can I?’
‘I suspect you could tell this Carl to dance an Irish jig, and he’d do it.’
Ignoring that bit of insight, I drained the last drop of cordial before continuing. ‘Besides, I feel like I’m closing in on this. Finally, a live Serb I can actually talk to! The other three were murdered before I could question them. This one will surely have something to say.’
But only if I could find him, which proved harder than anticipated. I thought it a simple matter to go to his address, which I did first thing the next morning. However, the disheveled woman who answered the door at the boarding house told me Paul Pavlovitch had left more than six months ago.
‘Would you happen to know his new address?’ I asked.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t. He may have skipped town for all I know. Probably did. Are you a relative or something?’
‘No, I’ve never met him,’ I said. ‘I’m merely looking for some information.’
‘Well, if you run the bum down, tell him I’m still waiting on that last two week’s rent he owes me.’
‘Yes, ma’am, I’ll do that.’
Wednesday was a cloudy, drizzly, thoroughly unpleasant day, however, there was nothing to do but start riding cable cars and asking questions. I began with the nearest line – Market Street. It made sense that he would get a room near the line where he worked, but after riding three cars and speaking to three conductors who had not heard of Paul Pavlovitch, I switched to the Powell Street line and started anew. San Francisco had eight cable car companies operating a variety of lines, and I only hoped I would not run out of nickels before I’d discovered which one employed Mr Pavlovitch. If, indeed, he still lived in San Francisco.
It quickly became clear that I would not be able to speak to Mr Pavlovitch while he was working. Conductors dealt with money and made sure passengers did not disturb the gripmen with frivolous chatter. Watching them work, I understood why. Brute strength and intense concentration were required to keep the cable cars from colliding with other vehicles or pedestrians and to release and reattach the car to the underground cable when crossing perpendicular lines. Once I’d found Mr Pavlovitch, I would need to wait until his shift was over to talk with him.
Several hours later, including a noontime break for fish-on-a-bun, I reached the California Street line, and – at last! – a conductor who recognized the name Paul Pavlovitch.
‘Yeah, sure, I know him. He’s been a gripman for a few years.’
‘Do you know how I might find him?’
‘Well, if you ride down to the turntable, you can wait as each car comes in and spot him then.’
‘What’s he look like?’
‘Uh, lemme think. Big guy. Dark hair. Usually squints.’
Thanking the man with a half dollar, I sat down to ride to the end of the line. Once there, I posted myself on a bench near the turntable. From that vantage point, I could see each cable car arrive at this end of the line and align itself on the turntable. As I watched, the conductor and the gripman jumped off and gave a fierce heave-ho against the side of the car to start it turning, and then, when it was pointed in the opposite direction, climbed back on and allowed passengers to board. As each car rotated, I approached one of the men and asked if he knew Paul Pavlovitch. Each time, the man said yes, but he hadn’t seen him today. Finally, one of the conductors said, ‘I think he’s on second shift today.’
‘I just need to ask him a few questions. When’s second shift?’
He indicated the powerhouse with his chin. ‘See if them in there can help you.’
Them could. Pavlovitch would be working a shift that was over at about ten o’clock that night, many hours from now. I tipped the man, then fished in my purse for another nickel, boarded yet another cable car, and made my way back to Grandmother’s house to spend the next few hours in the comfort of her parlor and dining room. Relatives, I’d learned, were always keen to feed you.
TWENTY-NINE
I am sensitive to being watched. Whenever someone’s eyes rest overlong on me, a prickly awareness flushes across my neck and shoulders. It comes, I am sure, from a lifetime spent on the vaudeville stage, honing the subtler tricks of my trade – the toss of the head, the lift of the chin, the flutter of the fingers – whatever pulls the audience’s attention. I can tell when someone is staring, and someone was staring at me as I sat in a three-sided shelter beside the turntable of the California Street line, waiting for the end of Paul Pavlovitch’s shift.
