A man with money in his pocket must walk differently. Before I was halfway across the narrow street, I heard a familiar voice hailing me. “Hello, Joe,” said Gabriel Fong, just by coincidence getting out of his red Jaguar parked at the curb.
“Hi, Gabe,” I said innocently. “What a surprise to find you here. Come on up and have a drink.”
Suspicion crossed his round young face, but he followed me up the narrow, threadbare stairs to my small apartment. At that hour, the cooking odors from the other apartments had faded a bit, but it was still the next best thing to eating a Chinese meal. And less fattening.
Opening my door, I kicked a pile of unpaid bills to one side. The musty, unlived-in smell of the place met me. I made a mental note to myself: Start living.
Gabriel Fong watched me silently while I poured out two glasses of Napa Valley red. He’d probably had something else in mind. Fong had changed a lot since I’d met him the summer before. Then he’d been a clean-cut-Bible College student, all fuzzy and sincere and full of apparently genuine piety and good works. But something radical had happened to him since he’d taken over Uncle Lum’s motley empire on the death of that old devil. He’d vowed he was going to run the enterprises for the greater glory of God. But lately, his two hundred dollar suits, Italian haircut and—especially—the red Jag indicated that Mammon might just be winning out. Gabriel’s jaded eyes spoke of something a bit more secular than church socials.
“Drink this, Gabe,” I said, giving him the wine. “You look as though you could use it.”
“It’s not an easy life, Joe,” he said, lifting his weary head from the back of my old green couch. “The responsibilities of being a landlord are many and taxing. You wouldn’t—”
“I would,” I said. “Chasing tenants for the rent must be a real burden. I’ll bet some of them are, as much as three months in arrears. I’ll bet.”
“Four,” he said sadly. “One is four months overdue.” I knew he wasn’t just quoting a random statistic.
“Well, Gabe,” I said, “I know you’re not worried about my rent, but, just in case, have a look at this.” I put Crenshaw’s check into his plump hand.
Fong looked at it for a while, memorizing the sum, subtracting the amount I owed him and probably wondering how I was going to waste the rest of it. “Is that a genuine check, Joe?” he asked.
“It had better be,” I said. “I don’t mind so much for myself, but you probably need another Jaguar.”
He let that pass. The check had him mesmerized. I fancied I could hear the whirr of tiny wheels and cogs. “This Frederick M. Crenshaw, Joe,” he said at last, “would you say he was a substantial man?”
“Only the chairman of the Cosmopolitan Insurance Company,” I answered. I was enjoying the prestige of my new association with Frederick M. Crenshaw.
Fong was impressed, but he didn’t like to show it. He just blinked and said: “I’ll cash it for you and give you the balance.” He made it sound like a big favor. “After I deduct your rent.”
“That’s okay, Gabe,” I said. “No need to bother. I’ll put it in the bank and send you a check. I don’t want to leave you short of pocket money.”
“No problem, Joe,” he said, pulling out a thick roll of bills. Faster than I could have counted my fingers, he’d done the calculation and peeled off a respectable number of bills. “Here,” he said, as if giving me a prize. “Now your rent is paid. Just sign your regular signature on the back of the check, Joe.”
I ignored the ballpoint pen he was shoving at me and slowly counted my share of Crenshaw’s retainer. Even though I had failed algebra, my calculations told me that Fong had subtracted five months’ rent. I held out my hand, palm up. Fong knew what I was getting at.
“It’s to your own advantage, Joe,” he said persuasively. “Think how secure you’ll feel with your rent paid in advance.”
“Think how terrible I’ll feel if I get gored by a musk ox tomorrow and die knowing that I’d overpaid my rent. Give.”
He did. Slowly, reluctantly, sorrowfully as if he were making a down payment on his own coffin. “Now beat it,” I said, “while I start to earn some of that money I just paid you.”
