by Jon Wilson
“They do add some color. You’ve seen her. She’s not exactly hard on the eyes, but she’s cold. A dutiful daughter by all accounts. Went to Mount of the Olives rather than Brown or Vassar. People tell me that speaks volumes, but maybe she just doesn’t like to travel. Was engaged, but he didn’t make it back, also apparently that—”
“Where was he killed?”
“One of the atolls. We were brothers at arms, but of course I never heard of him. Langston maybe? Something or other. Good family, I hear.”
I put a finger on the closed folder. “He’s in here?”
Gig shrugged. “Probably. Peripherally. I had no idea you were so thorough.”
“Yeah? You were about to say something. Also apparently what?”
“Huh?”
“You said he was killed and that also apparently—” I left it hanging just the way he had.
He tried to remember. “I think I was going to say also apparently that didn’t help Miss O’Malley’s disposition. She took it hard. The whole Greek tragedy, wailing woman bit. I hear there may even have been hair-pulling and ashes. Hasn’t mixed much with men since.”
All that actually raised my opinion of Lana O’Malley several notches. I drank a silent toast to her. “What about her brother?”
“Even more color, only darker shades. Black, for instance. As in black sheep.” He drew a deep preparatory breath. “Disowned by Father, though no one knows why exactly. Has the usual vices—cards, ponies, girls—but nothing to excess. Thirsty often and enjoys quenching it. Also prefers fast cars to walking. But never arrested, never accused of treating any particular girl in an unchivalrous fashion. Still, disowned. Ostensibly before the war, but the will made it official. I believe the line was, ‘To my son, Lawrence Morgan O’Malley, I bequeath nothing.’ I suppose that could also be considered a motive for murder, but everyone claims the boy is sweet and sensitive. Tried to make a go of it in Hollywood but flopped. Betz tells me he’s better looking than Peter Lawford. I don’t see it.”
“Me neither. Tell me about the widow.”
Gig sat back in his chair, taking a break from the clams to stretch. “Not until you buy me another drink.” He grinned.
I flagged Gina, and she seemed to flow over to us. She was not dressed for evening, but she was nevertheless stunning. I hadn’t been aware music was playing until I watched the movement of her hips as she crossed the room. The joint had live bands in at night, of course, but it was the juke box that time of day, and the music and Gina coming toward me put me in mind of Billie and Lover Man. Only when she reached us did I realize it was Ella crooning longingly about a Cabin in the Sky.
Gig must have seen the way I was watching her, because when she left us with our refill order, he asked me, “Is that why you like this place?” He turned his head to watch her go. “She is a Nubian goddess.”
That made me chuckle and succeeded in bringing me out of a reverie that had absolutely nothing to do with Gina’s charms. I said, “Let me call her back and you can tell her that. Then, when you pick yourself up off the floor, you can tell me about Miranda O’Malley.”
The widow O’Malley turned out to be Gig’s favorite topic of the day, which, in light of what I’d already surmised, surprised me not at all.
Most of what he told me was a rehash of what Lana had shared the day before, only filtered through the admiring eye of a healthy young man rather than the jaundiced eye of a bitter almost war widow. The single most startling revelation he provided was that Miranda had not ‘suddenly appeared’ in the O’Malley’s lives; she’d been there nearly ten years before marrying the old man. Her first husband’s father, Jasper Reed, had been Lawrence O’Malley’s attorney for most of the century, right up until the war started. George Kelly, Miranda March, and Adam Reed had all attended Stanford together.
There were a few other random facts: she liked to dance, wasn’t much on public service, threw wild but intimate parties, didn’t like riding or betting on horses, but she frequented both Bay Meadows and the new Golden Gate Fields. Men liked her. I guess that was not news in and of itself, but the feeling was seldom mutual. In other words, Gig told me, grinning, she rarely danced with the same partner twice. And one time at the track club, two Romeos had skinned their knuckles over claiming the seat next to hers while she, bored, had awarded the chair to someone else.
