The Hammett Hex

by Victoria Abbott

  “What if someone’s ransacking our rooms right now?”

  Ana Maria was shaking. I put my arms around her and led her to the king-size bed. “Just sit. Take a deep breath. We’ll be all right. You’ll be all right.”

  “I cannot do this. I will lose my job!”

  “You won’t. It’s not your fault.”

  “But I am hiding in a guest’s room! I am sitting on the bed. It is wrong. Very wrong.”

  “Well, that’s true enough,” Elaine said. “But still not your fault. And it’s not my fault either.” She pointed at me. “Some of it may be her fault.”

  “I was fleeing for my life,” I said defensively.

  “Sure, but you climbed onto my balcony and opened my door and now we’re in the soup.”

  “What do you think would have happened if I hadn’t come to your balcony door and you’d stayed on the ninth floor and those guys had barged into your room? At least I was company.” As arguments went, it was pretty lame.

  She bit her lip and looked understandably peevish. “Good point. Now what?”

  “Now we wait until they clear the building.”

  I wish I could say that the long wait until the announcement that the coast was clear was filled with brave banter, but all that occurred was sulky silence from Elaine and worried sighs from Ana Maria. As for me, I hunkered down and pondered how my lovely world of golden age mysteries, priceless first editions and days surrounded by family and friends (and Vera, of course) had morphed into a nightmare with guns and fear. I was well out of my comfort zone. That’s what Hammett had brought me. It was the opposite of everything I loved about mysteries. Christie and Sayers and Ngaio Marsh had their dangers in those remote grand houses, for sure—a swig of poison, a slippery grand staircase, someone who is up to no good and everything talked out in a game of wits at the end, most of the sparring verbal.

  I had encountered and lived through some scary stuff in trying to help Vera build or retrieve those collections. Nero Wolfe had his dark side too, but really, most of the sleuthing and discussion took place in the elegant confines of his New York study. I, on the other hand, was used to knowing my town, being comfortable in my environment and having a pretty good idea on how to proceed when faced with what my uncles would call “a sticky situation.”

  But disappearing bookshops with murdered owners, people breaking into homes with fragile seniors, a rampage through a hotel in the heart of San Francisco? This was beyond my imagination. The Uncle Seamus stories were full of fun and daring, like a high-wire act. People didn’t die in them. Presumably those who lost jewels or money were unhappy but they never got a voice in the story. This situation was more like Hammett’s world. If you leave out the fun and games of Nick and Nora Charles, a high percentage of characters didn’t survive in his books. No one could be trusted. No one. Not the sweet little lady who answers the door, not the housekeeper, not the police and not the love interest. You could barely trust the protagonist, and even then, not always. Still, I was the lead in this disaster and I knew I could trust myself.

  That was one of Uncle Seamus’s rules: Trust yourself. No one else will. Words to live by. Of course, my favorite had always been, “If you can’t be yourself, then be somebody else.”

  At the moment Jordan Kelly Bingham was probably a prime target, the minute she exited the hotel. I wouldn’t even know who to watch out for. Therefore, I wouldn’t be going anywhere. Instead, I was going to be someone else. Confession time: I’ve always loved disguises, but this time there was no fun in it, just survival. In case it didn’t go well, I wanted time to say good-bye to Smiley. I dug for my phone. Where was it?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  If you can’t be yourself, then be somebody else.

  —The Kelly Rules

  PANICKED, I RIFFLED through my orange bag. Had I dropped the phone in our frantic escape? Well, there was no going back for it.

  I ducked into the bathroom to do a better job of checking my purse. I still had my camera but no phone. I did spot a tin of talcum powder on the vanity. Just what the doctor ordered. I dropped it in my satchel and slipped a fiver on the counter to keep things honest.

