by Will Rayner
“Hey, you carrying?” T.J.’s interrogator asked, looking up from his note-taking. His voice was sharp with suspicion.
“Yep, a .38 Detective Special. I’m pulling it out right now.” Slowly, T.J. reached around and produced his gun. “I’ve got a license, naturally.” The cop sniffed the barrel and grunted.
Suddenly, a police whistle echoed shrilly from outside. “That’s us,” the other bull said. “C’mon Flaherty, we’ll tell the captain about this.”
“You stay put, fellow, until the homicide dicks get here,” Flaherty told T.J. and handed him back his revolver.
“Hardly likely,” T.J. told the lobby. The desk clerk’s protests faded away as T.J. stepped outside. Flaherty and his partner were hustling across the Embarcadero to hop onto a radio car. As T.J. headed the other way, he realized both the bar cloths were still in Room 28. That will present a puzzling clue for Jimbo Bracken, he told himself. It’s also fifteen cents down the toilet. Better not mention it to the old man.
*
Lieutenant James T. Bracken settled himself comfortably into one of the client chairs. He took out a fresh cigar, still in its cellophane wrapper, inspected it carefully, then put it back in his vest pocket.
“Well, then,” he began conversationally, “it appears we have over at our excellent city morgue this sunny Sunday a gentleman by the name of Wallace David Fenton. A citizen of this fair city, who of course is quite dead or else he wouldn’t be occupying a slab in the cold room. Young Mr. Thomas Jefferson Flood here, we have to thank for alerting the police department to Mr. Fenton’s sudden demise.”
Sam appeared about to interrupt and Bracken held up his hand. “We are not accusing young Thomas of foul play, nothing of the sort,” he said, “even though he has been in reasonably close proximity of two citizens sent to their reward by means of a .22 pistol.”
“T.J was on assignment and he walked smack-dab into that damn riot,” Sam said. “This Fenton fellow was not the only one killed last Thursday.”
“Including the guy on Steuart who got shot in the back by one of your trigger-happy flatfeet,” T.J. added.
Bracken regarded T.J. for several seconds, a slight, indulgent smile playing about his lips. “Alas, during the confusion of a riot the likes of which we had on Thursday, it is sometimes difficult to figure out exactly what happened.”
“I saw him get plugged,” the younger Flood said flatly. “I was there, on the corner. Your coppers panicked.”
“Getting back to the late Mr. Fenton, he was the only one plugged with a .22,” Bracken replied. “Although it took a couple of days for my colleagues to realize this wasn’t what you’d call a riot death after all. Tell me exactly, Thomas, how you discovered the, ah, remains.” He took out his cigar and began unwrapping it. Sam sighed inwardly and reached for his pipe. If he’s going to fire up that thing, he thought, I’d better have a bowl full of fine cut going in self-defense.
“I was going to Room 28 at the Seaboard to see Fenton, but there was this damn riot going on,” T.J. said. “By the time I got to the hotel, it was all shot up, there was no power and the second floor was dark. Fenton’s door was open and he was lying on the floor, still warm.”
“Was he, then? And...”
“I think I saw someone going down the hall, but it was hard to see,” T.J. continued. “When I came out of the room, the fire door down at the far end was ajar.”
“So, like a good citizen, you report the body to two uniforms who happen to be in the lobby. Then, ignoring official police advice to stay put, you depart.” Once again, Bracken held up his hand to forestall interruption. “Exactly what we’ve come to expect from you, of course we have. The thing is, my friends, the thing is, the departed Mr. Fenton is connected to 230 California as well as Flood and Flood, so you are right in the middle whether you like it or not.” He lit his cigar and blew smoke in the general direction of T.J. “The Greek connection we’re still working on. Events might proceed a little bit faster if you two fine, outstanding citizens decide to cooperate a little more.”
“We are always willing to cooperate with 750 Kearny,” Sam said. “We’re here on a Sunday, aren’t we? However, as you already know, our clients remain confidential, unless they say otherwise. That ties our hands a bit.”
“Oh, I think I’ve cottoned on to who your client is,” Bracken said. “It’s exactly what you’re doing for him that we haven’t quite worked out. Your client is Packy Shannon.”
