Scenarios - A Collection of Nameless Detective Stories

by Bill Pronzini

  "Anything taken?" Wolf asked.

  I shook my head. "Not even my gun, which would be a natural for a common thief."

  "You report it?"

  "Ted did. There were no fingerprints on it except his and mine."

  "Okay, but why was Kennett after the confidential report?"

  I considered that, and then the answer came to me, filtered through a dim memory of an event nearly a year past. "Because he's a close friend of the city official I've been investigating—he was at the official's fortieth birthday party last January. Kennett's buddy must've found out there was an ongoing investigation and asked him to find out what I knew."

  "Kennett must still have the disc on him."

  "And we're going to get it back."

  I led Wolf from my office, locking it after us like the proverbial barn door. We paused on the catwalk, surveying the crowd below. Kennett now stood near the bar, drink in hand, talking to someone else.

  By the time we got down there, Kennett had moved to Santa's Village and was apparently admiring it. When he saw us he fidgeted and his eyes took on a flat, glassy look.

  I said, "Where's the disc, Tony?"

  "What disc?"

  "The one you took from my office."

  "I.. . don't know what you're talking about."

  "Do you deny you were in my office around half an hour ago?"

  "I certainly do."

  I indicated Wolf. "Do you deny you told this man I'd asked you to go up there and get something?"

  "I've never seen him before."

  Beside me, I felt Wolf tense; a growly sound came from deep in his throat. "You're a liar and a thief both, Kennett," he said.

  Kennett gulped what liquor remained in his plastic cup, seemed fortified by it. He set the cup on the display table, extended his arms dramatically. "So search me," he said loudly. "Go ahead!"

  People were looking at us now. I studied Kennett's clothing. The leather pants were skin tight; the outline of a disc would have shown clearly. The same with the sweater. Somehow he'd gotten rid of it—somewhere in this cavernous pier that was honeycombed with hiding places.

  "That won't be necessary," I said. "Maybe we made a mistake. Enjoy the party."

  When we were Out of earshot of Kennett, Wolf grasped my elbow. "A mistake? Enjoy the party? What's that about?"

  I said, "He's going to have to stay till the end—my people will see to that. In the meantime, we'll let him think he's getting away with the disc."

  "Now all we have to do is find it before the party's over."

  "That's all," I said grimly.

  "WOLF"

  McCone is as efficient an investigator as I've known in thirtysome years in the business. Doubly so in a crisis. She sought out and briefed the members of her staff, individually and in pairs, designating Craig Morland to stay close to Kennett, and her nephew, Mick, and Julia Rafael to watch the exits. The rest of us went upstairs to her office. Neal Osborn and Kerry included, Neal because we might need an extra hand and Kerry because she'd seen Kennett come downstairs with me in his wake.

  When we were all settled, McCone behind her desk, the rest of us sitting or standing, she said, "What we need to do is brainstorm this, see if we can get some idea of what Kennett did with the disc. Wolf and I will do most of the talking, but if anybody has anything to contribute, jump in any time."

  The others nodded silently. That was another thing about Sharon: She ran a fairly loose ship, delegating a good deal of authority to her operatives, but when she took command she did it forcefully and got complete cooperation in return.

  She asked me to go over again, in detail, what had happened earlier. When I was done, she said, "So Kennett didn't go around to the opposite catwalk before he went downstairs. That means he couldn't have hidden the disc in his own office."

  "Right."

  "And you had him in sight the whole time, except for those few seconds in the crowd. How many seconds, would you say?"

  "No more than fifteen. That's probably when he got rid of the disc. First thing that occurs to me is that he passed it to someone else."

  "Not likely. This feels like a one-man operation to me."

  "Besides," Ted said, "I know all the other people at Chandler & Santos. He's the only one I wouldn't trust."

  "Let's eliminate one other unlikely possibility," I said. "That Kennett hid the disc somewhere in here before I came in. The old purloined letter trick."

  McCone shook her head. "He didn't expect to get caught and he'd be a fool to risk sneaking into my office another time. He had to've had it on him when he left."

  "Okay. Next thing is whether he had any chance at all to hide it while I had him in sight. I'd say no, but I can't be a hundred percent certain. He did walk close to the railing all the way to the stairs. It's remotely possible he slipped the disc in among the decorations."

  "I doubt it. All the ones on this side are ours, so again, he couldn't be sure of getting his hands on it later. Ted, go check and make sure."

  As Ted went out, I said, "Something else I just remembered. Kennett had one hand in his pocket when I surprised him. It was still in his pocket on the catwalk, on the stairs, and when I lost sight of him. But when I picked him up again, the hand was out—he made a gesture with it when he joined the group by the trophy. That's another point in favor of a hiding place somewhere on the pier floor."

  "Did he turn straight into the crowd when he came off the stairs?"

  "Hard left turn, yeah."

  "That means he passed right by the Model T Ford display."

  "Good possibility. And right next to the Ford. .

  Charlotte Keim said, "The ecological nonprofit display."