Gig wasn’t keen to move the conversation along, say to Ramona Wyman, which was poised to be my favorite topic. He had more praise to heap on the widow. I told him to save it for a sonnet he should forget to copy me on. He laughed, but only relented to talk about Ramona Wyman when I got Gina to bring us two more drinks, his third and my fourth.
I tried to start as close to the beginning of my interest as possible. “So, why was the kid living with her aunt rather than with her parents back in Ohio?”
“Her mother died somehow, nothing sinister as I recall. I do know how your mind works. But it was either aunt or grandma, and she was a kid and aunt married well—I mean the first time too. So there you are. This is good gin for the afternoon.” He squinted around the restaurant; it was only about a quarter full, and we were the only non-Negroes. “I wish we could get in here at night sometime.”
I could probably get us in at night through a side door, I know, because I’ve snuck myself in that way, but he didn’t really mean it. He preferred the Torrent Club on Telegraph Hill, which was artsy and swank at the same time. Sym’s was not artsy, just very swank, and the clientele that filled the place most nights wouldn’t have welcomed two white men. “So there I am. Ramona moved in with Auntie.”
He shook his head. “Pushy bastard.” He was just starting to slur his words, and his cheaters were sliding down his nose. He pushed them back up. “She spent summers with Adam and Miranda Reed and moved in full time when he left for Europe. Also, it had been decided she would follow Auntie through Stanford and preparations were in the works. It was going to require preparations—monetary preparations—because Miss Wyman was not the brightest bulb.”
“She was cute, though. Was there a boy?”
“None anyone could or would name.”
“Too bad. Girls tell things to boys who hold their hands, don’t they?”
“Nothing a boy can bank on, if memory serves. In your case, I imagine it was a lot of ‘Stop, you’re hurting me.’”
“A wit like that and they don’t have you on the funny pages?” I tossed back some Manhattan. “So they all live together there in the big house?”
“No.” He shook his head, then sat frowning at his glass, his lips puckered and on the verge of a frown. It was the sort of expression that might bespeak deep rumination at a desk somewhere. But at that table covered in the wreckage of slaughtered clams, in that dim restaurant, the ice cubes rolling lazily around in his half-empty glass, it simply said that I’d about drowned his usefulness for the time being. “Well, all except the O’Malley kids. Go figure. Lana O’Malley has a swank apartment at Hilltop just down the street, and Black Sheep keeps a bungalow in North Beach. I hear the place is opened regularly to artists and musicians down on their luck. Apparently the boy is a patron.”
“So, despite being disinherited, he’s not hurting for green. He works?”
“Not at anything you or I would recognize as work. His mother’s family was flush. They set him up with a trust Betz and me and you—if I could get you to cut back on the booze—could retire on and still manage to live a damned sight better than we do now.”
He was sprawled in his chair, his right arm hooked up over the back of it and his long legs stretched out to the side. His left hand was on the table, meandering around in drunken circles on the tablecloth. I wouldn’t quite describe the look he was giving me as a leer, but it was definitely time to send him on his way. Did I mention that he’s several inches taller than me? Well, he’s also nearly fifty pounds lighter.
I signaled for the check. “So, who did it? Who killed her?”
“The butler? Isn’t it alw
ays? His name is Fenton, by-the-bye. A youngish fellow. Colored. Apparently they’re progressive like you.”
“Damned racist. Maybe I should get Gina over here to crown you.” I made the threat in hushed tones, however, because she was already on her way.
He laughed again and I joined him, thinking it was as good a way to end things as any other. Not that I meant it—about him being a racist. I believe he’s all for civil rights, at least in the abstract. Though, back when we first met, he’d done some digging for a profile piece and, discovering I’d been raised by a colored woman, killed the story because he worried it might hurt my budding business. Not that keeping it a secret appears to have helped much.
Once we were outside, me with my manila folder clutched safely in my hand, he waved his notebook in my face, showing me a blank page. “Look at that! Not a word. Damned cheating bastard.”
I filled my lungs, stretching my arms out to the side and letting the sunlight tickle every corner of my face. “Think of it as an investment. Besides, your belly’s full and your brain is well-lubricated. Go back to the office and enjoy your nap.”