Sam’s face remained impassive. It helped that he was tamping down his pipe when the lieutenant dropped his little bombshell. “That’s an intriguing theory, Jimbo,” Sam said carefully, “but as I’ve said...”
“One of our inspectors spotted you riding around in one of Packy Shannon’s big, shiny Packards,” Bracken broke in.
“Just how did he know that?” T.J. demanded. “Did it have a sign on it saying, ‘This big, shiny Packard belongs to Packy Shannon?’ Or, ‘Packy Shannon rides here?’”
Once again, Bracken regarded T.J. with the forbearance of an indulgent parent. “The driver was Vido Cerutti, Shannon’s primo muscle,” he said, and transformed his gaze to the elder Flood. “I figure it like this. Packy Shannon hires your very excellent firm of gumshoes to find something for him. I think you were looking for it when Benny the Bundle got iced. I think you’re still looking for it. Maybe Benny had it, maybe The Greek had it, maybe even the late Mr. Fenton had it — or knew where it was. Maybe this is what Pat and Mike are looking for, too. Over at homicide we rather think Shannon is a reasonable suspect in the first two murders, because Benny worked for The Greek — and The Greek and Packy were, as the scandal sheets put it, rival gang lords. Trouble is, Mr. Fenton doesn’t seem to tie in yet. Mr. Shannon claims he has an airtight alibi, which I’m sure he has, and is not being very cooperative, otherwise. Neither, I regret to say, are Flood and Flood.”
He stood up, regarded the long ash on his cigar approvingly and tapped it gently into Sam’s ashtray. “I’m sure we’ll have more enjoyable chats in the near future, of course we will, but before I leave let me suggest that the Hall of Justice is always willing to reciprocate when concerned citizens such as yourselves come to our aid.”
Chapter 19
As far as Agnes Wilkins was concerned, it began as a normal Monday. Mister Sam arrived on time as usual, but T.J. didn’t show up until after lunch. When he did, she gave him a tell-tale jerk of the head and he marched right into the boss’s office.
Sam Flood was going over T.J.’s report on ‘Bloody Thursday’ as the papers were calling it. “Where have you been?” he demanded.
“Over at the Seaboard, trying to make sure there wasn’t anything I missed.” He knew his father was listening, although his head was down and he was still reading the report. “Things are pretty quiet. They’re putting the place back together.”
“Any police around?”
“Nope, just the National Guard showing off their hardware. There was this snotty manager, too. I’d hoped I could take another peek at Room 28. He said the bulls had sealed it off.”
“You didn’t get a chance to talk to the clerk who was on duty last week?”
“He wasn’t there. Probably at home resting his strained wrists after flapping them so much.”
“So it appears we are at a dead end with Fenton.” Sam seemed unaware of the pun he’d just made.
“Not a bit of it. I’m still working on a couple of things. I found out there was nothing belonging to Fenton in the safe or in storage, although Mr. Snotnose made it clear I wouldn’t be allowed to peek, anyway. And I discovered Fenton had registered as W.D. Brice, with an ‘i’. Guy uses a phony name, he’s trying to hide something.”
“Have you deduced how he got back to the hotel before you?”
“Well, I had to make a couple of detours. Fenton was a little runt, he probably scooted under people’s arms or between their legs.”
“And the murderer?”
“He must have been waiting for him, only
way I can figure it.” T.J.’s mind flashed back to his abrupt separation from Fenton. Could it have been a deliberate shove — a targeted intervention? The recollection was too hazy to form any conclusion. “He was after that piece of paper, just like I was,” he finished.
“And it appears he found it. Dictate your notes to Agnes and she can add them to this report,” Sam said with an air of finality. “It’s obvious the Fenton lead has petered out.”
“Wait a minute! Wait a damn minute!” T.J. exclaimed. “This angle isn’t dead at all...”
“Don’t raise your voice to me like that, Thomas. We now have no more contact with 230 California, no clues and no access. Whoever killed Mr. Fenton obviously has this piece of evidence you are so fixated on, so now we have to explore other avenues of inquiry.”
“It’s only a copy! The original is...the original is...somewhere. Wait a minute. The original is back in Turlock, at his sister’s place, as sure as shooting.”