  Things had gotten quiet on our floor. Elaine knocked on the bathroom door and suggested that I not hog the facilities. Perfect. Elaine closed the bathroom door behind her and said she was not going anywhere else with me. I really couldn’t blame her. I beckoned Ana Maria out of the room. She pushed her cart and followed me along the hall to the cupboard where they keep the housekeeping carts. I didn’t want Elaine to hear. I stepped into the empty room before she did and waved her in. She hesitated. Who could blame her? I reached into my purse and pulled out two twenties. She inched into the closet-sized room with the cart ahead of her and in front of me. Good survival instinct.

  I said, “I just want your scarf and your uniform.”

  She shook her head. “No. I will lose my job if I’m not wearing it.”

  “If anyone asks, tell them you had to change clothes because you got cut on broken glass and there was blood on your uniform. Believe me, all the staff will know that there’s been an uproar, even if they try to keep it a secret.”

  She gasped.

  I reached into my purse and pulled out three more twenties. “It’s a hundred dollars and I guarantee you won’t lose your job. There have been armed men here. No one will pay attention to you. You are a known staff member. Do you have another uniform in your locker? Do you have a locker?”

  “I have another uniform at home. But if I lose one, they will dock my wages for the cost.”

  “Are you allowed to wear it when you leave for home?”

  “They wash them here, but we can wear them home. Sometimes I do. If I have to go somewhere, no.”

  “Do you have an extra scarf in your locker?”

  She shook her head.

  “Do you always wear a scarf?”

  “No. It was what you call a bad hair day.”

  “I’m having a bad life day. So let’s switch clothing.”

  “I need my badge and my ID card!” I swear there were tears in her eyes. “If you keep it, they will think I was involved.”

  “Fair enough. You keep your badge and your card. I’ll head out in the uniform. Just show me the exit you use.”

  She was still not convinced.

  I said, “I am sorry about all of this. The men who shot up the floor are trying to kill me. They have no interest in you. They may have seen what I am wearing but it’s pretty ordinary, so they won’t make the connection between me and you.”

  She was biting her lower lip. “I don’t know. I can’t lose my job.”

  I said, “You will save my life. It’s the right thing to do.” I sprinkled talcum powder onto my dark curls, worked it through, parted my hair in the middle and tucked it back under her scarf, a style that doesn’t look good on most people and is particularly unflattering on me. I slipped my long dangling earrings into my pocket along with the talcum powder.

  I waited for the decision about the uniform, wondering if I’d have to up the ante. After what seemed like an eternity, Ana Maria nodded finally. She turned her back and unzipped the pink and white uniform. I pulled off my T-shirt and stepped out of my skinny jeans.

  She was my height, but quite a bit curvier. My skinny jeans had a bit of stretch and they looked great on her. My T-shirt was given a workout too. She also looked fine without the scarf. She produced a brush and twisted her long dark hair into a bun. I knew people who would kill for a bad hair day like that.

  I figured that no one would be watching the maids leave, and I hoped I was right. I did not fill out the uniform like she had and it left me feeling dumpy, which under these circumstances was a good thing. She said, “You do not look . . .”

  I said, “Human?”

  “As pretty that way. Also you look much older.”

  �
��Good! In fact, excellent. One of my ambitions is to actually get older as opposed to deader. When is your shift over?”

  “Not until four, but I can take a break when I need to if my rooms are done.”

  “You can’t be expected to clean up now. And where do you leave the building?”

  “There’s an employee entrance in the basement at the back of the building. The stairs go up and out onto the street.”

  “You go the way you usually do and I’ll meet you there. I’ll find a way to return your uniform without causing trouble.” I grinned. “If I’m still alive.”

  “I cannot take all your money.”

  “Yes. You take it. I’m taking your uniform. If something happens, you will have to replace it. I want to pay for it.”

  “Then I will just accept the cost of the uniform. I do not wish to take advantage of you. You are a good person.” She peeled off three twenties and thrust the other two back into my hand.

  “You don’t actually know that I’m a good person,” I said with a grin. “But I am glad you think so.”