  "Also possible. Among the branches of one of the fir trees."

  "The only problem with that is, the way the little forest is set up, he'd have had to go into the display itself. That would be inviting attention."

  "Have a look anyway."

  Ted came in just then, shaking his head. "Nothing among the galactic decorations."

  "Check the Model T next. Inside and out."

  Neal said, "I'll go with him."

  The three of them left together. I said to Kerry, "You also lost sight of Kennett for a time. Where was he when you spotted him again?"

  "Over by Santa's Village, on his way toward the loving cup.,,

  "The village is too small to hide anything," Sharon said, "even something as small as a computer disc."

  "What about the cup? If it's hollow, he could've dropped it inside."

  "It's hollow, but Kennett isn't very tall and the way the cup sits on the pedestal, he'd've had to stretch up on his toes. Too conspicuous. People would've noticed and wondered."

  "Then it's got to be either the Model T or the fir trees."

  But it was neither one. We waited restlessly until first Charlotte and then Ted and Neal returned empty-handed. Neal said, "I even got down on my hands and knees and checked underneath the car, just in case. You should've seen the looks I got."

  I'd been ruminating. Now I said, "We've been going on the assumption that if I hadn't come in unexpectedly and caught him, Kennett would've kept the disc on his person until the party ended. But remember how he's dressed. If he'd had it in his pocket, as tight as those leather pants are, the outline would've showed."

  "You're right," McCone said. "He wouldn't run that kind of risk. If he'd intended to keep it on him, he'd've worn looser clothing."

  "Which means he planned to hide it all along. Someplace he'd picked out in advance, someplace he'd be sure to have easy access to later." I looked at Kerry. "You said Kennett was walking by Santa's Village. Straight past it toward the trophy?"

  "... Come to think of it, no. He was moving at an angle."

  "From which direction, left or right?"

  "Right. An angle from the right."

  "So he didn't go more or less on a straight line through the crowd. He veered off to the right first, then veered back again."

  "The ba
r and buffet are in the center, but farther back. What else is over that way?"

  "Nothing, except—"

  Mick said, "Home for the Holidays."

  I said, "Be generous."

  Ted said, "And this year it's Chandler & Santos' turn to disperse the donations."

  McCone said, "That's it! That's where the disc has to be."

  That was where, all right. Kennett's unfunny private joke, his own personal donation to the homeless. Right through that little slot into the Season of Sharing Fund barrel as he passed by.

  McCONE

  I wanted to go straight down and retrieve the disc, but Wolf persuaded me not to. This was a highly sensitive matter, and it wouldn't do to bring it to the attention of everyone in the pier. In the end I sent Ted, Charlotte and Neal out to keep an eye on Kennett, and Wolf, Kerry, and I settled down to wait till the end of the party.

  The minutes, and then the hours, dragged by. Kerry went downstairs to fetch us food from the buffet, but after nibbling on a canape, I pushed my portion aside and let Wolf finish it off. He is one of the calmest men I know in tense situations, patiently waiting it out until the proper time to take action. He once told me how he chafes while on long surveillances, but from his manner that night I never would have guessed it. Of course, the current situation had given him the perfect excuse not to mingle with the crowd. .

  Neal stuck his head through the door at a few minutes after eleven. "The pier's locked down and the clean-up crews're assembling."

  Downstairs, party wreckage was everywhere: dirty plates and glasses, a sprinkling of confetti, balled up napkins, spills and splotches. The decorations—even Santa's Village, next to which the trophy sat—looked as tired as the people who had volunteered to remain to deal with the mess. I spotted Nat Chandler and Harvey Santos, partners in the architectural firm, hauling a barrel full of canned goods up the stairs to their offices. Tony Kennett wasn't in sight.

  Mick was leaning casually on the cash-donations barrel—standing guard without being too obvious about it. I went over to him, asked, "Where's Kennett?"

  "He went up to Chandler & Santos' offices about ten minutes ago. Probably waiting inside, planning to liberate the disc after the partners lock up and go home."

  Nat and Harvey were coming back downstairs now. I signaled to them.

  "I want you to witness this," I said when they came over.

  Wolf lifted the slotted lid of the barrel. It was three-quarters full of cash, coins, and checks. I plunged my hand into the donations and felt around.

  "What're you doing?" Harvey asked.

  "You'll see."

  My fingers touched a flat, round object encased in a thin plastic pouch. "Got it!" I said to Wolf and pulled it from the barrel.

  As Nat and Harvey exchanged puzzled glances, I looked up at the catwalk in front of their offices. Kennett stood at the rail watching us. I held up the disc. Even at that distance I could see his shoulders sag and his face crumple.

  "WOLF"

  After the police had been summoned and Tony Kennett hauled off to jail, McCone invited her staff and Neal and Kerry and me back up to her office for a celebratory libation. I'd forgotten all about my Christmas present, which Sharon had slipped into a desk drawer during our earlier session. But she and the others hadn't forgotten. She brought the package out and handed it to me with a little flourish.

  "With thanks and love from all of us," she said.

