The Driver

by Steve Bartholomew

They dined mostly in silence. Georg discovered he was hungry. She served the chicken with potatoes and boiled greens. After that he ate half of an apple pie.

  “What will you do next?” she asked.

  He looked out the window at the gathering dusk. Only a few people were in the street. This was a street of shops, most of them closed on Sunday afternoon. He said, “I saw a list of Penworthy’s latest transactions at the Court House. Properties he was trying to foreclose on, as well as recent purchases. There are five or six people on the list I want to speak to. I will have to start there.”

  “And where will you be staying in the meantime? What if I want to contact you?”

  “I can get a room at an old crimp house I know of. The owner is an old friend. He won’t talk.”

  She came around the table and placed her hands on his shoulders. “And what about tonight? You may be too late to get a room there. And there’s no hurry, is there?”

  Absently he placed a hand on hers. “You’re right. But of course I can’t stay here.”

  “Really? Why not?”

  “There’s no room. You have only the one …” He looked around to find her face close to his. Once more he found himself looking into her green eyes. He arose and turned toward her, feeling light headed, as if he had just had a drink, the way he used to feel after the first drink following a long hard day. Her eyes shone. He tried to recall the last time he had been with a woman and could not. He put his arms around her. They were both silent a long time, with no need for words.

  The crimp house lay half way down a narrow alley in the Barbary Coast. It looked to be in good repair though not a place of luxury. It had no sign out front. Passersby would not guess its nature. Georg mounted the stairs, rapped twice with the brass knocker. A peep hole opened, a moment later the door swung wide.

  “Haven’t seen you lately,” Greek said. “I thought you were dead.”

  Georg pushed his way past him. “I’m hiding out. Can I stay here?”

  “You, hiding out? An honest citizen? What did they catch you at?”

  Georg grinned at him. He was happy to see Greek hadn’t changed. “Never mind. Have you got room or not? I can sleep under your stairs.”

  Greek slapped him on the shoulder. “Come on in and have a beer. ‘Course we got room. This is the slow season. Say, there’s a new whaler in port. I could get you a good berth, maybe bosun.”

  Georg followed the man to a back room, where he poured two foaming glasses from a keg.

  “Don’t try crimping me, Greek. I know your schemes.”

  Greek laughed and handed him a glass. “Wouldn’t dream of it. You and me are mates. How’s the horsecar business? Sick of it yet?”

  Georg sipped the drink and put it down. “How many guests do you have right now, Greek? Do they all speak English?”

  Greek scratched his bald head. “Most of ‘em. We only got six men right now. It’s a slow season. Room for twenty. I tell you, I may starve afore the summer’s gone.”

  Georg looked around at the expensive furniture, some of it from China or India. “Looks like you’re doing all right, Greek. That belly of yours looks prosperous.”

  Greek just shrugged. Georg said, “I still dream sometimes about the Suzannah. Bad dreams.”

  Greek lost his smile and sat down. “So do I, sometimes. That was a bad business. Still, something good came of it. I got off the sea and into the crimp trade. I done well since then. You may not believe it, but I run a honest house. I never yet Shanghaied a man.”

  Georg nodded. “I know you don’t.” Crimp houses existed for the sole purpose of getting sailors to spend their pay and go back to sea. Some of the houses plied their customers with liquor or women. A few of them sometimes slipped their man a drug and shipped them out. The ship owners, especially the worst-run ships, always had trouble getting crews. They were willing to pay.

  Sailors ashore found it hard to find respectable rooming houses willing to put them up. So they would stay in a crimping house until their money ran out. Then the house got a commission for signing them on to the next ship.

  Greek had shipped as cook on the Suzannah. He and Georg had worked their way from Alaska to California. Both of them swore they would never ship out again. Georg never did learn the man’s real name, it was just Greek. That was how he signed the rolls.

  “Why did you ask if they speak English?”

  Georg said, “Because people are going to be looking for me. I’d be happy if they don’t answer questions.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll see they clam up. What’s all this about?”

