“It’s for you, Mr. Inspector Peter Cominazzo,” Olivia said bitterly. “If it’s your friend Harrell, with the news that someone’s aunt’s been murdered, tell him that your little wife hates his guts. If it’s Kielty, make that a double.”
“Damn.” Pete put down the tray. “Darling, I told you. Don’t worry—”
He picked up the phone. “Cominazzo,” he growled. Then, “Oh, for God’s sake!” A long pause. “You’ve got to be kidding!” A much longer one. “Well, who did it?… Yeah, I know you said that, but what kind of pigeon do you take me for?… Hell, of course I’ve heard of him, who hasn’t? Nutty as a fruitcake. Oh boy, just wait until the press gets hold of this!”
His tone had changed; its anger suddenly had vanished. All of them, even Olivia, realized that something had occurred that made the spoiling of their party unimportant. Pete said nothing more for two full minutes, while the phone talked at him. Then, “All right,” he told it. “I’ll be over. Half an hour be okay?… Uh-huh.… Yeah, sure, I’ll bring him with me.”
He hung up and turned to face them. He seemed a little dazed. He said, “Don Juan is dead.”
Timuroff raised an eyebrow. Liselotte giggled. Olivia said, “Yes, dear. We know. They sent the statue clomping after him to pull him down into the flames of Hell. We were right there.”
“I don’t mean that Don Juan. I mean our Don Juan.
You know, Lover Boy. His Honor Errol Vasquez Munrooney, all things to all men, one thing to all women, and mayor of San Francisco. He’s been murdered.”
“Not shot, I hope?” exclaimed Timuroff. “Any man who wanted a police permit for every flintlock musket in the city deserved a baser death.”
“Don’t worry,” Pete replied. “He didn’t give his antigun pals any ammunition. He got stabbed.”
“I don’t suppose the Devil sent a stone Commendatore after him?” said Timuroff, pouring the champagne. “He was much too cheap a wolf to rate VIP treatment.” He passed the brimming glasses and raised his own. “Well, here’s to the public benefactor who sent our Errol to his just reward.”
“Timmy!” Liselotte was genuinely shocked. “You must not speak this way. It is not funny that this man was murdered. He was a human being, with a soul. Are you not ashamed?”
“All right,” grumbled Timuroff, “for your sake I’ll try to be ashamed. But all my sympathies are for the poor girl who stabbed him.” He turned to Cominazzo. “It was a woman, wasn’t it?”
Pete nodded. Abruptly, he drained his glass and held it out to be refilled.
“Have they arrested her?”
“They haven’t, and they aren’t likely to. Her name’s Lucrece. She wears a flimsy sort of toga thing, and lies on a chaise longue, and recites poetry. It happened at a party, at this Dr. Grimwood’s—”
“Not the Dr. Grimwood’s?” exclaimed Timuroff.
“That’s right, the one and only. I guess I’ve never quite believed he was for real. There was this party going on, about forty of ’em, mostly little big shots, would-be jet-setters, one or two names in the news, and a lot of weirdos. They all say Munrooney was alone with her upstairs in her room. She has one all to herself, just like the other two, only hers has Roman plinths, and statues, and all that sort of jazz.”
“Do you mean that this doctor has three petites amies,” asked Liselotte, “all in the same house together?”
“Girl friends? Well, yes and no. He’s a retired brain surgeon, with enough dough so he’s eccentric instead of just plain crazy. He’s got a hobby.” Inspector Cominazzo blushed. “He—well, he makes these mechanical women in his basement. There’s Lucrece, and there’s Muriel Fawzi—she’s a Middle Western belly dancer—”
“Surely you mean a Middle Eastern belly dancer?” interrupted Timuroff.
“No, Middle Western. Her father was an Arab, but her mother was a little girl from Cairo, Illinois. She plays some weird kind of instrument and does this belly dance. Then there’s a beautiful brunette who—I’m quoting Harrell quoting Dr. Grimwood—won’t be born till Tuesday.”
“The man’s a genius!” laughed Timuroff. “Gears and springs and all sorts of good things—that’s what pretty girls are made of. I’ve always suspected it.” He looked Liselotte up and down. “What could Errol have been trying to do to her?”
