Flood Warning

by Will Rayner

  “Not out of our way at all,” Bracken said. “Some of the boys and me are heading up to Franklin Street anyway. We rather thought we’d have another long talk with Mr. Packy Shannon. The thing is, one of his big Packards was allegedly parked outside 230 California about seven o’clock in the a.m. last Friday, right about the time our Mr. Termit was killed.”

  “C’mon lieutenant, you don’t really think Packy Shannon goes around in a big, black car, rubbing out people.”

  “Naw, but his driver, Vido Cerutti, might. And he’s not the only button boy working for the Turk Street Social Club.”

  “Cerutti, with those huge mitts of his? He couldn’t get a finger around the trigger of one of those little ol’.22s.”

  “It don’t take much to shoot off a .22, fat fingers or not, especially when it’s right up close against somebody’s noggin.”

  “Well, have fun over on Turk Street,” T.J. said as Bracken retrieved his hat and headed for the door. He almost suggested the lieutenant give his regards to Shannon, but wisely decided against it.

  “Oh no, not Turk Street, my lad. You weren’t listening. The Turk Street Social Club is a nice little joint, alright, but our Packy hangs out personally at a very high class den of iniquity on Franklin, right close to the opera house. Four floors of indescribable delights, I’m told, with Mr. Shannon ensconced on the top floor. Give my best to that senior partner of yours.”

  A top-drawer whorehouse next to the opera house? I have led a sheltered life, T.J. told himself, because that’s the first I’ve heard of it. He had visions of sedate opera-goers, decked out in top hat and tails, nipping into Shannon’s place for a quickie before going to hear the fat lady sing.

  Chapter 25

  The return to relatively normal operations at Flood and Flood was accompanied by some modest grumbling. “What a fizzle!” Sam Flood complained when he arrived in the office to find both T.J. and Agnes Wilkins already there. “The street railwaymen returned to work today alright, but they weren’t too enthusiastic about it, I’d say. I had to wait ages for a cable car.”

  Agnes was incensed about the Strike Committee’s hold over the restaurant trade. “Mom and dad wanted to go out to dinner last night for their anniversary, but they couldn’t find any place open,” she said. “And the ones that were had these big, long lineups. Somebody said the restaurants had to have a permit from the strikers. That’s ... that’s ...”

  “Sedition,” T.J. finished for her. “Replacing a legally constituted municipal government with your own, issuing your own directives and your own licenses, those are treasonable acts, according to the books.”

  “When people can’t get their carrots and their bread and their milk, and can’t go out to dinner, I would say the Strike Committee has lost the support of the ordinary citizen,” Sam said.

  “Well, those dockworkers have lost my sympathy,” Agnes said. “I’m sure they deserve a raise and the working conditions are awful, but that doesn’t mean they can stop me going where I want to go, or even ride the streetcar. Hmmph!”

  Agnes resumed her typing of T.J.’s account of Jimbo Bracken’s visit and Sam beckoned his son into his office. “You mentioned on the phone yesterday that the basement at 230 California might prove promising,” he said after they had got settled. “Surely the homicide squad would have had a good look down there by now.”

  T.J. shrugged. “It depends what they were looking for. Jimbo is fixated on nailing Packy Shannon for the killings. And from what he said, I gather vice doesn’t know about the Alpha-Beta-Gamma diagram yet. Look, the opium probably isn’t tucked away under an old carpet down there, but the Gamma point could just as easily be the basement as the fourth floor. It’s worth a peek, anyway.”

  “I, ah, assume you can gain access without too much trouble.” Sam had visions of his only son jimmying doors.

  “The building has to be open this week. It was locked solid on the weekend, but there are still people, on the fifth floor at least, who are still paying rent and they’ll want to get in.”

  “I won’t remind you to be discreet, of course, but don’t spend too much time on it,” Sam said. “I have some errands to run this afternoon, then I think we should take a peek at the Amber Dawn.”

  *

  Sam Flood walked down Powell Street to the emporium on Market. He had to buy a birthday present for Amy and perhaps have a look at the new RCA Victor electric radio phonograph that was all the rage.