  Briefly Georg explained his escape from jail and his reason for being there. Greek listened intently. “Now I remember hearing about that. I don’t read the papers much. So that was you driving that car. Listen, you can stay here long as you please, no charge. We serve supper at six, nothing fancy. You get your own room, no need to double up.”

  “Thank you, Greek. I can pay.”

  He waved a hand as if brushing off a fly. “Wouldn’t think of it. Say, are you going to drink that beer?”

  Later after supper he and Greek sat in the parlor while Greek smoked his pipe. His woman Lorena joined them and picked up some knitting. She listened but said nothing while they talked about old times. Georg got the idea she knew more than she let on. She had offered Georg wine, but he chose coffee instead.

  Lorena was from somewhere in South America, Georg wasn’t clear where. She could speak Spanish, English and German, but she seldom said anything. She listened. Georg thought she was probably one of the most beautiful women on the Barbary Coast. Her hair was red, her eyes dark pools.

  Greek seemed to run out of things to talk about for a minute or so. Then he blew smoke at the ceiling and said, “Sometimes in my business I get to hear things. A lot of the times it’s fellas bragging. I can tell when they lie. Other times it’s something they let slip and druther not mention. That’s when they tell the truth.”

  “So?”

  “So, you mentioned that cellmate of yours who said Alexander tried to get him to rob the pa’s safe. That sounds true, because it don’t sound like he was bragging. That reminds me of a story I got second hand from one of the boys here. He says he met a fella down at the Flaming Dragon tavern. This other boy claims Alexander paid him to rob the safe. He said the only thing inside was a sealed package. Alexander paid him two hundred dollars on condition the package wasn’t opened and the seal not broken. He got to keep whatever else he found.

  “Well, this burglar had himself a problem. He could just take the package himself, open it, and sell whatever was inside. But Alexander swore to him it was nothing he could sell. This fella didn’t know if he should believe that. Maybe it was full of gold coins or something else of value. Alexander wouldn’t say what it was. Maybe it was just an old keepsake or book, not worth much to anybody else. In the end this burglar decided to turn over the bundle and take the two hundred. He never did find out what was in it. Now, have you ever heard a queerer story than that? Just strange enough to be true.”

  Georg nodded slowly. “That’s an odd one, all right.”

  Lorena said, looking at her knitting, “Those boys of yours can make up some tall tales.”

  12

  Thaddeus

  Georg went back to see Thaddeus J. Penworthy. He was a little worried the man might call the Police on him. Instead, the butler told him to wait a moment, then returned a minute later to let him in. Penworthy rose to meet him in his laboratory.

  “Somehow I had a feeling I might see you again. Please sit down. Have you seen this morning’s Call?”

  “No sir, I have not.”

  Penworthy held up a paper. “As you can see, the headline reads DARING ESCAPE! It’s about how you and another prisoner slipped out of jail amid all the confusion. I imagine some of the jailers are in trouble about it, but the story doesn’t mention that. I’m not going to ask how you did it.”

  Georg shrugged. “It wasn’t difficult.”

/>   “The paper does go on to say you’re wanted for questioning in my son’s murder. I think the coppers are wasting their time because they can’t think of anything better. Why did you want to see me today?”

  This time Georg smiled. At least the old man was direct and to the point. “I hear you had a recent robbery. I mean of your safe.”

  Penworthy straightened. “How did you hear about that? It was never reported.”

  “Let’s just say I hear rumors, sir. Is it true?”

  “Yes. A certain object was taken. It was a valuable antique, as a matter of fact. I’m not sure how much it was worth, since I had not had it appraised. Why are you asking about it?”

  “May I ask why you didn’t report it, sir?”

  Penworthy hesitated, thinking the question over. Then he gave a shrug. “Two reasons. I suspected the item may have been stolen. It came to me through an unusual source. Secondly, I had some reason to think my son might be behind the theft.

  “Alexander was one of the few people who knew about it. Out of the blue he sent me an invitation for my wife and I to meet him at one of our better restaurants, La Cuisine. This was on a Sunday evening. We met him there and had a pleasant time. Alexander said he knew he had done some wrong things and planned to make amends.

