by Will Rayner
“They could be staking out the building and you happened along,” Sam said. “A remote possibility, to be sure, but why would they advertise the fact?”
Sam Flood paused for a long moment, puffing reflectively on his old briar. “The essence of any surveillance is that it is clandestine. You follow Benny the Bundle, and you make sure he doesn’t know it...”
“Which he didn’t, that was for sure,” T.J. interjected.
“... But suppose it is not surveillance at all, but an entirely separate tactic. Pressure. What they are doing is supplying pressure. I’m sure of it. They are leaning on you, as the street parlance puts it. They are telling this agency that we can’t get away with anything.”
“They think we are looking for the same thing they are, the opium,” T.J. added.
“Lieutenant Bracken thinks the same way,” Sam said. “He thinks Packy Shannon hired us to find something. He may not have figured out the opium angle yet, but he’s convinced we’re looking for something. And, of course, we are, because we believe it is tied into all these murders.”
*
Sam was preparing to leave for Fisherman’s Wharf when Agnes relayed a collect phone call from Turlock. Mrs. Howard Brice had wanted to talk to “that young detective with the unusual name,” but accepted Agnes’s suggestion she speak to the senior partner of the firm.
The gist of Mrs. Brice’s report was that a policeman from San Francisco named Michael Wales had come to see her and was quite upset to learn that a private detective had taken away some of Wallace’s files.
“I do hope I didn’t get that nice young man into trouble,” she said. “He was so polite and he really enjoyed my lemonade. But that Mr. Wales asked me if anyone had been here and I had to tell him. He seemed quite annoyed.”
“Did he say what he was going to do, Mrs. Brice?”
“He just said your young man will be in big trouble when he gets back to San Francisco. I just thought I’d better tell you.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Brice, the, ah, documents in question have already been turned over to the police. Perhaps Mr. Wales was unaware of that. Thank you very much for letting us know.” Another warning being passed on, Sam thought. He wrote a note and left it on T.J.’s desk.
On his way to Powell Street, Sam attempted to fathom the rationale for Mike’s trip to Turlock. No doubt the vice squad had dug up the name of Fenton’s sister and tracked her down — days after T.J. had done the same thing — but what was the big cop looking for? The agenda that the accountant had copied, or something else? Was it that mysterious something from Benny the Bundle that Pat and Mike kept asking Flood and Flood about?
And if Mike was after the agenda, why didn’t he just go and get it from Jimbo Bracken in homicide? There were, to Sam’s knowledge, three versions. Bracken now had the original, the agency had the copy made by Agnes, and the presumed killer at the Seaboard had the copy Fenton made. Was there a fourth?
And why haven’t homicide and vice cooperated more closely on the string of murders? Pat and Mike were very interested in the life and death of Benny the Bundle, presumably because he was connected to a case they were working on. But The Greek and Fenton and Lance the elevator man were also connected — through 230 California Street. So why weren’t vice and homicide working more closely together?
Part of it was probably office politics at the Hall of Justice, Sam thought. After all, the elevation of the crude Dipstick to the inspectors’ bureau must have rankled a few souls at 750 Kearny. He remembered T.J.’s account of Bracken’s latest visit and the lieutenant’s observation that homicide and vice travel different paths. Pat and Mike might be travelling a very devious path indeed not to seek a joint effort with Bracken — and vice versa for that matter.
Cresting Russian Hill on the cable car, he saw the fog beginning to insinuate its way again through the Golden Gate, with wisps beginning to curl around Alcatraz. Disembodied masts of an inbound freighter ghosted up the bay, its hull buried beneath a blanket of white.
Not again, Sam thought. Once before, the Floods’ search for the truth had been thwarted by the idiosyncrasies of San Francisco’s summer weather, and it looked like a repeat occurrence was in the offing. Nevertheless, the walk from the Bay Street terminal to the Embarcadero was pleasantly warmed by the sun and the fog was still lurking offshore when he got to the complex of slips and jetties that made up Fisherman’s Wharf.
