The crew negotiated the dangerous rocks of the small bay, the captain directing them with terse commands as the rush of waters attempted to drive us onto one set of rocks or another. When we reached the pier, it was nearly dark. I stepped off the boat onto the boards, turning back to accept two lanterns from one of the crew. The first I placed at the westernmost corner of the pier’s end. The other I set fifty feet up its ramp. Then I went back to call across the intervening water at the captain.
‘Do you want me to light them for a few minutes?’
‘No, is fine,’ he answered; the concentrated expertise with which he studied his surroundings assured me that he had a chance of making it in with nothing but those two lamps to mark his way. After all, smuggling, which required night-time markers such as my two lanterns, was a common occupation along this coast. I nodded.
‘Eleven o’clock, then.’
‘Yes.’ And his engines reversed him into the cove and back to the shipping channel. When he had gone, I settled my rucksack onto my shoulders and set out up the steep slope of the track leading away from the pier.
The hours passed slowly, aided by a flask of tea (coffee being too liable to give one away by its stronger aroma). The night’s blackness was complete, three days short of the new moon, and the wind dropped by the time I made my way back down to the pier at half past ten.
Ledbetter arrived at the arranged time, and the lamps I had lit brought the Chinese boat in with neat competence. I led my young friend up the hill and settled him into his position, adjuring him to absolute silence. Or more accurately, I told him that if he lit a cigarette or fiddled with the change in his pocket, I would throw him off the cliff.
We waited.
Waves pounded on the cliffs below, leaving faint stirs of white in the darkness as their crests broke. The lighthouse flared at its set pattern, silent for once with the absence of coastal fog. The occasional night bird rasped overhead, a fox yipped in the distance.
And at two o’clock in the morning, as the mists began to creep up over the hills, a voice spoke out of the darkness.
‘Anybody there?’
‘Lieutenant Halston,’ I replied.
The sudden beam of a torch pinned me down, blinding me and, to a lesser but necessary degree, the man wielding it.
‘You’re that lawyer,’ the young man said after a minute. ‘You were searching Jack’s rooms.’
‘I was in Raynor’s rooms, yes, although I am not a lawyer. It was necessary for me to tell your major something of the sort in order to gain access.’
‘Why did you need to gain access?’
‘When he died, Raynor had something of mine. In fact, I was following him that night, trying to figure out how to get it out of him, when I saw you and him, right here.’ The story was thin to the point of breaking--how would I, a civilian, have skulked about the headlands unnoticed?--but I have found that a man’s guilt often stands in the way of rational thought, and so it proved with Halston.
‘That wasn’t me.’
I squinted against the light. ‘There’s another man of your build, rank, and voice living on the base?’
‘Probably lots.’
‘Is that what you told Jack, when you were trying to convince him that he hadn’t seen you on the street in San Francisco with your friend Merry?’
Silence, with the waves beating at the shore. ‘What do you want?’ the lieutenant demanded.
‘Merely the fifty dollars. Jack Raynor’s death left me short of travelling money, and I need enough to get me home. Fifty should do it nicely.’
I thought for an awful moment that he would simply give me the money and walk away, but a man of Halston’s sort understands that when fear and greed jostle for the upper hand, fear will never win out. When he spoke again, his voice was scornful.
‘What did Jack have of yours?’
‘The same thing he had that belonged to you.’
‘He didn’t have anything of mine.’
‘He had your reputation in his hands.’
Silence answered the charge.
‘Lieutenant Raynor saw you with the person who calls himself Merry Winfield. An unfortunate fellow, who might have made something of a success on the stage had it not been for too great a thirst for drink and drug. Any superior officer would take one look at the fellow and condemn you out of hand. Raynor could have led your superiors to you, and that would have been the end.’
‘I didn’t--’
‘But the tragedy of this situation is, your friend Jack had no intention of turning you in.’
‘He was leaving. Resigning his commission.’
‘And he wished only for you to be happy for him.’
The torch-beam wavered, the waves and continuous breeze made the night seem alive, as we waited for Halston to decide what to do.
Then the beam held firm, and I prepared to throw myself to the side, for I knew what was to come: If Halston could not trust his friend, he would not trust me. He took a step back from me and his hand thrust inside the open front of his greatcoat. His arm went in, then drew out, and the speed with which he moved told me all I needed to know.
I gave a great shout and threw myself to the ground, and the hillside came alive.
With a click the lights we had strung from three hefty batteries came to life, centred on the man with the torch. They confused him, and he held up the gun, not to aim at me, but to shield his eyes. As it rose into full view, the United States Army moved onto the field of battle.
‘ATTEN-HUT!’ the major’s voice bellowed out, the one command to which even an officer reacted with immediate and unthinking response. The lieutenant’s back snapped up and his hand jerked down several inches. He caught himself in an instant and made to stretch out his arm again, but it was too late. Ledbetter tackled him from behind, and while they were struggling, Major Morris strode up and brought one large boot down on the scarred hand that was stretching out for the gun.
It was over.