As Fong’s light footsteps died on the stairs, I snapped on my gooseneck lamp and sat down at the table to study the documents Crenshaw had given me. The sheriff’s report was simple and straightforward, a model of terseness and economy. It stated, in brief, that Katharine Melhuish Pierce, a Caucasian spinster twenty years old, had been found dead of head injuries on the rocks below The Institute (formerly known as the Carter mansion) on the morning of December 21, 1975. The fatal injuries were consistent with those that might be caused from such a fall, and the deceased had been dead for approximately eight hours when found.
The report went on to say that there was no evidence to indicate how Katie had come to fall from the roof terrace on top of the building. There were no known witnesses to the death, and the inmates—now, there was a word that the folks at The Institute wouldn’t be crazy about—although cooperative with investigators, hadn’t been able to shed any light on why Katie had been on the terrace or how she’d come to fall off.
The sheriff’s report gave a bit of background on Katie, including the fact that she’d been at The Institute for just under six months, but most of it was the same information Crenshaw had given me at McGinty’s. And it didn’t miss the fact that the late Miss Pierce had had a high concentration of Phenobarbital in her blood stream when she died. In short, she was higher than a steeplejack’s insurance premiums. That was worth thinking about. Supposedly, one of the great attractions of The Institute to Katie had been that it helped her lose her pill habit. Or perhaps lose was a bit strong. The cure didn’t appear to have been all that permanent.
The neatly bound, professionally typed report from Brazewell Associates was written in better English and a lot more of it; Brazewell’s boys certainly scored high for thoroughness. Crenshaw now knew more about The Institute and Hugo A. Fischer than he probably wanted to know. What he wasn’t any closer to knowing was who had killed his granddaughter. The Brazewell investigators, who also knew how to read an autopsy report, noted the phenobarb in Katie’s blood and suggested in the most subtle way possible that she just might have imagined she was Amelia Earhart and tried to fly to Hawaii.
This was not a suggestion likely to appeal to old man Crenshaw, and the Brazewell Report tried to make up in solid, well-researched information what it may have lacked in originality. It took Hugo Amholdt Fischer right back to Lamar, Missouri, where in 1927 he had the good fortune to be born the third son of a dirt farmer whose sidelines were Bible thumping and gin swilling. The report followed Fischer through an undistinguished academic career that ended after the tenth grade and into sporadic employment as a merchant seaman. That is, when he wasn’t in various Midwest slammers for such eccentricities as bad checks, assault and no visible means of support.
To telescope a lot more than Brazewell Associates felt able to do, Fischer was an amphibious bum for the first thirty-seven years of his life. Then in 1964, while working on a banana freighter in South America, he sampled one of the more exotic indigenous psychedelic substances. According to Fischer, he immediately experienced such a flash of insight that he jumped ship and caught the next plane to New York. To quote one of his fruitier declarations: “I instantly knew my destiny. I could visualize in broad outline the creation of a great social movement. All I had to do was make it happen.”
Fischer flew into New York without even bus fare to Manhattan in his pocket, and began a tough three or four years while he gathered followers. One stroke of luck, according to the report, was that this was the beginning of the flower-power era, and some of the flower children, in various stages of disintegration, began to flock to his banner.
But his Appeal wasn’t limited to hippies. According to Brazewell, Fischer’s little movement consisted of neurotics, psychotics, alcoholics, workaholics, nymphomaniacs, blocked writers, pill heads,
middle-class dropouts, homosexuals, just plain crooks and hoodlums and even a few hard-drug addicts whom nobody else had been able to get off the needle. And from this rabble emerged The Institute of Mankind, later shortened to just The Institute.
According to the report, in 1965 Fischer married Lenore Harston, heiress to a small textile fortune and sometime mental patient, now forty-five years old. They had no surviving children, although a son, Hugo Junior, died shortly after his birth in 1967. For a time in 1973, Mrs. Fischer left The Institute, but she returned the next year.