  For Amy, he chose a box of frilly handkerchiefs. The radio, however, didn’t prompt Sam to reach for his checkbook. It was quite a modern and elegant floor model, but he balked at the price — $89.95, not including tubes. Those would be another seven or eight bucks. It was true that he and Thomas were enjoying a good spell of business and there was money in the bank — another envelope full of cash from Packy Shannon had arrived just the other day — but he just couldn’t justify the cost of a new radio. The Floods would have to make do with their Silverstone table model for the time being.

  Sam then caught a streetcar to ride up Market to Eighth Street, where there was a tobacco shop that stocked imported briars. The Flood budget could easily absorb a new tobacco pipe.

  As soon as he got off the car at the junction of Grove and Eighth streets, Sam could hear the breaking of glass and the shouts and jeers of a crowd. Quickly, he realized what was going on: The Western Worker’s premises at 37 Grove was being attacked by a mob. Just down the block from the streetcar stop, he could see roughly dressed men hurling bricks through the newspaper’s windows. Vigilantes, he decided, taking matters into their own hands and striking a blow against Communism.

  Some men ran out of the only door and up Grove toward City Hall, running a gantlet of bricks and curses from the attackers. They were in their shirtsleeves and vests and carrying their coats. Then some of the gang dashed inside. A large crowd had gathered and was egging them on, cheering and clapping.

  As he edged closer, Sam could hear furniture being smashed. Wreckage came flying out of the shattered windows. A typewriter came to rest on the sidewalk. Sam recognized the keyboard of a Linotype machine as it smashed into the pavement. His mind flashed back to T.J.’s visit to the Western Worker and his own brief involvement with the Communist school on Haight Street.

  I wonder if that McNully boy is here, he thought, covering this for the News. Sam remembered T.J. telling him about the reporter’s new job and his abandonment of the Bolshevik ‘kids’ stuff.’ This raid wasn’t exactly kid stuff, he told himself. In the distance the sound of police sirens came closer. The whole crew of roughnecks piled into waiting automobiles parked across the street and drove rapidly away. A few minutes later, the first radio car came around the corner from Mission.

  The law is a little late, as is often the case, Sam thought. The vigilantes were probably on the way to the Haight Street school to wreak the same kind of vengeance. It appears the Industrial Association’s Communist scare had come home to roost with the wrong kind of people. Carefully, Sam picked his way across Market to Eighth, his mind already dwelling on the progress being made on the Shannon case.

  As soon as I pick up my new pipe, I’ll stop at the office to check the shipping news in Agnes’s copy of the Examiner, he told himself. Then, if I have time, I want to go around to Fisherman’s Wharf and try to get a peek at this Amber Dawn. If the Alpha-Beta-Gamma diagram was really a crude map, Fisherman’s Wharf was the logical extension of the baseline from California Street. And if the peak of the triangle is in San Francisco Bay somewhere, rather than beyond it, then the lists of arrivals and ships in harbor might be useful. He didn’t expect a ‘Forest Circle’ to pop out at him from the small agate newspaper typeface, but it wouldn’t hurt to acquaint himself with maritime matters.

  It would also be worthwhile to do a reconnaissance of the Amber Dawn. Shannon seemed to think it was a very useful vessel and the ‘maritime link’ allusion in the agenda was obvious. Any onboard snooping he’d leave to T.J. and his dubious methods, but it wo
uldn’t hurt to determine the lay of the land, so to speak.

  Sam realized that if he did go to the Wharf today, he’d have to endure another streetcar journey, because T.J., of course, had appropriated the Essex. Perhaps it is time for Flood and Flood to have two vehicles, he told himself as he opened the tobacco shop’s door. Then he couldn’t help chuckling. Am I so rich, he thought, that I’m thinking of buying a new radio and a new car? Be serious, Samuel Adams. A new pipe will do just fine.

  Back in the office, it was time to concentrate once more on the coded map and try to ascertain what the Alpha point was. He had bought some wrapping paper at the emporium, so he took Amy’s gift out to Agnes and asked her to wrap it for him. In exchange, he took her copy of that afternoon’s Examiner back to his office.