“Ha! I do not believe she was mechanical. Why would any man make such an automaton when—when—?” Liselotte gestured expressively at Olivia and herself. “It is ridiculous.”
“They wouldn’t have to buy them drinks or dinners, or clothes or furs or diamonds,” Olivia told her. “They could spend all their money on lovely guns and swords.”
“That would be nice,” said Timuroff. “But let’s be serious for a moment. Today’s senseless tragedy should be a lesson to us all. To protect our dedicated, self-sacrificing leaders, mechanical women must be registered/” He finished his champagne. “And now, if our host and hostess will be so kind as to attack the lobster and the other bottle, let us return to our revels.”
“Quit kidding, Tim.” Pete put his own glass down regretfully. “You know what the man said. Maybe we’ve got time for just one more, a quickie. Then let’s get on our horse.”
“We?”
“We. Us. You and me. The chief’s there, personally. He’s riding Harrell, and Harrell says I’m to be in charge. To make it worse, Judson Hemmet and Mario Baltesar—you know, Munrooney’s law partners—they’re out there raising hell. So everybody’s going to be riding me. Where you come in is this: Lucrece stabbed Lover Boy with an old dagger—a real antique, with gold on it and a stone handle. You’ve got to look at it and find the murderer.”
“What murderer? According to the Constitution, English Common Law, and probably the Code of Hammurabi, mechanical women can’t commit a murder. They’re not legally responsible.”
“Okay, the guy who programmed her, the fiend who took advantage of her clockwork innocence.”
“Our public benefactor,” said Timuroff. “I cannot do it.”
“Come on, let’s get rolling.”
“By all means!” Olivia glared daggers at them both. “You know you wouldn’t miss it for the world. Roll on out of here, you party-poopers! One real pig and one honorary one. I hate you!”
“Madame”—her husband bowed—“after one more glass we shall remove our porcine presence from your sight.”
“The police are not allowed to drink on duty,” asserted Liselotte. “Judge Faraday would not permit it, and when I tell him he will be greatly shocked. Besides, I hate you too. Olivia and I shall devour the lobster. We need the bottle to get drunk on.”
“Then we’ll go down to—to the Edinburgh Castle, and dance wild Scottish dances, and pick up two big sailors from a Belfast freighter.”
“You’ll find it pretty much a waste of time.” Timuroff smiled. “They’ll make you buy their beer, and fill your lovely little heads with boring anti-Papist propaganda. Take my word for it—I’ve read their slogans on the men’s room walls.”
“Already you are jealous!” cried Liselotte, laughing and shooing them toward the door. “Now go away.”
CHAPTER II
The Rape of Lucrece
They took Liselotte’s Rover, Timuroff remarking that it served her right for threatening to get drunk and eat the lobster, and turned left on Van Ness.
“Corner of Broadway and Kemble,” Cominazzo told him. “Way out by the Presidio. He’s got some kind of queer old mansion there; Harrell says he got it during the Depression, from the widow of a patient.”
“You make him sound a little grisly,” said Timuroff. “As I heard it, she left it to him out of gratitude. He did an operation no one else would try, and won her husband a few extra years.”
“Could be, Tim. You’ve been out there?”
“No, but everybod
y else has. I’ve had a few of those catch-all invitations—you know, come and bring a friend, where I was supposed to be the friend. Young Coulter asked me several times—the doctor has some pretty decent armor—but always when something else was on.”
“Harrell was there right after that nasty butcher business in the Haight. Old Grimwood likes to spice his parties up with somebody sensational; I guess getting Jake was next best to getting Mr. Murderer himself. Anyhow, Jake sat around drinking up his bourbon, which didn’t hurt a bit, and answering gruesome questions, which in this racket can get pretty boring, as you know. Also, he had to watch himself, because Hemmet and Baltesar were there that time too. Anyhow, he got to meet the ticktock girls, plus a real live one who’s Grimwood’s secretary or something.” Timuroff turned west, up Pacific Avenue. “Those two—Hemmet and Baltesar. Did you know that Baltesar is married to Munrooney’s sister? And of course he’s also on the board of supervisors. You knew that they’re both customers of mine?”
“Olivia’s mentioned them, and I think you have too. The boys in the Department don’t have much use for them. They helped Munrooney with the dirty work when he cut Pat Samson’s throat and put his own lad in as chief.”