No doubt in the end, the major altered the scenario somewhat to explain the actions of his black-haired lieutenant. A flimsy tale of rivalry over the affections of a young lady would provide a more satisfactory tale than one of fear, guilt, and the twisted secret lives of two young officers. It mattered not to me how the major constructed his case against Halston, so long as punishment was dealt. And as the major had personally witnessed his officer’s guilt, as he had required of me when I went to him that morning, punishment would indeed be meted.
He sent us home on the launch, and with the eastern sky going light, our knock brought Billy Birdsong from her bed.
‘Tell me again how it happened,’ she implored half an hour later. Curbing my impatience, I reviewed in précis the lengthy tale I had recounted once already.
‘Merry recognised you, and you him; Raynor saw Halston, and Halston him. Merry, who thinks you stole his deserved success, complained about you to Halston. And Halston believed you would do the same with Raynor, telling him who, and what, Halston had been walking down the street with. Which would leave Gregory Halston vulnerable.’
Billy Birdsong looked up sharply. ‘Greg? You say his name is Greg?’
‘Is that the name you were trying to recall?’ I asked, but her face, crumpling in despair, had already told me the answer.
‘Greg, yes, that was the name of Jack’s friend! The only friend he ever mentioned to me. Jack said Greg was one of the blessings that made life possible, with long talks about books and music and life. How could he imagine that Jack would betray him?’
‘One sees what one is, and Halston saw someone with the potential to do him harm. His fears preyed on him, but did not come to a head until last Friday, when Raynor told him that he had decided to quit the Army and get married. With Raynor still in uniform, Halston was safe. But from the outside, anything Raynor said could put Halston behind bars, or worse.’
‘Married?’ she cried. ‘Jack?’
I put up a hand to quiet her, and continued, for fro
m here on, we were covering new ground.
‘It was no surprise to me that Raynor had matrimonial aspirations. The jeweller who made your necklace told me that Raynor had been looking at wedding rings at the same time. And his commanding officer said that he thought Raynor had recently begun to contemplate leaving the Army. Then in Raynor’s desk, I found two family letters referring to his previous mention of marriage.’
‘No,’ the singer moaned, tears gathering along her lashes. ‘Oh, no. It was all a…a farce? Oh, God, I thought Jack wasn’t like the others. Do you know who she was?’
‘She was you.’
The green eyes snapped up, the tears drying on the instant with astonishment. ‘What?’ I smiled: The voice had been that of a man, not the singer’s controlled contralto.
I took from my pocket the two letters from the lawyer in Los Angeles. The first, couched in necessarily enigmatic terms lest other eyes see it, brought a small frown line into being between her eyes. The second, however, had arrived at my hotel as I slept that very afternoon, hand carried by special messenger from Los Angeles.
Dear Mr. Sigerson,
I received your wire, and as you suggested telephoned the police to confirm its facts. Thank you for telling me of my client’s unfortunate death.
I am sorry never to have met the man, who struck me even in his letter as a creative and forceful individual. As you suggest, his letter to me concerned the potential repercussions of an unconventional form of marriage. At first blush, I laughed it off as ridiculous, but when I had looked more closely at the actual wording on the books, I thought it might be open to a certain degree of interpretation. It is generally assumed that the legal contract we know as ‘marriage’ is drawn between a man and a woman. However, as with the case of the innkeeper you mentioned, there is no clear law against it.
Essentially, however, the simplest way ahead for the young man would have been simply to allow the world to assume that his wife was indeed a woman. He assured me that no casual acquaintance would know it to be otherwise, which is when I wrote to urge him to choose his servants, and especially doctor with great care, for any illness could bring disaster down on their heads.
The elements of the marriage contract that involves inheritance would have to be handled somewhat differently, for fear that after his death, the true nature of his spouse be brought to light, leaving her penniless and liable for prosecution to boot.
I hope this has helped to clarify the matter on which Mr. Raynor consulted me, and again, I thank you for your information. Please convey my condolences to Raynor’s would-be fiancée, and assure her that the young man had every intention of caring for her as a wife.
Yours sincerely,
Samuel Kapinsky
The singer read the letter again, running her thumb over the lawyer’s signature. ‘Fiancée?’ she breathed in wonderment, ‘Me?’ and read it again. When she had done so, she looked up.
‘Who is this innkeeper he mentions?’
‘You yourself provided that clue, when you said that Raynor had an interest in local history, specifically in its eccentric characters. Including the stage-coach driver who ran an inn south of Santa Cruz.’
‘Mountain Charley?’
‘Charley Pankhurst, who died in 1879, at which time it was discovered that he was a she. It causes one to wonder how many other women have worn trousers, cut their hair, and quietly placed themselves on the voting registry.’
‘But I don’t understand--what that has to do with me?’
‘You told me that one of Raynor’s discussion questions was, What one thing would make you give up your life as it was? You told him, love. I should say he was about to take, as they say, the plunge, gambling that you would consider life with him as an alternative to the stage. After all, if Charley Pankhurst could sign a voting registry, why should Billy Birdsong not sign a marriage contract?’