  Before turning to the shipping news, he paused to read an account of a police raid that morning at the Marine Workers’ headquarters on Jackson Street. “My goodness, that’s my old stomping ground,” he said aloud. Apparently the National Guard had rolled in and blocked Jackson at Drumm and Front streets with machine guns before the police closed in. Sam wondered whether Eric the albino, Hank Schmidt or Georgie Spelts had been among the several ‘Communists’ arrested. He dwelt for a moment on the possibility — if the timing had been right — that Samuel Adams Flood, senior member of the law-abiding private inquiry agency of Flood and Flood might have been caught up in such a raid.

  The list of ships in port proved to be a disappointment. Recent arrivals were listed, but he wasn’t interested in them. The ship he hoped to find had been in San Francisco probably since the duration of the strike. The only vessels mentioned were those docked at the piers. The bay was full of others at anchor, though. He could see them coming down from Russian Hill on the cable car.

  There had to be an accounting kept somewhere, Sam told himself. After all, sea traffic had to be regulated just like road and railway traffic. He called Agnes and asked her to look in the contact index for the port authority’s number. While working on a case involving some damaged railway goods, he had made the acquaintance of a clerk in records named Cocking.

  It only took a minute for Agnes to get through to the gentleman in question. “Mr. Cocking, it’s Sam Flood calling. You remember me, I trust.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Flood, although it’s been a few years. Can I help you in some way?”

  “If you’re not too busy down there with all the drama, I’d like to get a list of all the ships in harbor, all the ones at anchor. Records must be kept somewhere, one would think.”

  “Well, the drama, as you describe it, has certainly made life more interesting than I’d like, perhaps, but we do keep records, yes, of vessels arriving, vessels leaving, vessels berthing, vessels dropping their anchor. Maritime law requires it. I suppose you’d like a copy.”

  Sam said he would, if such a list wasn’t confidential.

  “Oh, it’s not. We mimeograph the list for the newspapers. They drop in to pick up a copy from time to time. Will you be coming down this afternoon to get one? I’ll leave it at the counter, if you are. We close at six.”

  Sam said he would, thanked Cocking profusely and thought for a moment about his next move. The records office was on the Embarcadero, so that would be a nice hike down Bush and Market for him. Pick up the list, then take a streetcar to Fisherman’s Wharf. Kill two birds with one stone. After checking whether there was any sign of life at the Amber Dawn, he could walk around to the Mason Street cable car terminus and go straight home. Sam buttoned up his jacket, took his new hat off the peg and went out to inform his secretary of his plans.

  As soon as he turned onto Market, however, Sam suspected there would be an alteration in his schedule. Ahead of him, he could see an afternoon fog forming over the bay. It was that time of year — welcome to summer in San Francisco, he told himself with a sigh of resignation. By the time Sam arrived at the Ferry Building, the fog was thick and opaque along the Embarcadero. His inspection of the Amber Dawn would have to await another day.

  Chapter 26

  Sam Flood was having minimal success in finding either a clue or inspiration among the neat list of anchorages he had picked up at the port authority office. There was a chart and its accompanying alphanumeric designations, along with the list of ships in port. It was as current as July 16 — four days ago — and included time of arrival.

  Logically, the shipment Packy Shannon was looking for had arrived on or about the time Benny the Bundle was killed, and even if the opium arrived a little later, the date had to be sometime in mid- or late-June. That narrowed the list down somewhat. Of course, there was no ‘Forest Circle’ on it to match the Alpha point on the Fenton diagram, and nothing that hinted at any connection. However, the list seemed to be dominated by ships with a ‘Maru’ designation, which Sam assumed was Japanese and translated into ‘vessel’ or something similar.

  It would be easy to find out. He picked up the phone and told Agnes to call the Japanese consulate for him. Eventually, he was connected to a gentleman named Mr. Noguschi, whose English was precise and understandable, although slightly accented.

  Sam got right to the point. “The designation ‘Maru’ on Japanese vessels, could you tell me what it means, please?”