He placed his hand on my shoulder and leaned in toward me, breathing heavy gin-soaked vapors across my ear. “Let’s go back to your office and play some cards. Penny poker. Or, if you’re short of dough, we could play strip poker.” He flicked my tie with his other hand.
I shrugged the hand off my shoulder which proved ill-advised because it nearly sent him tumbling into the street. I had to catch hold of his upper arm to keep him erect. I neither looked at his face nor addressed his ridiculous suggestion, patting him on the back and telling him, “Give Betz my love.”
He offered me a parting raspberry as we went our separate ways. Mine soon delivered me back to my office where I planted myself behind my desk to give the contents of the manila folder the scrutiny it deserved. In addition to the bios and clippings, it had photographs of all the major players. Morgan’s happened to be on top, and I decided that entitled it to a longer look.
He was in uniform, at ease, with his hat tucked under his arm, three-quarters profile, but his face aimed directly toward the camera. The insignias proclaimed his rank as first lieutenant, but I was left wondering whether he’d started there or if that was where he’d ended up. Nothing indicated when the photo had been taken. The phiz looked identical to the one that had confronted me across my desk the day before, brow slightly furrowed, eyes sharp and somewhat accusatory, lips straight, neither smiling nor frowning, but with just the faintest hint of a pout. He could have been sculpted by Michelangelo. He should have been. He was better looking than Joe Lovejoy and probably every bit as aware of the fact. But in his case, my first impulse was not to give him a punch in the eye.
I grudgingly moved his picture to the bottom of the stack, revealing his sister.
She looked completely different than she had when I’d met her. Shown the image out of context, I might not even have recognized her. For one thing, she was happy; it was in her eyes as well as her smile. Doubtless that had something to do with the fellow standing beside her, an honest-looking schlub I took to be the deceased fiancé. The photograph was the sort you’d see in the society pages alongside the announcement of a betrothal. They were in evening wear, the ritzy kind, with her sporting enough diamonds to pay my salary for a year. Her face was softer, more reminiscent of her brother’s. Only she had more points. It wasn’t just her nose and chin, but also her eyebrows and ears. Sprightly, you might call her, or perhaps spritely if that’s even a word. But in that picture she was a good fairy, not the evil creature that had stormed out of my office the day before.
Next in line was George Kelly, also in uniform, also at ease. He’d been a major, which sounds impressive until you recollect the state of the world five years ago. I’d known a major once, but the best I can say is he wasn’t a total sap. Kelly was not as tall as his cousin Morgan, nor as handsome, but he cut a respectable figure. Maybe it was the clothes. Lots of mediocre fellows took some handsome photographs between 1941 and 1945. In fact, I have a few of myself that I’ve even shown people.
George Kelly looked honest and earnest and proud to be wearing the outfit. Probably he did all right by it too. Gig had mentioned something about war hero. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Notwithstanding that in my estimation most of the men truly deserving of the title war hero never made it back to claim it.
Pictures four through nine were all of Miranda O’Malley. Leave it to Gig. She was also in uniform. Cocktail dresses mostly. One photo taken on a boat, showed her in a swimsuit with a flimsy gauze wrap. I’d already seen her in a couple of different papers, so the vision didn’t take my breath away. Not that she wasn’t worthy of all the buildup she’d been given. At five-eight, she stood tall and stately, with a tiny waist connecting her more shapely top and bottom, a dancer’s gams, and arms that seemed to curve and flow without any annoying elbows.
I still hadn’t looked up the word succubus, but I figured if the dictionary provided an accompanying illustration, that image looked nothing like Miranda O’Malley. Of course, neither would her likeness have been shown alongside the definition of seraphim found a few pages earlier. She had a perfect oval face with a small but pronounced chin, the sort you always imagine taking between your thumb and forefinger, with your thumb nestled gently in the faint dimple. Her eyes were enormous, but the lids were seldom at anything higher than half-mast, so she clearly disliked sharing them. Maybe that was why I preferred the swimsuit photo to the others. Most men would, of course, but for different reasons.