The report went into some detail on Fischer’s leading disciples, among whom was the following: “A quite recent recruit, as yet non-resident, is Mrs. Rachel Schute, forty-four, a widow and multi-millionairess of Sausalito, California. Mrs. Schute first visited The Institute’s headquarters in January of this year and appears to have been quickly given the status of privileged guest. This would seem to be not unconnected with Mrs. Schute’s considerable wealth, which she inherited on the accidental death of her late husband, Howard Schute in 1973. She has apparently developed a relationship with Dr. James Carey, an ex-alcoholic who is one of Fischer’s top lieutenants. It would of course be libelous to suggest that The Institute is endeavoring to provide Mrs. Schute with a new husband in return for certain financial advantages.”
It would indeed. Those Brazewell people walked a pretty fine line when it came to libel. I’d have liked to have seen Rachel’s face when she read that passage. Or better yet, the good doctor’s. If Fischer had his hooks out for a large hunk of Rachel’s money, he’d better be fairly sharp. She was no fool where money was concerned.
There was a lot more to the report, but I’d had enough for the moment. I’ve never been one to do too much homework, anyway. It takes the edge off your ignorance. A careful study of the Brazewell Report would probably have told me who killed Katie Pierce, but where would be the fun in that?
Besides, something was bothering me. Something small but sharp and irritating was niggling at the back of my brain. Not about the Brazewell Report or even what I would find at The Institute. It had to do with Fred Crenshaw. I went over our conversations in my mind, and somehow something just didn’t ring true. There was something missing. My watch told me that it was nearly midnight. Crenshaw was probably tucked snugly away by then, enjoying whatever kind of dreams millionaires have. On the other hand, he might not be able to sleep, either. It wouldn’t hurt to go find out.
4
It was a fine spring night, so I decided to walk. The Morris could use the rest, and I needed the exercise. Jackson Street was almost empty, and except for an interesting offer hissed at me from a dark alley by a young girl—I think it was a girl—my walk was uneventful until I turned onto Powell Street and looked doubtfully up the steep back slope of Nob Hill toward the Fairmont Hotel.
My resolve to walk it was melted by the clang of the Powell Street cable car coming back from Fisherman’s Wharf and the bellowing voice of my old buddy Rolly Poole: “Come on, Joe, if you’re too cheap to pay, I’ll give you a free ride.” The car had stopped at the intersection, and I could see Rolly’s massive shape among the tall levers in the dark interior of the driver’s slot.
“Best offer I’ve had all night, Rolly,” I said, jumping aboard the running board and getting a grip on a pole just over the head of a pretty Mexican girl. “How goes it?” I’d shared a squad car with Rolly in my early days on the force. Then he’d been a ten-year veteran on the verge of picking up sergeant’s stripes. But without warning one night, I’d found that I had a new partner, and that Rolly had been arrested for beating a pimp to death on Russian Hill.
The call girl in the middle of the action showed her gratitude by turning state’s witness, and Rolly picked up seven long ones over in San Quentin. However, his wife, Helen, kept the family together and never missed a visiting day. And when the parole board sprang him, Rolly found himself at the front of the long line for a job on the cable cars. The department takes care of its own, even when they’ve been a bit naughty. Now Rolly’s woolly hair was shot with dapple gray, and a lot of muscle had turned to fat, but I still wouldn’t have liked to get caught in the grip of his powerful arms on the levers.
“Couldn’t be better, Joe,” he said, giving the bell a bash and setting the car in motion. “You know my little Vanessa? She’s going to be a rock and roll singer, and I’m going to retire to manage her. Only about twenty thousand more trips up this damned hill and I’m a free man.”
The conductor, a slim, blond kid with a healthy crop of pimples, took a couple of fares but passed me by. A black guy carrying a big package snorted and told the night air. “Man, that’s rich. These honkies sure do stick together. No fare or nothing.” He snorted again.
“Joe’s no honky, stud,” Rolly told him, braking the car at Washington Street. “He’s an albino. You ought to see him dance.” That won him another snort. “You working, Joe?”
“You could call it that,” I said. “I’m on my way up to the Fairmont to call an old man a liar.” The girl in front of me, who’d been ignoring our conversation, looked disapproving.