The Amber Dawn was precisely where T.J.’s report said she was. And she did not, indeed, look like a fish boat. In fact, her sleek lines were more suited to a yacht harbor. The Amber Dawn was low-slung and black, with a single funnel and a stubby mast. Her wheelhouse was well forward, fronting a long aft cockpit with a low freeboard. There was no sign of any fishing gear.
Cautiously traversing a narrow dock, its planks damp from the marine air, Sam realized the sun had disappeared. A grey ceiling had descended and was toying with the trucks atop the forest of masts in the basin. Sam began to walk faster. He really wanted to get on board and look around; if possible and if the wheelhouse was unlocked, also get a look at those engines that had so impressed Packy Shannon.
Reaching the vessel, he negotiated the short gangplank and unhooked the gate from its stanchion. There didn’t seem to be anyone about, or any lights burning. The wheelhouse was dark and the door was locked. Sam made to head aft, but found himself suddenly engulfed in a cottony world. All exterior sound was muffled by the fog. He could just make out the gangplank, so with infinite care and playing close attention to where he was placing his feet, he reached relative safety on the dock.
Chapter 27
Sam Flood stood in the middle of a hostile, alien environment and oriented himself. The Amber Dawn had been on his right as he came down the jetty, so he must leave the boat on his left to retrace his steps. How long before the fog lifted? It could be only minutes, but it was dank and chilly, and he worried about the damp air turning his snappy new fedora into a shapeless lump. He decided to chance a retreat and began slowly making his way shoreward.
So far, so good, he told himself after a few minutes. He had the vague impression he was passing some nets hung up to dry on his right (which were, of course on his left on the way down). That meant he had about thirty yards to go.
Suddenly, Sam felt a shove and stumbled to his knees. His hat and eyeglasses went flying. He tried to get up and another shove sent him over the side of the jetty. My brand new Silverman hat is going to be ruined, he thought, as he flew through the air. He hit the water with a numbing shock and surfaced briefly with the foul taste of bilge water and engine oil in his mouth. Then he felt a sharp prick in his shoulder as something prodded him. Someone is trying to drown me! He tried to fight against the pressure but was forced under once more. He couldn’t breathe, but dare not open his mouth. Reality began to recede and the blackness closing around Samuel Adams Flood was heavy with regret. I should have told Thomas about his mother, he thought.
*
The new elevator jockey at 230 California Street was a middle-aged white gentleman of medium weight and height. He was dressed in neat, but well-worn street clothes. His countenance still exhibited traces of the ashen sheen that accompanies a long period of unemployment.
He was also obviously grateful for his job, for he didn’t challenge T.J. when the younger Flood strode across the lobby toward the stairwell with no more than a quick nod at Lance’s replacement. T.J. knew, from his earlier visit with Agnes, that the stairwell went down as well as up. He just hoped the door to the basement level wasn’t locked because any tinkering with his set of picks might draw unwanted attention.
T.J. was in luck. The door was unlatched. The interior was dark, but he could see, from the light of the stairwell, a cord dangling from the ceiling. It reached down as far as his chest. Of course, T.J. told himself. So the dwarf could reach it. He gave the cord a tentative tug and two naked bulbs illuminated what appeared to be a boiler and a furnace toward the far end, and another door just to his l
eft. There were a few dark corners in the rest of the basement, but T.J. knew they didn’t conceal any opium. It was obvious this part of the building had not seen any activity in quite some time.
The second door was also unlocked and opened onto rudely finished living quarters. Another long cord dangling from the ceiling invited a second yank. This time the ceiling lamp was diffused by a glass bowl and revealed a square room constructed of what looked like some kind of particle board. There was a hot plate, a sink, a small ice box, some shelves with containers and utensils on them, a small chest of drawers and a cot. In one corner, some clothes hung from a hat rack. In another, T.J. guessed that an alcove shielded by a curtain concealed a toilet. Everything was laid out to accommodate a person of minimal stature.