“How do you arrive at that conclusion?” Sam asked.
“He told me. Well, he didn’t exactly come out and tell me, but he gave me a pretty good hint. ‘The original is back…’ he started to say, when we were on Market Street, then changed his mind. Called it a safe place. And she said he left important papers with her. I’ve gotta go to Turlock. That’s where the list is, for sure.”
“That’s too much of a stretch. It’s very tenuous. We will be spreading our resources out too much. What we have to do now is go over Benny the Bundle’s route, find another connection.”
“C’mon, Pop. The fourth floor is the connection and that means Fenton. He went to Turlock to stash that list, it’s as plain as the nose on your face. Don’t be so damn stubborn.”
“Don’t you use profanity with me, young man! You’re upset because you let your man get away and he got killed. That’s no reason to go on a wild goose chase.” Sam’s voice had also risen.
“Goddam right I’m upset. I’m pissed off about Benny the Bundle getting popped right outside my door, too. You want to back off, and that’s not the way we operate.”
“We operate within our means, not by getting emotional about a case...”
“Maybe it’s time you started showing some emotion, old man. I’m going to Turlock and I’m taking the car, and that’s that!” T.J.’s voice had become even louder.
“Not the car! I might need it. For Margaret. I might have to take Margaret somewhere, to the hospital or the doctor.”
“Oh, spare me the domestic crap, Pop. Take a cab, for Chrissake. Or wheel her down the hill in her wheelchair.” With that, T.J. spun out of Sam’s office. “Call the garage,” he told a wide-eyed Agnes. “Tell ‘em to fill it up for tomorrow morning and check the tires. The spare, too. I’m going on a road trip.”
I handled that quite badly, Sam thought as he groped for his pipe. Raised my voice and I shouldn’t have done that. That boy can be quite acerbic at times and I should know better. I didn’t even get the chance to warn him that the situation could become dangerous. Whoever killed Mr. Fenton must realize he only has a copy of the list. He will be looking for the original, too.
*
Sam carefully considered his options. First of all, there was this pearl-grey fedora in his hand — a soft, delicate texture but with a firm snap-brim. It had a silk lining. There was also the dark grey model with a hint of the homburg in its brim. And there were a variety of other colors to choose from. He had ignored the bowlers, the panamas, the straw boaters, the soft caps. Not Samuel A. Flood’s style.
Finally, Sam firmly adjusted the pearl-grey fedora on his head. “I’ll take it,” he said, handing his old hat to Solomon Silverman.
“Excellent choice, Samuel, excellent choice,” Solly said. “You’ll keep it on, of course. I’ll put this old fellow in a bag for you.”
As they moved toward the cash register, Sam glanced about Silverman’s shop. There were two prim gentlemen, dressed in black, murmuring discreetly in front of the bowler display. Butlers, Sam guessed, or perhaps English tourists. Another customer, dressed in rough clothes, was trying on Stetsons. “For you, Samuel, a special price, six dollars,” Sol said as he rang up the sale.
“Very reasonable, old friend, very reasonable. You’re too good to me,” Sam said, offering a ten-dollar bill. “Tell you what, why don’t we seal the bargain with a glass of wine? Your staff seems to be coping quite well.” It really was a positive sign, he thought, having actual customers in the store.
Solly pulled out his watch. “Excellent idea, but I can’t be gone too long. I know just the spot, around the corner on Geary.” He handed Sam his change and a receipt, then went over to confer with one of his assistants. With Sam carrying his paper bag, the two old friends strolled up Powell.
Their destination was a small, understated establishment across Geary from the St. Francis. The atmosphere was hushed and dim, even in the early afternoon. “Domestic, I think,” Sam said, choosing a Riesling from the wine list. With their glasses in front of them, Sam started filling his pipe and Solly reached for a cigar. It seemed to be a ritual with them. For several minutes, the pair sat quietly, drinking their wine and smoking.
“Business picking up a little, maybe?” Sam finally asked.
Silverman didn’t answer until he blew out a mouthful of smoke. “A little, a little. There’s no use grumbling. We try to stay comfortable. And you?”