“Chiefy?” asked Timuroff.
“Yeah, Chiefy. Can you believe a chief of police whose wife calls him Chiefy, and who calls her Wifey, out before God and everyone? The bastard ought still to be opening limousine doors for the high and mighty down at the opera house, like when he was lieutenant. Believe me, it’s really going to be a mess. He’s playing he’s personally in charge, and he’ll keep it up till the publicity fades down.”
“It could get pretty complicated, Pete. Do you realize it’s only about three weeks to election day—and that Munrooney would’ve been a sure winner?”
“It’s bad enough without that. A murder on the second floor, and forty people, more or less, around the place. How’re you ever going to sort them out? Especially with legal sharks like Baltesar and Hemmet on the premises.”
“Did Jake mention anybody else?”
“Only one or two by name. Socrates Voukos—remember, with all those millions in rundown real estate, who raised such hell when digit dialing took away his Hemlock phone number? And Wade Kalloch, and Amos Ledenthal. That’s all I know about.”
“Here we go again,” murmured Timuroff.
“How’s that?”
“Socrates and Kalloch are also customers of mine—you must’ve heard Olivia speak of them—and so, of course, is Amos, besides being a friend.”
“That last I don’t get,” Pete said. “Ledenthal collects Japanese swords just like you do. Seems like you’d naturally be rivals.”
Timuroff smiled. “He buys almost all of his from me, and naturally he loves me because I give him such good deals. Well”—his smile disappeared—“let’s hope it’s just one big coincidence. Things could get downright sticky where you’re dealing with His Honor and His Honor’s crew. You’ll have fun enough without my being involved.”
Cominazzo groaned. “I’ll have problems finding out anything, and problems if I don’t find out anything, and worse problems if I find out the wrong things—which chances are I will.”
“I will pray for you,” said Timuroff sanctimoniously. “Would you prefer Church of England or Russian Orthodox? I am equally well versed in each.”
“Look, Expert Witness, either one will help. But first give Jake the lowdown on the dagger—that’s what they’re going to pay your fee for.”
They drove past mansions converted into guest houses, new and insulating high-rise massifs, and still-moneyed mansions bravely pretending that McKinley was not dead and that there was no servant problem. They passed the gray Hotel El Drisco, full of retired naval captains, ancient ladies, and antique Episcopalian clergymen. They turned down Baker Street to Broadway, turned left for half a block, and slowed where Kemble starts its short, steep plunge down the hillside. A cold wind from the Golden Gate, bringing with it a breath of colder rain, had blown the smog away; one could smell the sea and, like the mansions, pretend that San Francisco had not changed since Ambrose Bierce’s day.
In that day, the residence of Dr. Hector Grimwood would have been thought a rather modest mansion. Its architect had labored to minimize its size, and behind iron gates and a small formal garden, its Georgian facade displayed two perfectly proportioned stories. Timuroff recalled that a tycoon of the later nineties had built it for the bride whom he had seduced away from two careers, one as the wife of a Parisian postman, the other as the pampered darling of a successful wine merchant. She had developed into a grande dame of unusual splendor, whose romantic story was still slobbered over regularly by the city’s columnists; and it was she who had made the doctor the beneficiary of her gratitude. He sketched this background briefly for Pete’s benefit; then, finding no parking available on Broadway, turned downhill on Kemble.
He parked at right angles to the curb, the car at that San Francisco angle which forces passengers to climb out against the full weight of the door while the driver is literally decanted.
“I’ll bet the old lady still haunts the place,” Pete said. “Can’t you just see her spooking around the doctor and his automated girl friends, chasing off socially inferior ectoplasms?”
“If she does, Mr. Munrooney must have had a very rude reception when he popped out on her astral plane.”
From Kemble Street the house was more imposing. A driveway led through another pair of frilled iron gates into a paved courtyard containing a converted stable—an area now crammed with silent police cars—above which the house soared, all alight. Now it was possible to see another story below the ground floor, and under that a stone retaining wall with a blank door and two high, barred windows hinting at mysterious chambers half underground.
“Shall we use the service entrance,” asked Timuroff, “or go around to the front door pretending we’re gentry?”
“The front door,” Pete declared. “We must be impressive. Our mere appearance must plunge the unknown malefactor into a state of helpless terror.”
