Since it wasn't labeled, I asked, "What is it?"
"It came from your cellar, although, as we discussed, the contents are still mine."
I glanced over at Carter, who smiled. To my father, I lied and said, "I haven't been down there since we moved in."
He nodded. "I know you don't have much interest in the contents. Someday, I'll walk you through and show you what there is to find. In the meantime, this is a whiskey that your grandfather put up. It's one of the original twenty bottles. Over the years, I've had the first four. I'm still sipping on the most recent one. I wanted you to have this for your office, so you can enjoy it when you feel the need to unwind."
I was stunned. The contents of that cellar were his pride and joy. My father had always considered himself a connoisseur of wines and spirits. He'd built on what his father had left him. I'd never had the interest nor the inclination. I liked beer and martinis, with some occasional champagne, and that was about it.
Not long after my father and Lettie had moved over to California Street, Carter had asked me what was in the room. We'd walked in for a quick look-see and discovered that most of the dusty bottles were numbered but not labeled. So, we had no idea what we were looking at. Some were obviously wine. And others champagne. But the rest were a mystery.
I shook my father's hand and said, "Thank you. I'm sure I'll enjoy this."
Lettie stood up, walked over to me, kissed my cheek, and said, "Come along, Parnell. I have a meeting to attend, and I know you have your day already arranged." She looked at me and smiled. "Congratulations, again, Nicholas. We are both so very proud of you."
. . .
After some chit-chat, Alex left for his job, which was a couple of blocks down Market Street, closer to the Ferry Building. That left Henry, Robert, Carter, Marnie, and me alone on the nineteenth floor. All the other guys had gone back to the offices we still occupied up on Bush and also on Pine. They had work to do.
I moved the tumblers and the bottle of whiskey to a spot on the credenza that sat between the door and the sofa. I stood there for a moment, thinking about what that meant. It was possibly the most fatherly thing my father had ever done.
Carter came up and put his hand on my neck. "That's something. How old do you think it is?"
"Probably 1890, or so."
"Damn, son. We should sneak down there and steal a bottle for ourselves."
I laughed. "Not if we wanna live another year, we won't."
From over by the window, I heard Henry say, "Come on, Robert. Let's go have breakfast. I need to go to work, hon."
As they walked towards the door, I met them. "Thanks, you two. This is pretty damn swell. I can't believe it actually happened."
Robert nodded while Henry beamed and said, "It's a dream come true." He seemed to be a bit dazed by the fact of it being all done.
Once they were gone, Marnie asked, "So, Nick. Wadda ya think? Some swell digs, ain't they?"
I looked around. I couldn't keep my eyes from the windows. The view was fantastic. In reply to Marnie's question, I nodded and said, "Yeah."
Carter asked, "But?"
I turned and looked at both of them. "Between living in the big pile of rocks on Nob Hill and standing up here—" I couldn't put my feelings into words.
"What?" asked Carter. His forehead was creasing with concern.
I shook my head. "I hate it."
Chapter 2
Offices of Consolidated Security, Inc.
777 Bush Street, Third Floor
Tuesday, January 11, 1955
Mid-morning
"Don't forget, Nick. You have a client at 11." That was Marnie.
I looked up from the mail I was going through. "Right. What was the name again?"
"Some French name. I couldn't pronounce it if I tried."
I laughed. Robert, whose desk was in the same front room as Marnie's, piped up and said, "Her name is Mrs. Anne-Marie Boudier."
"How'd ya know?" I asked.
"I took the call," replied Robert.
"Why is that name familiar?"
"She said she met you at Marnie's wedding last August."
Suddenly, I remembered. I snapped my fingers. "She was the gal who realized who Mrs. Strakova was. She works in that Normandy Lane part of City of Paris." That was a big French department store on Union Square. In their basement, they had a series of shops they called, "Normandy Lane." There was a bakery, a cigarette stand, and a restaurant where they turned meat on a spit. Thanks to Mrs. Boudier, we'd discovered that Mrs. Strakova, our cook, had turned out to have a past that no one, not even her close friend Mrs. Kopek, also our housekeeper, had known about. During the 30s, she'd lived in Paris and had become a female chef of some fame known as La ZaZa. Everyone had assumed she'd died in the war. But there she was, cooking for us. I had to admit, I'd never eaten food as good as hers, that was was for sure.