  “I know you are honest and kind. You left a tip for me on the pillow in your room. You are not the kind of person to cheat.”

  Before I could respond, she added, “And I will return your jeans. I think they are very expensive.”

  They’d come from my favorite outlet, but Ana Maria was saving my bacon. “You can keep them. They look better on you anyway. I’ll return your uniform, though. Just give me your telephone number.” I found a scrap of paper and a pen in the orange bag. It rarely fails me, except this time with my phone. Ana Maria carefully wrote out her number and I stuffed it into the uniform pocket. “Should I take the cart?” I thought it would add to my disguise.

  “The cart has to stay on the floor we’re cleaning. None of the maids will have carts downstairs.”

  “Okay.”

  “And I cannot give you the housekeeping key. Even if you try to pay me more, I will not do that. It would not be right.”

  I didn’t bother to say that I could probably get into most rooms without a key, that being my distinguished heritage.

  “Fair enough. If you are questioned about your uniform, just cry and shake and blame me.”

  She smiled for the first time since her ordeal started. “I think I can do that.”

  “It’s a white lie as we say in my family, but if anyone, a guest, a manager, anyone at all, asks if you saw someone of my description, say I went back to my room. For one thing, they’ll race off and leave you alone. Can you do that?”

  Apparently she could.

  I stuck my gray and scarfed head out the door and noted that the coast was clear.

  We headed to the service elevators, which were through a set of double doors and a labyrinth of storage spaces: extra tables, cots, stacking chairs. What a thrill that the service elevator seemed to be working. We stepped in and held our breath until we got to the basement floor. Things were looking great until a uniformed officer came around the corner. He was young, tall and skinny with red hair and freckles and I didn’t want to see him.

  Now what? I didn’t want to be stopped by police, even though I preferred them to armed assassins. I needed to get away and not be identified. Whoever was after me could just as easily shoot me if I was escorted by police. I had places to go. And something told me that this young police officer would not believe this crazy story.

  I said with my heaviest faux-Spanish accent, “Take care of my friend, please. She is very upset and scared. All the shooting! I will tell the boss that we are safe.”

  Ana Maria lurched toward him, shaking and, amazingly, crying. She spoke rapidly in Spanish and English and pointed upstairs, wiping her tearstained cheeks as she went.

  I left my new accomplice and barreled on to safety. The basement was a rabbit warren of equipment, carts, AV gear, what had to be the staff cafeteria and a hot and steamy laundry room with mountains of sheets and towels. Staff was scurrying here and there. No one paid attention to me.

  Ten minutes later, as I made one wrong turn after another in the back rooms of the hotel workers area, searching for the stairs to the employees’ exit, someone grabbed my elbow. I shrieked and jumped. Ana Maria said, “Sorry. He was so nice and I feel bad about lying to him.”

  “It was necessary. How do I get out of here?”

  “Through here.”

  As we walked, I asked, “What did the cop want?”

  “Just to know that we were all right and what we saw.”

  “Did he ask about me?”

  “He asked about the older maid who was with me. I said she was very tough and not to worry. But he was more interested in me.”

  “Can’t say I blame him. Did you give him your name?”

  She shrugged. “I think I had to. Sí?”

  I nodded as we pushed open the last door into a rear courtyard. “Don’t be surprised if you see him again.”

  She grinned. “I will not be surprised. This is the best way out. Some maids are leaving for a break in the little park. Let us walk with them. I will go back later and get my things.”

  To my astonishment, we got away with it. I hugged Ana Maria and got the hell out of there.

  I didn’t call Steve, just in case he was being observed, or part of the plot. Half an hour later, a tired, stooped, gray-haired maid in a pink and white uniform trudged up yet another hill, dragging a pair of cheap plastic bags with purchases acquired from a narrow, dingy shop. One of the bags hid my oversize orange handbag, which was identifiable. I’d purchased a gray T-shirt with a bad sketch of the Golden Gate Bridge, an A’s ball cap with a yellow brim, and a pair of navy cotton jersey shorts. They were in one of the plastic bags. I knew they’d come in handy. I’d also picked up a pair of oversized sunglasses. Finally, I’d borrowed some more of Vera’s remaining Red Harvest money to get the cheapest smart phone and loaded up some minutes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Always eat when you get a chance.