The room had been searched. Drawers had been opened, the bedding on the cot had been disturbed, some condiments had been spilled on the shelf, pieces of clothing lay on the floor. T.J. wondered whether it was the cops or the killer, and what they were looking for. If drugs were supposed to be here, they had to be in pretty small qualities. The walls didn’t appear to harbor any hidden panels. He stood on the lone chair and peered into the bowl attached to the only light fixture. Nothing there.
Routinely, he checked the chest and the bedding, patted down the mattress for any suspicious lumps, peered into the containers and the pockets of all the clothing, and looked in the toilet tank. Nothing presented itself as being out of character. It would help, T.J. told himself, if I knew what any of us was looking for, apart from the dope. Well, it was strictly a fishing expedition, anyway. A means to eliminate the basement from the equation more than anything else.
He wondered where the master keys to all the offices were. There was a big hook in the wall by the door, but no key ring on it. The ring would have to be a fair size, too, what with all the doors the upper floors had. The new elevator man probably has the keys, T.J. decided. They had to be somewhere, because no building owner worth his rental income would let the master set go astray. Unless the killer walked off with it. But then, why?
T.J. turned out the lights, closed both doors and returned to the lobby. The dwarf’s wooden box had been replaced by a normal stool, and the new operator was perched on it, reading the Chronicle. T.J. pulled out one of his cards as he approached.
“Hi there, how’s it going?” he asked, handing the man his card. “I’m a private operative, working with the vice squad. You know, that room downstairs is unlocked. I’m not sure homicide would like that.”
Guiltily, the operator glanced at a big ring of keys hanging from the framework of the elevator, above his head. T.J. saw it now, too. The ring was hard to spot unless you actually stepped into the elevator. “Nobody told me about the basement,” the man said. “Just not to let anyone get out on the fourth floor.”
Sealed off. T.J. had entertained vague thoughts about going up there and checking out those crates one more time, but it appeared Jimbo Bracken, or Pat and Mike, or all three were getting serious about treating the floor as a crime scene.
“As long as these keys don’t go astray,” T.J. said, reaching for them before the operator could react. He had spotted a gleam of brass that definitely didn’t go with a Yale lock, and it triggered a vague memory that was struggling to be reborn. However, the brass key was not on the master ring, but on another ring with two somewhat smaller keys.
“I’m not sure yet which key goes where,” the man said as T.J. fanned the master ring out and examined it. “I’m pretty new here.” Yeah, and not about to make any decisions on your own and risk going back on the breadline, T.J. thought.
“When the cops next visit, I suggest you mention that the dwarf’s room was left unlocked,” he said, reaching up and replacing the master ring on its hook. At the same time he deftly palmed the other set. T.J. had finally remembered where he had seen a similar brass key — on a pleasure craft he had once boarded in Long Beach.
*
Dr. Funt met T.J. at the hospital. The younger Flood had let Agnes go home and was working on his report about what he had seen in the basement at 230 California, when the call came in. His father had fallen into the bay and was recovering at Harbor Emergency.
My old man falling into San Francisco Bay, T.J. asked himself? Samuel A. Flood, who looks both ways as well as up and down and behind him before crossing the street on the green light, so careless as to fall into a body of water? It didn’t sound jake to T.J., so with a certain urgency, he locked his notes and the brass key in the bottom drawer of his desk along with the Detective Special and the bottle of rye, and called a cab. He didn’t want to spend the few extra minutes hurrying over to Jones Street to get the Essex.
The doctor was all calmness and optimism. Mr. Flood should recover fully, he told T.J. Sam had swallowed a lot of bad water, but his lungs appeared to be clear. Dr. Funt wanted to keep Sam in the hospital overnight for observation. “There is the possibility of pneumonia,” the doctor said.
“Pneumonia in the middle of summer?”
“The ambient temperature has little to do with it. It is the question of fluid in the lungs. The elderly are more susceptible. Your father has had a shock and an immersion in a hostile medium. If his resources are too weak to fight back, pneumonia could well develop. At his age, it might prove fatal.”
“Is he awake? Can I see him?” T.J. asked.
“Yes, but only for a few minutes. Don’t let him talk too much. His throat is quite raw and sore from coughing up all the toxic fluid he ingested.”