I’d been there almost an hour. I’d picked out the dark, scowling Pavlovitch as his cable car came through on its previous run. I had approached him as he and his conductor strained to rotate their vehicle on the turntable.
‘I’m a friend of Joe Petrovitch’s widow,’ I began, ‘and I was hoping to ask you a few questions about Joe on her behalf.’
He squinted at me with distrustful eyes, but he didn’t say no.
‘Over a drink, maybe? I picked up a bottle of whiskey at the drug store.’ I didn’t have a doctor’s prescription for this ‘medicine’, but a friendly young man in line had an extra he was willing to part with for five dollars.
The mention of whiskey brought a friendlier expression to Pavlovitch’s face. ‘I punch out after one more run,’ he said. ‘Wait over there.’ He pointed to a sheltered bench.
So I waited. It was cool – not cold – and damp – not wet. As I waited, I felt tickled again by this sense of being watched. Of course it could have been a masculine admirer, but that sort is easy to spot, mostly because they want to be spotted. I looked about – not in an obvious way; I’m no amateur. I stood and stretched, gazed about innocently, then bent to fiddle with my shoelaces before standing again and scanning the people behind me, all without seeing anyone the least bit suspicious.
The streets were lightly populated. At this late hour, fewer than a dozen passengers were riding each cable car, and the line waiting for the next car was short. I saw nothing fishier than a man walking his dog, a mother balancing a large package in one arm with a baby in the other, a policeman rocking back and forth on his heels, a couple strolling hand in hand, a gaggle of giggly flappers toddling on high heels toward the corner speakeasy, and businessmen striding across the wet pavement with conspicuous self-importance, all with umbrellas up or down as the mist turned to drizzle and back to mist. But the feeling of being watched persisted.
I remembered having felt the same tingling sensation when I came north on the Daylight Limited train yesterday. Unable to shake it then, I’d left my seat and strolled the length of the rail car not once but twice, as if I wanted nothing more than to stretch my legs on the long trip, moving slowly, checking every passenger, male and female. Most were dozing. I found nothing amiss. No one looked the least familiar.
I sacked my overactive imagination and reclaimed my bench seat. There was nothing to worry about – a second policeman had recently joined the lone officer on the corner and a third was ambling his way from the opposite direction, swinging his nightstick like a circus baton, so I was well protected from any malefactors. Besides, no one knew I’d gone to San Francisco. No one except Barbara Petrovitch and Carl Delaney.
Fewer cable cars were needed at this time of night, which explained why, at about ten o’clock, Paul Pavlovitch drove his car onto the turntable and from there, off to a sidetrack to let it sit until the morning rush called it back into service. He disappeared into the powerhouse, emerging a few minutes later, lunch pail in hand, and joined me beneath the shelter. The mist had turned to gentle rain. Streetlights cast a glow around the terminus. Other lights at nearby intersections pushed back the shadows.
‘Finished at last?’ I asked. ‘You gripmen work hard.’ Pulling the bottle out o
f my purse, I passed it to him. ‘I’ll bet a shot of whiskey would go down nice about now.’
‘Sure would, lady. Sure would.’ He put the bottle to his lips and took a swig before holding it out to me. I shook my head. David’s bonded Old Grand-Dad had spoiled me forever.
‘Name’s Jessie Beckett. And the bottle’s yours.’
‘Thanks, Miss Beckett. What can I do for you?’
He had an accent, but nothing heavy enough to make him hard to understand. I concluded he’d been in America a good many years to have reached this level of easy fluency.
‘You can tell me about your friend, Joe Petrovitch,’ I said. ‘His grieving widow hopes to learn something that would let her get in touch with his relatives back home to notify them of his death. I take it you knew Joe in the Old Country? What country was that?’ I knew the answer, but that was the way to start questioning someone. If you know the answers, you can see if they are telling the truth.
‘Serbia,’ he said, putting his mouth to the bottle again. ‘We were in army together.’
‘And you came to America when?’