  “Of course, we have only three servants, and they don’t live with us. So the house was vacant that evening. When we returned home I discovered my safe had been rifled. Again, I am wondering why you ask about this.”

  Georg said, “Was anything else taken?”

  “There was some cash in the safe, but not a great deal. I later noticed some odds and ends missing about the house but nothing of great value. We don’t usually have such things lying around.”

  Georg got to his feet. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Penworthy. I’m only wondering if there might be some connection between this theft and Alexander’s death. I have met his secretary, who seems to be handling his estate such as it is. I don’t know if he found your valuable item. You won’t disclose to me what it is?”

  For some reason Penworthy turned slightly pale at that question. “No, I’m afraid I would rather not. But good luck on your investigation.”

  “Thank you, sir. I bid you good day.”

  Now he was at a loss, confused. Part of his confusion arose from his idea that Alexander’s death had something to do with the missing and unknown object he had stolen. It occurred to him that his own father might have arranged the murder, but he rejected the idea. Penworthy didn’t seem the type. But then, he considered, they often don’t. Georg had no real evidence to connect the two events, it was a matter of gut feeling.

  He was confused also about Genevieve. He had known several good women in the past, but had never thought of marriage or settling down. He was a sailor, a roamer of the Earth. Or at least he used to be. He knew it would be dangerous to visit her again while the police were looking for him. He also knew he would do it anyway.

  First he would send her a note. Hang something in the window if she knew men were watching the place. Say, a red scarf or bandanna.

  He found himself descending Nob Hill and walking as far as Portsmouth Square. Here he rested on a bench after buying a pastry from an Italian pushcart vendor. He sat for a time thinking, and nodded, smiling, to a passing patrolman. Georg guessed the cop might not have seen his description, or there were too many others who might have matched it.

  He came to a decision. He wanted to go talk to Jason Orley again to see if he knew anything about the missing package. But that could wait. He went over his mental list, the one he had made up at the Court House. One name popped out: Gustave Douvet, Rare Books. The address was on Montgomery Street.

  Georg remembered now that the Court House had recorded a large equity loan from Alexander Penworthy to Gustave Douvet. There was something odd about that. How had Alexander come in contact with a dealer in books? It didn’t seem his style. He decided to visit Mr. Douvet.

  The sign above the door read DOUVET BOOKS. Below was a smaller sign that Georg couldn’t read. He expected a small, dusty place crammed with old volumes. Instead he found large clean windows in front. From outside he could make out several customers browsing, both men and women. As he opened the door and entered, a small silver bell gave a bright tinkle. A young lady shopkeeper emerged from behind a bookshelf. Georg noticed there were a lot of other items besides books, small figurines, paintings, odd looking Oriental tools and weapons. A curiosity shop.

  “May I help, sir?” The young woman smiled, but he noticed a skeptical glance at his poor clothing. She had a distinctly French Accent. Georg’s first impression was of some delicate European ceramic. Then at a second look, he saw a hidden and durable strength.

  “I wish to speak to Monsieur Douvet.”

  “I am his daughter, Rocelyn Douvet. My pere is busy in his office. May I assist you instead?”

  He gave her a friendly smile. “I wish to speak to your father because I hope he can give me advice about a certain legal matter. Should I make an appointment for later?”

  She hesitated, then gave a quick shrug. “I shall see if he is free for a moment. May I give him your name?”

  He gave her his real name, which got no reaction. Probably she did not bother with the English language newspapers. She turned and went to the back. A door softly opened and closed. She was gone two or three minutes before returning.

  “Mon pere will see you, m’sieur. But he can spare only a short time. Please go back.”

  Georg went behind a tall stack of books and other artifacts, to a narrow door which was open. The further he penetrated into this shop the mustier it smelled. In one corner stood an Egyptian mummy.

  He stepped into a room dimly lit by a small window and three hanging lanterns. Gustave rose to greet him, offering a bow but no handshake.