“Doing quite well at the moment, thank you, Sol. Quite busy, actually.”
“So what’s the problem, Samuel?”
Flood chuckled softly. “You should be the detective, my friend,” he said. Solly always knew when something was bothering him, even before Sam knew it. “And yes, it’s Thomas, again.”
Sol Silverman studied the ash on his cigar and waited. “We have this case,” Sam said. “Very serious business. People dead, lots of complications. And very few clues, I may add.” He took a sip of wine. “Yesterday, T.J. decided to go on a wild-goose chase. I opposed it and we got into a little shouting match over the agency and over Margaret.” Silverman said nothing. “That boy!” Sam blurted. “He’s so damn independent. I’m his father and he just won’t listen to me. We have nothing in common, nothing whatsoever. I don’t know what to do with him.”
“Yes, you do,” Solly said softly. “You’ve got all this guilt in you because you’ve never told him about Mary. T.J. grew up without a mother. He knows that and you know that, and you’re half-blaming yourself for letting her die and half-blaming him for not being a gentle soul despite the way he was brought up. T.J.’s a grown man so he’s bound to have his own way of looking at things. But you can’t accept that because you think you’ve failed him and so he’s taking it out on you. He knows you’re pushing him, so he pushes back. Tell him about how Mary died. He’ll respect you.”
Silverman looked at his watch. “I have to go, my friend. I have some morticians coming in to look at top hats.” He drained the last of his wine. “T.J.’s one tough cookie. He won’t fall apart over something that happened thirty-odd years ago. You two might even get to like each other.” He headed for the front door.
“As usual, a dramatic appreciation of the situation,” Sam said. His voice was light but he didn’t feel like smiling. Halfway to the door, Solly turned around. “Relax,” he said. “Go for a nice walk, show off your new Solly Silverman hat.” Then Silverman departed, trailing cigar smoke behind him.
Sam studied the remaining wine in his own glass. Two more swallows, perhaps, then what? Solomon may be trying to emulate the wisdom of his namesake, he thought, but it’s not as simple as he makes it out to be. There was Margaret and his concern for her adding to the burden he had carried for more than three decades. T.J.’s antipathy toward his second wife complicated their relationship even more.
Solly could traipse off merrily and peddle his top hats, but the fact remains I have little to do. Go for a walk? Not very productive, but the alternative is to go back to the office, shuffle some papers, order more reports, make Agnes unc
omfortable. Even on his wild chase to Turlock, T.J was at least in action. I miss being out on the street, Sam told himself. The Bridges case was quite interesting in that regard. Sam absent-mindedly cleaned out his pipe in the ashtray while another alternative struck him. Why don’t I do some legwork of my own? That building on California Street must be hiding something we haven’t found. That elevator operator, for instance. T.J. never talked to him, he’s been too preoccupied with this Fenton angle.
The elder Flood stood up, drained the last nonexistent drop of wine from his glass and studied the bill. He counted out the exact change, added a nickel tip, carefully set his new hat on his head and grasped his paper bag. California Street, here we come, he told himself. Once out on the sidewalk, however, Sam decided to detour to the office and pick up his old Southern Pacific detective’s badge. He knew exactly where it was, too, in the left-hand drawer of his desk along with the official letter from the Southern Pacific Railway Company informing him he had just been shoved onto the shelf. They didn’t exactly ask for his badge back, so he had kept it handy — for sentimental reasons, perhaps, he’d admit if anyone asked him, but also because it might come in handy someday. This was one of those days.
“Oh, Mr. Sam, what a nice hat!” Agnes exclaimed when he came in. “So handsome. It really suits you.” Agnes had been uneasy ever since the loud argument between her two co-workers. She had feared it might be the start of an irreparable rift, but the fact Mr. Sam had went and bought himself a new hat was encouraging. Surely it meant he was still upbeat about the agency.
“Ah, thank you, Agnes. I’m going out again right away. If Amy calls, tell her I’ll be back in — oh — two hours. I’m going to 230 California, but don’t tell anybody else that if they call.” Briskly, he popped into his office and was out again in a few seconds without his bag but slipping something into an inner pocket. Agnes thought she had heard the faint sound of a desk drawer being closed.