‘After we got out. 1913.’
‘And did Joe leave family behind?’
‘No. No family. The war … you see, you don’t understand over here about how is war. Families dead or disappeared. Gone for good. Mine too. No one can know what happened or find them.’
‘You and Joe had other Serb friends who came to America with you.’
I’d moved too fast. The gripman’s eyes narrowed into hard slits, closing him off from my too-probing question.
‘Thank you for this bottle,’ he said, standing. He turned up his coat collar against the rain, which was coming down harder now. ‘That is all I can tell you about Joe’s family.’
‘Then perhaps I can tell you something. Something important. Joe Petrovitch didn’t die of illness or accident. He was murdered. His friends Ilitch and Jovanovitch were murdered too. Gunned down. I think you may be in danger as well.’
He stared straight ahead into the darkness, then, inhaling a long swallow of the whiskey, sat down again beside me. I interpreted that as a request to continue.
‘You came to America with the other men in 1913. Jeton Ilitch was shot a few months ago in New York City at the restaurant where he worked as a cook. Al Jovanovitch was killed – shot – not long after that in St. Louis at the automobile factory where he worked. And Joe Petrovitch was gunned down last month at the theater where he was a projectionist. I believe the same man killed all three. Each time, he pulled the trigger three times, then vanished. Would you have any idea who might have done this and why?’
The longer the silence, the stronger the need to fill it. I waited through several more swigs of whiskey until Pavlovitch had worked through exactly what he was going to tell me about those years. Starting with a grunt, he said, ‘It was four or five of us, soldiers, just privates. In the battle, we got lost from our unit. Then at night, some men attacked. We fired at them and killed two. We found their bodies in the morning. They were officers from our own Third Army. This is very bad, to kill our own officers. A big accident, but we would be shot. So we walk many days to coast, steal a fishing boat and get to Bari in Italy, then to New York. We split up after a few months and don’t see each other again. Maybe …’ His voice trailed off.
‘Maybe what?’ I prompted.
‘Maybe some guy find out about dead officers and come for revenge.’
‘How could anyone know?’
He shrugged. ‘Maybe they see us from far away.’
‘How would they know who you were or where to find you?’
He shrugged again and fell silent.
Sometimes even the most improbable of stories carries a whiff of sincerity that overcomes doubt. This was not one of those times. Pavlovitch was lying. Or maybe dissembling was the better way to describe it. Rather than go meekly into the night, I hoped to jar him into further revelation, and so I said, ‘Well, I don’t believe your story, but if that’s all you care to tell me, I’ll go now.’ And I stood.
My little gambit failed. Pavlovitch offered nothing more. He stood too and, nodding goodbye, left the shelter, heading away from me and the cable car stop toward the street corner.
I had turned to go when, without warning, a man brandishing a gun leaped out of the shadows to block the gripman’s passage. The stranger shouted some brief, unintelligible slogan, fired three shots into Paul Pavlovitch’s chest from a no-miss distance of about six feet, and took off running.
THIRTY
What astonished me most was how fast everything happened. Before Pavlovitch had even crumpled to the pavement, I heard shouts and saw two plainclothesmen draw guns and break into a run. Detective Carl Delaney and Officer Steve Marks were heading pell-mell into the screams of women and the shouts of men that ripped the night air. I didn’t recognize them at first. I thought they were local policemen, so I called out, ‘There! Over there!’ and pointed in the direction of the assassin as he dashed toward the powerhouse. Poor Pavlovitch lay in a sodden heap beside the cable car track.
More shots rang out. At first, I thought they had missed their mark, then I saw the assassin lurch and fall, clutching his leg. That was the moment I realized Carl was there and that he was the one who had brought down the assassin with a well-aimed shot. The man was still moving but the leg wound made flight impossible. Carl dropped to Pavlovitch’s side, motioning for his partner to follow through with the wounded killer. Warily, Marks crept toward the wounded man, his gun drawn.