There on the boat, she hadn’t done so much to her face. Perhaps she’d just come out of the water. And her eyes were open. She wasn’t smiling. Judging just by the pictures, she never did smile. Nor frown. Such emotional displays seemed to be beneath her. On the boat, however, when whoever it had been called her name or whistled or just said hey, and she’d looked over, half-reclined on her acre of towel, arching a brow and letting on that at that precise moment, even if she didn’t find it particularly funny, at least she got the joke, there was an unmistakable echo of the clever girl from Ohio. The one who had made her way West to find the kind of money and comfort that would consume and sublimate her, turning her into the woman she was meant to be. The woman captured so perfectly in all the other photographs.
My phone rang. I reached and missed, then dropped the pictures and managed to wrangle the receiver up alongside my head. “Hello?” The sound of my voice confirmed what my clumsy hands had suggested: I was drunker than I thought. Swigging Manhattans from a highball glass over lunch was bad enough, but four of them? I cleared my throat and tried again. “Hello?”
“This is the office of Declan Colette?” It was a woman’s voice, a matron with a heavy accent that I tagged immediately as Kraut.
“Yes. Hold please.” I put the receiver down on the desk and stood up. I stretched again, just as I had outside Sym’s, loading up both lungs and rolling my fists out to my sides as far as they would go. I lit a cigarette, sat back down and hoisted my right ankle up onto my left knee. Leaning back, I loosened my tie, then reclaimed the telephone receiver. “This is Mr. Declan Colette. May I help you?”
“You are the private detective?”
“I am. But I should warn you I rarely accept German clients.” That was the Manhattans talking. I wouldn’t necessarily turn down an honest fee just because the client’s second cousin might have taken a shot at me a few years earlier. I harbor no particular animus toward the Jerrys, at least the American ones. And I actually rather like a lot of the Italians I’ve met. Now, a Jap I would just as soon cross the street to trip on the sidewalk, and heaven help the one who ever pokes his ugly yellow head through my office door. But I can tolerate an occasional Kraut.
“I am Swiss,” she sneered.
“Well then, guten Tag. Wie geht’s?” Having about depleted my supply of Deutsch, I switched back to good old American English. “How can I help you?”
“I am ca
lling on behalf of Mrs. Lawrence O’Malley. She would very much like to meet you.”
“Yeah, how much?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“No need, I offer it freely. When would she like to come?”
Another pause. “Under the circumstances, she would rather that you might come here, to her home.”
I nodded my approval. And, no, I hadn’t forgotten that we were talking over a wire. “Under the circumstances, I accept. Shall I come now?”
“Madame is resting now. Please hold the line.” I heard a sound as if the transmitter was covered, and I listened to nothing for nearly a minute. “She would like to invite you to come this evening at six o’clock.” Then, perhaps worried I might misunderstand, she added, “After dinner.”
“Really? Mrs. Lawrence O’Malley eats early.” I sighed. “I suppose I can do the same. Six o’clock you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So, not too much.”
“Wie bitte? I—I beg your pardon?”
“You told me she very much wanted to meet me. Now she seems willing to wait several hours.”
“Yes, sir. Shall I give you the address?”
I was casual. “What sort of detective would I be if I needed all that?”
“Yes, sir.” Swiss or not, the old gal had all the sense of humor of a Kraut.
A moment of heavy silence followed. Finally I breathed at her. “Well, then, I guess this is where we say ‘Auf Wiedersehen’.”
“Good-bye, sir.” She hung up so gently, I barely heard the click.
Chapter Six
I slipped Gig’s folder into a heavy envelope, addressed it to his attention, Personal and Confidential, then took a cab to the Bay Clipper’s offices. My intention was to reach the front desk without encountering anyone I knew and leave the envelope in the care of the attendant on duty. It wasn’t, admittedly, the most honorable return on Gig’s generosity, but I was tired and wanted to stop off at my apartment to freshen up before meeting the succubus.