"Did she mention what she wanted?" I asked Robert.
"Nope. Just said she wanted to meet with you today. She called yesterday morning."
. . .
I was reading through a long letter when I heard the door open. Looking up, I recognized Mrs. Boudier from when I'd met her at Marnie's wedding. She was dressed just as elegantly as she'd been then. Her black hair, with streaks of gray, was pulled off her face and pinned under a pretty round hat of robin's egg blue. She had dark eyes that were outlined in such a way that made them stand out. Her pouty lips were painted in a dark red that was a color I rarely saw on many other women.
I stood and, as I did, she smiled at me from the other room. She kissed Marnie on the cheek in the French manner and graciously shook Robert's hand. With all the pleasantries in the outer office complete, she walked into mine. Moving around my desk, I met her and offered my hand which she took and pulled in. I leaned over and let her kiss my cheeks as well.
"Hello, Mrs. Boudier. How are you?"
She smiled and began to remove her coat. It was cut short, ending right at her waist, and seemed to be very old but looked perfectly handsome on her. Being a gentleman, I took her coat and then handed it to Marnie, who asked about coffee.
Mrs. Boudier politely declined and sat down on the edge of the chair in front of my desk. I walked back around and had a seat myself.
"Now, Mrs. Boudier—"
Raising her gloved hand, she said, "Mr. Williams, please do call me Annie. All of my friends do."
I smiled and nodded. "I will. And my name is Nick."
Giving me a tight smile, she nodded. I noticed that, once I had a chance to look at her for a long moment, she looked tired. It was noticeable mostly around her eyes.
"How can I help you?"
She breathed in deeply and lifted her chin defiantly. "I need to find out something." Her accent was obvious and charming. "Something" came out as "somezing".
"What would that be?" In the back of my mind, I could hear Carter telling me to watch my "high-hat talk," as he referred to the language I'd been taught to use in my Nob Hill childhood.
"Well, Nick. It is a long story."
I waited. It was something I was good at doing. I like to let people tell their own stories in their own way.
After a couple of beats, she continued, "Ever since last summer, when I was delighted to discover that La ZaZa was working for you, I've been thinking about those final days in Paris before the war."
I nodded and waited.
Looking over at the hat rack, she said, "You see, I was once very much in love." She darted her eyes back to me and then away again. "While Anne-Marie is indeed my first name, Boudier is not my last name by marriage. That was Laframboise." She looked at me as if she was waiting for me to recognize something. I didn't.
"How well do you know the history of France in the war?"
I shrugged. "I don't know much of anything, other than what I've seen in movies."
She laughed. "Well, then, you know nothing."
I nodded and waited.
"After the Germans attacked Poland, we were
sure that our defenses would hold." She shrugged. "Not everyone was sure, that is certain, but most of us, myself included, were confident that the Germans would be held back." She smiled grimly at the thought. "So, as you know, our confidence was misplaced and in 1940, we lost our innocence and our Paris."
I noticed that the outer office was quiet. No one was typing or talking. Annie had a way of speaking that was entrancing.
"My husband, Jean-Pierre, had been a minor politician in the last government before the fall. To my shame, he chose to work with the Vichy government and, before long, was a close confidant of Marshal Pétain."
"Who's that?"
I heard Robert click his tongue at the same time that Annie smiled at me with a sigh. Obviously I was clueless about someone important.
"Eh, bien. For three long treasonous years, Marshal Pétain was the leader of Vichy France."
I nodded. That much I knew about. Vichy had been the puppet state for the part of France that the Nazis hadn't occupied. I then realized I knew who this Pétain person was. I hadn't remembered his name, but I could see his picture in my mind's eye, particularly in a poster seen at the beginning of Casablanca.