  Georg had a moment of shock. The shock was of recognition. He sometimes took pride in his memory, though usually he saw no great advantage in it. If he wished, he could recall the faces of all the people who rode his streetcar, if he had only glimpsed them. Ever since the murder, he had gone over in his mind the people who had been aboard that day. This face was one of them. He remembered the man boarding, though he could not have said when or where he got off. He knew the names of some others because they were regular passengers. Not this one.

  Douvet clearly took great pride in his luxuriant grey beard, trimmed and waxed and descending half way down his chest. He wore his hair long, in genteel curls. His was a hard face to forget. Georg thought of some French aristocrat from before the Revolution.

  “How may I help you, m’sieur? Please be seated. Will you take some plum wine?”

  “No thank you, sir. I apologize for taking up your time.” Georg could see a stack of accounts spread across the man’s desk. He guessed he had been working on an inventory.

  “Not at all. It is a pleasant break from work. Rocelyn tells me you have a legal problem in mind. To come to the point, you may explain.”

  Georg took a deep breath. He had a feeling this man was playing cat and mouse. He said, “It’s about the killing of Alexander Penworthy.”

  Douvet’s face showed no change. He poured himself a small cup from an old bottle. “Yes, I know. You’re sure you will have no wine? When Rocelyn described you I went to peep through a hole in my door. I recognized you. You are the Driver. You’re the one who made that daring escape. I do read the papers. No doubt you bribed a guard or two. That is none of my concern. What is it that brings you to my shop today?”

  Georg decided not to mince words. “You had certain dealings with Mr. Penworthy. And you were on my streetcar when he was murdered.”

  He shook his head. “It’s true we had dealings. In fact I had arranged to meet Mr. Penworthy on your car. You might say he sometimes had strange requirements. But I was not there when he was killed. When the riot began I immediately took my leave and got as far away as quickly as possible.

  “I am sorry to disappoint, but I did
not see who killed him, nor do I know why. Although I could think of a number of reasons. If you have other questions, I may try to answer them. Please go on.”

  Georg had a growing conviction that he had found his man. But he could prove nothing as yet. Douvet knew that. He said, “May you describe to me the dealings you had with Mr. Penworthy?”

  Douvet gave a wry smile. He picked up an old briar pipe and began scraping the bowl with a pen knife. He said, “You have seen the sign over my door: Rare Books, and below that, Curiosities for curious minds. I have a popular and fashionable shop. I am an upstanding, reputable businessman. I have a lovely daughter. But I was not always so.”

  Douvet had some trouble with his pipe. Several times it slipped from his hand, and once he scratched his thumb with the blade, letting out a soft curse. Finally he tapped out his pipe and began loading it. He gave Georg a sideways look. “Rocelyn is not truly my daughter, though she may as well be. I was not always honest and upstanding as you see me now. I came to California by the grace of that so-called emperor Louis Napoleon. It was when he decided to empty the prisons of Paris. I was one of the inmates there, convicted of some not so petty crimes, which no longer matter.

  “Rocelyn and her mother Luisa were also prisoners. Rocelyn was no more than a waif. Luisa was there I suppose for prostitution, or perhaps just begging, I never asked. She had chosen to keep her daughter with her rather than condemn her to an orphanage. Louis Napoleon announced in public that he would send a number of deserving French people to California so that they might become rich in the gold rush.

  “Then, of course, he rounded up five thousand of us from the prison cells and shipped us off in leaky tubs. He called us the Dregs of Society. Perhaps you have heard all this before. We had not much choice in whether to go, but most of us I think were willing to take a chance on drowning at sea if only to get out of those stinking cells.

  “I met Luisa and her daughter on the ship. I came to love both of them. I make the story short. After weeks at sea and a voyage around the Horn we arrived in San Francisco. I swore to protect Luisa and Rocelyn. But Luisa had fallen ill on the ship. Rocelyn was little better. Of course the shipboard food was not fit for dogs. Be that as it may. Luisa died not long after our arrival in this land of gold and honey. Rocelyn lived, and grows to a fine young lady.”