“I’ll make my Ivan the Terrible face,” promised Timuroff.
The door was opened instantly by a big, bald plain-clothesman who started to tell them that he was sorry but Dr. Grimwood was not available, and then, recognizing Cominazzo, smiled sheepishly and stepped aside. “Come in, Inspector. Hi, Mr. Timuroff. I guess I make a pretty good butler, huh?”
The hall was high-ceilinged, Persian-carpeted, paneled in a light warm golden wood. A staircase, strong and delicate, flowed to the second floor; and beyond it Timuroff saw a gilded birdcage elevator, obviously dating to a time when such devices were new and wonderful. In the corner next to him, by a narrow Sheraton side table, a suit of Maximilian tilting armor stood silent guard.
“Where is everybody, Jeff?” Pete asked.
The plainclothesman gestured at a closed door to the right. “The chiefs in there, in the library. Lieutenant Kielty’s with him, and his secretary, and he’s questioning everybody. I guess it’s pretty much for looks, and we’ll get down to doing the real work later on. Anyhow, the lab guys are upstairs, with the medics. Captain Harrell said for both of you to go on up.”
“What about all the guests?”
‘The chief corraled ’em in the living room—all except Mr. Hemmet and what’s-his-name Baltesar. They’re helping him.”
“They’re what?”
“Helping him ask questions, I guess. He’s got a guy named Ledenthal in there right now, mad as a hornet.”
“That should be interesting,” Timuroff remarked. Amos Ledenthal was known for his terrible temper, and he had nothing but contempt for Judson Hemmet “What about the doctor?” Pete asked.
“Grimwood? See that door opposite the stairs? It’s sort of a My Lady’s Sitting Room, fixed up way back when. He’s in there holding h
is girl friend’s hand—his live girl, not the windup kind. She was with them when they found the corpse—him and Baltesar and Sergeant Wallton. Wallton was doing the body-guarding bit; he got anxious when the mayor said he was going to the john and told him to stay put, and then was still gone after a half hour.”
“Well, I guess we’d better get along upstairs, Jeff. Thanks for the rundown. Come on, Tim.”
In the little lift, snail-slow but surprisingly quiet for its age, Timuroff said, “You look worried, Pete.”
“I am worried. Munrooney was a clown, but he was the mayor, and a lot of people thought he was the man with the brass balls politically. I sure wouldn’t want to be in Denny Wallton’s shoes. He’s black, and tomorrow the militants and half the press are going to crucify him as a Tom for letting Lover Boy get stabbed. And Godalmighty—Hemmet and Baltesar helping at a police interrogation! I’d hoped Jake could talk you-know-who into leaving the job to us working artists, but it looks like he’s dead set on hanging on to it. Meaning he’ll take the credit if I solve the case, and I’ll be the fall guy if I fail.”
The elevator jerked and halted. As Pete slid the door open, the sound of voices down the hall told them where murder had been done; then a solemn uniformed policeman took them in tow and, quite unnecessarily, escorted them twenty feet to the open door.
The floor of Lucrece’s room was tiled; so was the miniature pool, displaying Neptune and his nereids, that graced its center. The walls were frescoed with classic temples set in pastoral scenes where prancing nymphs and satyrs pursued each other. Members of the San Francisco Police Department were everywhere; their equipment cluttered the three stiff Roman chairs, the one low table, and the lion skin, which some returning conqueror had tossed down carelessly. In an alcove behind all this, on a couch of silver, silk, and ivory, Lucrece reclined. A blonde with the features of Pallas Athena, her glorious hair heaped high to fall again in cascading ringlets, she regarded them with serene gray eyes, quite undisturbed by murder or its noisy aftermath. Her exquisite left hand hung down, utterly relaxed; her right was out of sight behind her back. One knee was drawn up. One graceful foot in a gold sandal peeped from beneath a white-and-golden toga so diaphanous that it revealed not just the beauty of her body but its astonishing completeness. On the floor in front of her, on a plastic sheet, lay the late mayor of San Francisco; and even the thread of blood from the corner of his mouth could not conceal the fact that his expression, instead of betraying pain or horror, was one of pleased surprise, as though someone at a political convention had just mistaken him for Teddy Kennedy.
The Second Reginald Bretnor Megapack Page 49