Moving slightly in her seat, Annie said, "Jean-Pierre left Paris and went to work for the government in the town of Vichy. I refused to leave and stayed throughout the occupation. I changed my name not long after he left even though I could have benefited from the association with him." She shrugged. "Well, the benefit would have been among the occupiers."
She abruptly stood up and walked around to Marnie's desk. "My dear, might I have that cup of coffee now? And, if you will be so kind, could you possibly fortify it with something a bit stronger?"
Marnie stood up and smiled. "Sure thing. Nick has some bourbon in his office. You just relax and I'll bring it right to you."
"Thank you, my dear. So very kind of you."
She returned to her seat and, using her left hand, touched her hat as if to make sure it was still in place.
"I hear that you will be moving soon, is that not true, Nick?"
I nodded. "We had the grand opening this morning."
She tilted her head to the side. "I have seen the building. Will you pardon me if I tell you that I do not care for this modernisme?"
I laughed. "That's fine, Annie. I'm not sure I care for it, myself. The view from my office, however—"
She nodded as Marnie handed her a cup. Looking up and smiling, Annie said, "Thank you, my dear. I'm sure this will be just the thing."
Marnie patted her shoulder sympathetically and walked back to her desk.
Once Annie had a couple of sips, she looked up. "I changed my name, but no one forgot my married name or my husband and his connection to Vichy. When the occupation was over, the neighbors..." She paused and took a long sip. "Well, I managed to leave Paris and come here to San Francisco. Monsieur Veladier was very kind to me, and I have worked for him at the City of Paris ever since."
I nodded and waited. She'd given me the background and the good part was coming.
Taking another sip from her cup, Annie leaned forward. "This is the help I have come to ask of you, Nick. I want you to find my husband." She looked at me intently for a long moment.
I didn't move. I wanted her to tell me the next part in exactly the way she'd planned.
"I am quite certain you will not have to go far. He is in San Francisco. I believe I have seen him at least two times in the last month."
I picked up my pencil and asked, "What is his name?"
"Jean-Pierre Laframboise." She spelled the last name for me. I was sure I would never be able to pronounce it.
"Where did you see him?" I asked.
She nodded. "The first time was on the last day of November. I saw him standing in Union Square smoking a cigarette."
"How did you know it was him?"
"Well, Nick, my husband was extraordinarily tall for a Frenchmen. Not as tall as Mr. Jones but, for our generation born before the great war, he was—" She stopped herself. I watched as she clenched her fists. "He is quite tall. When I last saw him in September of 1940, his hair was still black. Now it is a dull gray. And he is a bit stooped."
"How old is your husband?"
"He was born in June of 1908, so he is now 46. But he looks 60. Or older."
"How did you happen to see him?"
"I was leaving work to meet a friend for lunch. She was staying at the St. Francis, so I proposed to walk across Union Square and enjoy the sunshine. It was a cool day with some wind but not too bad for November. As I crossed Geary Street and entered the square, I saw a tall, stooped man turn away from me. I walked slowly past him as he tried to shield his face from me with his left hand, pretending to light his already lit cigarette. But then I saw the scar on the back of his hand."
"What does the scar look like?"
"It is a long, white slash. This he had in his childhood. It came from his father, but I have no idea the circumstance. Jean-Pierre was very protective of his father, for reasons that I have never understood."
"When was the other time you saw him?"
"It was last Tuesday. A week ago. I was once again crossing the Union Square, and I saw him before he saw me. He was reading a newspaper. As I approached, he stood quickly, folded the newspaper, and walked away very fast. He has long legs and although he looks quite old, he can still walk just as fast as always. When we were first married, we made a trip to the Pyrenees Mountains for a week of hiking. That is when I learned never to try to walk faster or do better than Jean-Pierre. He must always win. That, my dear Nick, is why he went to work in Vichy. He couldn't face the idea of not winning. France may have lost, but Vichy would remain." She wiped away an imaginary piece of lint from her skirt with her gloved hand and sniffed. "Or that is what he thought."