  —The Kelly Rules

  I DUCKED DOWN alleys and up side streets, trying to stay in character while getting away from anyone who might have identified me. I did manage to pop up to the window of a tiny taco shop and pick up a bite to eat. Uncle Seamus’s words echoed in my head, and whatever else I could say, Uncle Seamus and his—possibly mythical— advice were the only reason I was still alive. Of course. I hadn’t thought about food during the drama at the hotel, but now it was almost all I could concentrate on. I got two extra tacos to bring with me, one was part of a planned “hostess gift.” There was method in my madness.

  Of course, I couldn’t go to Gram’s. For one thing, there was a good chance the house was being watched. And if it wasn’t being watched, I wasn’t sure whom in that household I could trust, aside from Smiley. I needed a place to hide and a place to observe. I needed someone who wasn’t involved at all and who could be trusted. I was pretty sure that my new friend Sierra would help me. The two extra tacos were part of my plan to seek refuge with her, claiming to bring lunch, until I got things sorted out. I could easily eat another one.

  I trudged up and along the street, looking and feeling like the exhausted maid. I reached Sierra’s front door without seeing anyone too suspicious. I rang the doorbell and waited. And waited. Nothing. No one. I imagined her out on those endless walks with the child that never slept. Unless he was actually sleeping at that moment and I was going to wake him up. Oh well, it couldn’t be helped. I rang yet again and knocked.

  Nothing.

  My new strategy was to find access to the rear of the building and find a way in. Sierra was friendly and even naïve. She’d most likely forgive me for getting in the back door given my life was in peril. Or maybe she wouldn’t appreciate me bringing danger to her home. Still, I thought she’d enjoyed the sense of adventure I had brought to her life. Because surely she was bored.

  As I
trudged down Sierra’s front steps, still in character, a plump woman who looked to be in her sixties called out to me in a sympathetic voice, “There’s no one there, dear.”

  “Yes, they are out. I will wait.” I’d adopted a vague and unidentifiable accent.

  She raised her voice a bit and spoke slowly. “No. No. Nobody lives there.”

  I blinked. “What?”

  “The house is empty.”

  “Empty?” I was so surprised that I thought for a minute that my accent had slipped.

  “Yes. Unoccupied.”

  “But I met the lady. She said she needs help. I must have another job and she said—”

  She shook her head kindly. “You must have the houses mixed up. This one has been empty since the man who owned it died.”

  “He died?”

  I must have sounded panicked, because she chattered on soothingly, “Yes, Mr. Himmelfarb was ninety-five. He was a lovely man. It was sad, of course, but he’d been failing since Alice died five years ago. Alice was his wife. She was lovely too. You know they’d been in this house since 1962. Can you imagine? I miss them both very much.”

  “But this woman, she was here yesterday. I saw her this morning.”

  “Couldn’t have been. The house is definitely empty.”

  I glanced at the door where the number was clearly the right one. The same one that Sierra had dragged her stroller into to see her husband, Michael. Was I losing it? That was entirely possible, but no, the number was exactly as I’d seen it earlier.

  I said, “Lady, I am not mistaken. It was a young woman. I am sure she lived there. There was a baby and a husband sleeping inside . . .”

  My voice trailed off as I recalled yet another of Uncle Seamus’s guidelines, something about making sure they believe what you want them to. After all, I had never actually seen the husband. He had just seemed very real and very tired with a baby up all night. Come to think of it, I’d never actually seen the baby that was at the root of all the young couple’s supposed stress and fatigue. I’d never even heard him cry. I was trying to deceive this kind woman and here I’d been fooled myself.