“Pushed,” Sam Flood croaked as soon as he saw his son. “Didn’t fall. I was pushed.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then pointed at the chair along the wall. “Got my hat back, at least.” Sam’s new fedora rested on the chair, apparently none the worse for its maritime adventure. How did that happen, T.J. asked himself? “Go to the wharf,” Sam continued. “Somebody pushed me.” He closed his eyes again.
“Let him rest now,” Dr. Funt said. “Sleep heals a lot of trauma.”
“I can come and get him in the morning?”
“Don’t make it too early, but yes, your father should be recovered enough to be discharged. He has to go straight home, though, and rest for a few days. I will visit him there.” The doctor opened a small closet. “You had better take his wet clothes with you. He’ll need dry clothing tomorrow.” Sam’s duds were stuffed into a paper bag that was turning damp, and his wallet was in a cellophane pouch.
T.J. glanced out the window. Not much daylight left. He wondered whether going to Fisherman’s Wharf at this time of day would be productive, with nightfall coming on and probably more fog lurking about. Besides, he needed a lot more information. He took one last look at his sleeping father, then headed for the emergency entrance, carrying the wet paper bag and the wallet.
There, he got the break he had hoped for. The ambulance crew who had responded to the call was still on duty and not out on a run. There were two of them, but the driver — a sandy-haired young man named Craig, with a cocky grin — was the most talkative.
“Your dad, eh? Gosh!” he said when T.J. introduced himself. “Anyways, when we get there, your pa is lying on the dock. A fisherman had yanked him out of the salt chuck with a boat hook. Says he was repairing his net and it came over foggy all of a sudden, like it does, and he hears a big splash. Then somebody brushes by him in the fog, then it clears a little and he sees this snappy fedora lying there. He looks over the side and there’s this body. So he grabs his boat hook and hauls him out.”
“What was this fisherman’s name?” T.J. asked.
“Gee, we didn’t catch it,” Craig said. “We was making sure the patient was breathing. Pumped a whole bunch of water out of him, then put him in the ambulance along with his hat and his specs. The guy had a big moustache, though, and one of those caps sailors wear, and talked with an accent. Italian, I think.”
Well, that’s mighty useful, T.J. thought. An Italian with a big moustache and wearing seafaring gear, working at Fisherman’s Wharf
. Certainly narrows the field to maybe four hundred people or so.
Chapter 28
The contents of Sam Flood’s wallet were almost dry. He examined them, one by one, where they were spread out on the mantle. Sam was in his dressing gown and pajamas and Amy hovered watchfully nearby.
Dr. Funt had come and gone, after pronouncing Sam’s lungs clear of any congestion. One last item on the mantel looked like it was past rescue. It was Packy Shannon’s private phone number copied down by Sam several days earlier. The penciled scrawl had almost faded to nothingness, but Sam wasn’t worried because he had memorized it, and besides, it was in the Turk Street file.
“Better give me all the details,” T.J. said. He was sipping a cup of the very excellent coffee served by Amy and badly wanted a cigarette, but the doc had suggested no pipe smoking for a couple of days and T.J. didn’t want to distress ol’ pop.
“Shannon was right,” Sam said. He sank into one of the armchairs with a barely audible sigh. “The Amber Dawn is a rumrunner, not a fishing vessel. Was a rumrunner, I guess I should say.”
“A dope runner now, if the bad guys have their way,” T.J. said.
“It looks clean and well-kept. I wanted to have a look at the engines, but the door to the wheelhouse was locked.”
“That’s the only access?”
“From what I could see. There were some — what’s the word? – hatches back toward the stern, but the fog came in so quickly that I never got back there.”
“So you were on the boat when everything closed in on you.”
“Right. I managed to get back on the dock, and was trying to get to the embankment, solid ground. It was very disorienting. Then someone shoved me.”
“He came up behind you?” T.J. asked.
“I don’t know. Now that I think about it, perhaps I sensed there was something or somebody right in front of me, at the last moment. The visibility wasn’t absolute zero.”