I nodded. "Is there anything else you can tell me about his activities after the war?"
"Frankly, no. I had assumed he was executed as a traitor. But that appears not to have been the case." There was no trace of remorse or sadness in her voice.
I looked down at my notes for a long moment. I wasn't really reading them. I wanted to give her time to tell me the last thing. There was something about this, the reason she was in my office, that she hadn't told me yet.
"Nick?" she asked.
I looked up and smiled, but didn't reply.
"I have come to you so that you may find Jean-Pierre. I want to know that he is alive. And then, once you have his address and know where he may be found, I will ask someone else to kill him. I hope you understand this."
Chapter 3
Far East Cafe
631 Grant Ave
Tuesday, January 11, 1955
Half past 1 in the afternoon
Mike Robertson, the President of Consolidated Security, was sitting across the table from me at the Far East Cafe over on Grant. He was my first lover and my best friend. He was a former cop, stood 6'5", and had electric blue eyes. He was in charge of all assignments and, with nearly twenty men and women under his command, was doing a bang-up job of building our business.
Next to him was Sam Halversen. Sam had been working for us for about a year. He was originally from Czechoslovakia and was built like a truck. He was shorter than me and thick with muscles. He was also somewhere north of 50. He'd been in San Francisco since the 30s, had been around in ways that constantly surprised us, and knew a lot of people of all sorts and stripes.
Mike was eating from a plate of crab and asparagus. It was his favorite dish at the Far East. He could wrangle a pair of chopsticks like no one else, particularly considering how big his fingers were.
Sam was having a special dish that he knew the Chinese name for. The first time I'd been at the cafe with him, the waitress had been very impressed that he'd ordered in Cantonese. Sam had a thing for languages and was quickly picking up both Cantonese and Mandarin. He was starting on Japanese which he said wasn't that hard, all things considered.
I was having my usual pork dish that w
asn't on the menu but that all the waiters and waitresses knew I wanted when I walked in. Mike had first brought me to the place back before the war after he'd rescued me from my father.
"So, what did you tell her after she admitted she wanted to kill the man?" That was Mike. He picked up a crab leg and began to suck the meat out of it.
"I told her we couldn't take the job. She stood up, said she was disappointed but that she understood, and left."
"So, why are we here?" asked Mike.
"Because we need to find him."
Mike sighed. "Why?"
I didn't answer right away. Mike was thinking like a cop. There was no crime yet, so there was nothing to do. But we weren't cops. We weren't limited in resources. As the richest homosexual in the country and definitely one of the richest men in the City, I had practically unlimited resources. During our last meeting with my lawyers and trust managers from the Bank of America, they had told Carter and me that my fortune was now larger than it had ever been, even including the outstanding bonds we'd sold to finance the new office building. I had suggested we go ahead and pay them off, but everyone had disagreed and said the bondholders would like to make some interest on their investment. I had just shrugged.
I finally said, "Look. The man's a war criminal. I suspect he did his time. How else could he be here? And if he is here and shouldn't be, we should at least find out."
Sam leaned in. "Yeah, Nick." His English was flawless like, I suspected, his accents in other languages. "He is a war criminal. But everyone is entitled to pay their debt. Maybe he has." He leaned back and looked sideways at Mike. "And maybe he hasn't. But that's courtroom stuff. Not for little old ladies who have a vendetta."
Mike sighed again as he looked at a piece of asparagus he was holding in his chopsticks. "My problem is that we've never been so busy. I'm still looking for more men and women to hire. I don't know who I can get to take this on."
"What about Walter?" I asked. He was an ex-cop Mike had hired the summer before. And he was an amazing researcher. He was like one of those big computer brains that they were always talking about. He could figure out stuff that took most private dicks hours and hours to dig into in half or a quarter of the time. He was also terrified of both Mike and Carter, standing somewhere around 5'2" and weighing in at about a hundred pounds dripping wet.
The Timid Traitor (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 10) Page 2