  He warmed to Mr. Noguschi right away. Although somewhat pedantic in the use of a language that was not his own, he left no doubt about the use of ‘Maru’ and its possible antecedents. Sam found himself wishing Jimbo Bracken, for instance, could command such clarity. And as he listened, he couldn’t suppress a thrill of excitement.

  “Some say the attachment of the word to ships’ names stems from the legend of Hakudo Maru, a celestial being who came to earth and taught humans how to build ships,” Noguschi told him. “It is said the name ‘Maru’ secures celestial protection as a ship travels. The word itself means ‘circle,’ and other theories suggest that ships were believed to be floating castles, and ‘maru’ refers to the defensive rings that protected the castle. Still another explanation claims the term is used in divination and represents perfection or completeness, or the ship as a small world of its own. There are some others, but those are the main theories that concern our scholars.”

  “One of the meanings, you say, is ‘circle’?”

  “Yes. In fact, in a reliable Japanese-English dictionary, that would be the definition given. You must understand that the Japanese people often have many meanings for words, not unlike the English — or Americans — in that regard, actually. Sometimes the usage strays quite far from the original meaning.”

  Forest Circle, Sam said to himself. ‘Establish Forest Circle’ — the second item on the agenda T.J. brought back from Turlock. “Can I ask you one more question, Mr. Noguschi? What does forest, as in trees, mean in Japanese?”

  “Ah! Very simple. A forest is a group of trees, which in Japanese is ‘hayashi.’” He spelled the name carefully for this curious and persistent Occidental.

  After thanking Mr. Noguschi for his trouble, Sam put the receiver on its hook with one hand and reached for the shipping list with the other. Hayashi had rung a faint bell. Yes, there it was, the Hayashi Maru, or Forest Circle, anchored in the upper bay. Sam settled back in his chair and reached for a pipe. Should I try the new briar, he asked himself? No, new pipes need some breaking in. His mind was too full of Forest Circle to concentrate properly on the task. A nice, soothing session with his faithful old soldier would do just fine. His call to the consulate could be the breakthrough they needed, he thought, puffing quietly. Sam reminded himself, however, that the other aspects of the case could not be neglected. The basement on California Street, for instance, and the Amber Dawn.

  Sam brought his gaze down from the ceiling when T.J. rapped once on his office door and entered. “That was quick,” Sam said. “The basement was a washout, I gather.”

  “Didn’t get in,” T.J. said. “There was a cop at the door. Nobody was getting into the building. It seems they are having trouble with the new elevator operator. I’ll try
again tomorrow.”

  “Well, you’re just in time for some positive news,” Sam said. “I have found the Forest Circle. It is a freighter anchored in the upper bay. Japanese. The Hayashi Maru, in other words.”

  “Somebody in this room has been talking to the Japabese consulate,” T.J. answered, nodding approvingly. “Good work, partner. The Alpha point on ol’ Wally’s diagram. And I’ll lay you eight-to-five that’s where Packy Shannon’s goods are. The point is, who do we tell? Packy? Bracken? Pat and Mike?”

  “Nobody,” Sam said firmly. “We tell nobody. Remember, we’re not being paid to find some opium, we’re being paid to clear Mr. Shannon on a murder charge. And we haven’t done that yet. There’s still a killer out there. Too many loose ends, too. That basement, the Amber Dawn. We haven’t got a neat package to present to anybody, yet.”

  “Gotcha, Pop,” T.J. said. “So tomorrow, I’ll toss the dwarf’s digs and you, I suppose, want to have a look at the Amber Dawn.”

  “That is correct. I was heading there today when the fog intervened.”

  “There’s one more thing,” T.J. said. “Guess who was tagging along when I was coming back from 230 California?” Without waiting for a reply, he continued. “A certain shiny Oldsmobile with one overfed copper in it. He didn’t stop or try to pull another stunt like the other day. Just kept pace for a while, grinning at me, then took off.”

  “Pat or Mike?” Sam asked.

  “Pat,” T.J. said. “Our terrible twosome has split up, for the time being, anyway. What I can’t figure out is, what’s their point, taking turns bugging me? What do they expect to gain with this sort of stuff? That trip down to the Hall was farce, pure and simple. We could have had that conversation on a street corner.”