Meanwhile, the three local policemen on the scene launched rather belatedly into action. One headed toward Carl and Pavlovitch with his gun drawn, and Carl called to him, ‘Hold your fire, we’re police!’ The other two moved more cautiously in the direction of Marks and the assassin. Before they could reach Marks, more shots pierced the night as Marks fired on the downed figure, who must have refused to lay aside his gun. The San Francisco policemen caught up to the action and, unsure of which man was the good guy and which was the bad, shouted that they would fire on whoever didn’t lay down his gun at once.
Marks laid his weapon on the pavement and raised his arms. ‘We’re police!’ he said, echoing Carl. The assassin lay without moving.
The entire drama took less than ten seconds.
Shedding the spectator’s role, I became an actor and ran onto the scene toward Marks and the downed assassin. ‘Don’t shoot,’ I called to the local cop as I dropped to the ground beside the killer. I’m not sure who they thought I was, but no one made any effort to intercept me, a harmless female. Kneeling on the pavement, I turned the assassin over, hoping that I would recognize him. He was still alive.
And he was a total stranger.
Glancing over my shoulder for Carl, I saw that the officer who had taken his gun was now handcuffing him. No surprise – these cops didn’t know Carl from Adam, and he’d shot a fleeing man. Neither he nor Marks were wearing uniforms. Beside me, one of the local cops retrieved Marks’s gun and ordered him to stand aside while the other fished out his handcuffs. I figured they’d work out the details sooner or later, so I focused my attention on the assassin.
His appearance was exactly as witnesses had described: average. His height and weight were unremarkable. His dark hair had been cut in a common style, and his suit and shirt (now marked with a blood stain that grew larger with each passing second) were neither cheap nor expensive. His fingers were bare of rings. Even in the dim light, I saw no scars or moles on his face, no gaps in his teeth, nothing that would stick in someone’s memory. He wore the thin mustache that half the men in America wore, a mustache that I might have tried to pull off had I been bolder, to see if it were fake as I suspected. Otherwise, there was nothing remarkable in his description, which is why no one had ever remarked on any descriptive detail. The man was perfectly ordinary. The sort of person who crept into your consciousness and out again without leaving the slightest trace. The perfect villain.
One of the policeme
n had hustled to a callbox to ring for an ambulance, which came clanging down the hill within minutes.
‘You with him, lady?’ asked a voice close by.
I looked over at the polished shoes and up at a blue uniform topped by a brimmed cap. Honesty was not going to get me anywhere.
‘I’m his sister.’ Damnit, too late, I realized what a mistake that was. I should have said cousin. I did not bear the slightest resemblance to this man.
‘We got an ambulance on its way. What happened? Who shot who?’
I understood that nothing was clear to those unfamiliar with the history of our murderous drama, and a befuddled scenario worked in my favor.
‘I have no idea, officer,’ I answered in a pathetic trembling voice. ‘I want to go to the hospital with him.’
‘Sure, why not? We’ll be taking the both of them. Hospital’s not but a few blocks away. He’ll be fine, don’t you worry.’
Next thing I knew, the cop was pushing back a small clutch of curious spectators who had gathered now that the shooting was over. ‘Make way for the ambulance, people,’ he said. I spared a nervous glance at Carl Delaney, who was being held some distance away with Officer Marks by several San Francisco cops. With an eloquent look in my direction, Carl gave me to understand that he blamed everything on me. I thought it prudent to disappear until he’d cooled off.
Two men in white coats leaped from the ambulance. Dragging a stretcher out of the back, they went first to Pavlovitch – who wasn’t moving and whose eyes were closed – and carted him into the truck. Next they came our way. Lifting the assassin, they laid him on the stretcher and hoisted it into the opposite side of the truck.
‘I want to come with him,’ I repeated.
The driver looked at the policeman who nodded his permission. ‘Up front with me then, miss,’ he said. The other man – the one I figured for a medic – rode in back between the two stretchers.