‘But that’s not possible! Is it?’
‘I have no idea. I think it likely Raynor himself did not know if Mr Kapinsky would have succeeded in identifying a legal loophole that would permit it. However, the letter suggests that Raynor intended to try. In either case, his sister’s letter makes very clear that he was determined to proceed without benefit of law, were you willing to undertake the performance of a lifetime.’
When she and Ledbetter put their arms around each other’s shoulders and began to weep copious bittersweet tears over the lawyer’s letter, I took up my hat and left them to their romantic phantasies.
It was my opinion that, had Jack Raynor lived, it would have all ended in tears, mostly bitter, few sweet. Birdsong would have agreed to Raynor’s proposal, telling herself that she was happy to trade her gay, free life for one of true love. But how long would it have been before the constraints of deceit ate into their bond? Even in the free air of California, the pair would have been constantly on guard, against doctors, servants, friends, family. Granted, everyone in California is from somewhere else, which means everyone in the state has had to re-invent themselves. But habits die hard, and a new identity that lies too far from the old can become an intolerable burden. Every man’s death diminishes me, but some deaths create their own rightness.
As I strolled through the streets of San Francisco on that pleasant spring dawn, I grew aware that my spirits were more elevated than they had been before I set out on this case. I was, in fact, conscious of a veritable bounce in my step, and found that my throat was humming a little tune.
Yes, I would admit it freely: San Francisco had proved a most educational place, in the end.
FOURTEEN
Later that morning, at her desk in the homicide room, Kate let the manuscript fall shut against its clip, her eyes running across the opening line. The mind is a machine ill suited to long periods of desuetude. What a peculiar voice, the haughty yet humane narrator of this bittersweet story, a story based on a legal conundrum that eight decades later had yet to be solved. Everyone in California is from somewhere else, which means everyone in the state has had to re-invent themselves. What would young Lieutenant Raynor make of San Francisco today, where Jon, Sione, and Lalu made for an accepted definition of family? The motivation for Raynor’s murder had been dark and twisted, like anything that grew in hidden places. That his brother officer—a gay man like Raynor himself—should have exterminated him just as he was on the verge of finding happiness was the most poisonous betrayal of all. She found herself hoping that Jack Raynor hadn’t known who it was that moonlit night on the cliffs, assaulting him with the bat.
Then Kate shook herself: Don’t be ridiculous, this wasn’t real, it was a fable, it was fiction. She hadn’t intended to read it in any depth, just skim for content, but read it she had, every word, and for those hours, it had been real. As she drew back from what she’d once heard described as the fictional dream, she had to admit that it was, in the end, just a story: Sherlock Holmes in San Francisco. And maybe not even that: Philip Gilbert may have adopted the tale with open arms, but so far as she could see, the only references to her victim’s favorite detective were jokes, and as a piece of writing, it sure didn’t have the old-fashioned feel of those stories as she remembered them, all fog and gaslights and horse-drawn cabs and the incident of the dog in the nighttime. This story was as outrageous and colorful as…well, as a revue of drag queens.
She picked up the phone. When the English voice came on the line, she said, “All right, Mr. Nicholson, I’ve finished the thing.”
“Glorious, isn’t it?”
“Er…”
“I spent this morning rereading it myself, and all the while I could just hear old Sir Arthur in the background, sputtering his protests as the spirit of San Francisco took over his character.”
“So you’d say that Arthur Conan Doyle actually wrote it?”
“Couldn’t say, certainly not without seeing the original. But this will put a fox in the henhouse, that’s for sure. The Holmesian world will be up in arms over this.”
Irate Sherlocki
ans were not Kate Martinelli’s primary concern, not unless one of them had become so infuriated he’d bashed Gilbert over the head. “Aside from the coincidence of Mr. Gilbert’s body also being found in a Point Bonita gun emplacement, why have I spent all these hours on it?”
“But…I should think it would be obvious.”
“Not to me. It’s amusing, and not badly written, but hardly a work so earthshaking someone would kill for it.”
“Of course you’re right. I tend to forget that most of the world looks at this stuff with a rather jaundiced eye. And the key questions here are, one, was this story originally written in the early 1920s, and thus is not a modern forgery, and, two, if it is from the Twenties, was it actually written by Arthur Conan Doyle?
“The thing is, we Sherlockians will start with those questions, but we’ll rapidly shoot off in a thousand related tangents. In no time at all the question will move on from the prosaic, Did Conan Doyle write it? to the much more interesting, If Sir Arthur Conan Doyle took the time out from his hectic Spiritualism tour of America to create this story, only to abandon it unpublished, why? It would open an enormous window of speculation as to his experiences here. He liked San Francisco well enough when he got here, but by the time he left, he said that he found San Francisco unsympathetic and unspiritual compared to Los Angeles. It is generally assumed that the reporters here proved less gullible and awestruck than their Southern California brothers, but it could as easily be that this story seized him here, and colored his entire feeling about the city.”
The Art of Detection Page 25