“Nice work if you can get it,” said Rolly, clanging the bell vigorously at a kamikaze on a big Honda. “You really going to stick to this private cop scam?”
“You got any better suggestions?” I asked him, half hoping that he did. But Rolly got busy with the levers, and by the time he’d finished slamming them about and cursing under his breath, he seemed to have forgotten the question, and the cable car was creeping up to the brow of Nob Hill at California Street. “See you, Rolly,” I said, jumping off the still-moving car.
“Sure,” he shouted. I was on the sidewalk at the back of the Fairmont Hotel when I heard him add: “Give him one for me.” That was touching. Old cops never lose their instincts.
Crenshaw had told me his room number, so I went directly to the house phone in the nearly deserted lobby. The night man looked up at me with mild curiosity, but he didn’t go for his gun or scream for help, so I must have looked fairly legitimate. The reluctant operator put me through to Crenshaw’s room.
If I’d expected to confront a sleep-befuddled old man, I’d have been disappointed. Crenshaw’s crisp “Hello. What do you want?” gave the impression that he’d been sitting bolt upright waiting for my call. He received the news that I wanted further words with him without warmth, but suggested that I come right up.
Before I could hit the door a second time, Crenshaw opened it. “Good evening, Mr. Goodey,” he said and closed the door behind me. “Why have you come to see me so soon? Surely you haven’t learned anything useful yet.” That was businesslike enough, if a bit pessimistic about my ability. He was dressed in a rich but not gaudy silk dressing gown and still had his teeth in. The bed was West Point neat, and on a table near a standard lamp was an open book and a glass of what could have been whiskey and water. No bottle was in sight, and I didn’t think I’d get offered a drink.
“Not very much, Mr. Crenshaw,” I said, feeling sleepy and not in the mood for a lot of polite chatter. “Only that you haven’t yet told me the real reason why you want me to find out who killed your granddaughter.”
That got all his attention. Crenshaw turned his impassive eyes on me and asked: “You’re not satisfied with my explanation, Mr. Goodey?” It was obvious that he wasn’t used to taking lip from the hired hands. I sat down uninvited on a straight chair next to the wall, and he retreated to his perch near his drink but didn’t touch it.
“No, I’m not. I’ve been doing some research since I saw you earlier—and some thinking. Your story just doesn’t wash.”
If he was deeply wounded, Crenshaw concealed it well. He looked like a man who had been inconvenienced, but only mildly, as if his pen had run out of ink. “And what story is that, Mr. Goodey?”
“You’ve got to have another motive than grandfatherly love,” I said bluntly.
“Must I?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m sure you’re a clever busi
nessman, but you were probably a lousy grandfather. And when it comes to playing the grief-stricken old man, you’re way out of your field. I’m sure you’d like to know who killed Katie, but that’s not what you’ve hired me to do. You want me to prove that somebody at The Institute did it. There’s a big difference.”
Crenshaw seemed to ignore what I’d just said. “Mr. Goodey,” he said calmly, “do you make a habit of insulting your clients?”
“Sometimes I have to,” I said, “when they lie to me or withhold useful information.”
“Perhaps it would be better if you just returned my retainer and left this hotel room.”
“Perhaps it would,” I said, “but I can’t. I’ve already spent a big chunk of it.”
That gave him something to think about. Crenshaw sucked his cheeks in and eyed me with mild-disgust. “Is that your idea of professional integrity? Accepting a client’s money, spending that money and then calling him a liar in an effort to be relieved of your assignment?”
“I don’t want to lose this job,” I said. “I like this job. I like your money. But I want to go to The Institute tomorrow knowing as much as I can. As much as you know, if that’s possible.”
“Tomorrow? You’re going down there that soon?” Crenshaw’s face melted slightly. “And you think Fischer will be willing to let you in?”
“Better than that. I’ve had a personal invitation from the great man himself.”
“I am reluctantly impressed, Mr. Goodey —if what you say is true.”
Charles Alverson - Joe Goodey 02 - Not Sleeping, Just Dead Page 3