  Embarrassed, I said, "I haven't gotten anything for any of you yet. . ."

  "Never mind that. Open your present, Wolf."

  I hefted it first. Not very heavy. I stripped off the paper, took the lid off the gift box—and inside was another, smaller box sealed with half a pound of Scotch tape. Ted's doing; I could tell from his expression. So I used my pocket knife to slice through the tape, opened the second box, rifled through a wad of tissue paper, and found two plastic-bagged issues of Black Mask, and not just any two issues: rare, fine-condition copies of the September 1929 and February 1930 numbers, each containing an installment of the original six-part serial version of Hammett's The Maltese Falcon.

  When I looked up, they were all grinning at me. I said, "How'd you know these were the only two Falcon issues I didn't have?" Funny, but my voice sounded a little choked up.

  "I told them," Kerry said. "I checked your pulp collection to make sure."

  "And I found the copies through one of my friends in the antiquarian book trade," Neal said.

  "They must've cost a small fortune."

  McCone waved that away. "What they cost doesn't matter. You not only helped close the Patterson case, and to get the disc back tonight, but you've been a good friend for a long time. It's the Season of Sharing with friends, too."

  I just sat there.

  Kerry said, "Aren't you going to say something?

  Only one thing came to mind. It didn't seem to be enough, but Kerry told me later that it was all that was needed. "Happy holidays, everybody."

  Wrong Place, Wrong Time

  Sometimes it happens like this. No warning, no way to guard against it. And through no fault of your own. You're just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Eleven p.m., drizzly, low ceiling and poor visibility. On my way back from four long days on a case in Fresno and eager to get home to San Francisco. Highway 152, the quickest route from 99 west through hills and valleys to 101. Roadside service station and convenience store, a lighted sign that said "Open Until Midnight." Older model car parked in the shadows alongside the restrooms, newish Buick drawn in at the gas pumps. People visible inside the store, indistinct images behind damp-streaked and sign-plastered glass.

  I didn't need gas, but I did need some hot coffee to keep me awake. And something to fill the hollow under my breastbone: I hadn't taken the time to eat anything before leaving Fresno. So I swung off into the lot, parked next to the older car. Yawned and stretched and walked past the Buick to the store. Walked right into it.

  Even before I saw the little guy with the gun, I knew something was wrong. It was in the air, a heaviness, a crackling quality, like the atmosphere before a big storm. The hair crawled on the back of my scalp. But I was two paces inside by then and it was too late to back out.

  He was standing next to a rack of potato chips, holding the weapon in close to his body with both hands. The other two men stood ten feet away at the counter, one in front and one behind. The gun, a long-barreled target pistol, was centered on the man in front; it stayed that way even though the little guy's head was half turned in my direction. I stopped and stayed still, with my arms down tight against my sides.

  Time freeze. The four of us staring, nobody moving. Light rain on the roof, some kind of machine making thin wheezing noises—no other sound.

  The one with the gun coughed suddenly, a dry, consumptive hacking that broke the silence but added to the tension. He was thin and runty, mid-thirties, going bald on top, his face drawn to a drum tautness. Close-set brown eyes burned with outrage and hatred. The clerk behind the counter, twenty-something, long hair tied in a ponytail, kept licking his lips and swallowing hard; his eyes flicked here and there, settled, flicked, settled like a pair of nervous flies. Scared, but in control of himself. The handsome, fortyish man in front was a different story. He couldn't take his eyes off the pistol, as if it had a hypnotic effect on him. Sweat slicked his bloodless face, rolled down off his chin in little drops. His fear was a tangible thing, sick and rank and consuming; you could see it moving under the sweat, under the skin, the way maggots move inside a slab of bad meat.

  "Harry," he said in a voice that crawled and cringed. "Harry, for God's sake . . ."

  "Shut up. Don't call me Harry."

  "Listen . . . it wasn't me, it was Noreen . . ."

  "Shut up shut up shut up." High-pitched, with a brittle, cracking edge. "You," he said to me. "Come over here where I can see you better."

  I went closer to the counter, doing it slow. This wasn't what I'd first taken it to be. Not a hold-u
p—something personal between the little guy and the handsome one, something that had come to a lethal crisis point in here only a short time ago. Wrong place, wrong time for the young clerk, too. I said, "What's this all about?"

  "I'm going to kill this son of a bitch," the little guy said, "that's what it's all about."

  "Why do you want to do that?"

  "My wife and my savings, every cent I had in the world . . . he took them both away from me and now he's going to pay for it."

  "Harry, please, you've got to—"

  "Didn't I tell you to shut up? Didn't I tell you not to call me Harry?"

  Handsome shook his head, a meaningless flopping like a broken bulb on a white stalk.

  "Where is she, Barlow?" the little guy demanded.

  "Noreen?"

  "My bitch wife Noreen. Where is she?"

  "I don't know . . ."

  "She's not at your place. The house was dark when you left. Noreen wouldn't sit in a dark house alone. She doesn't like the dark."

  "You . . . saw me at the house?"

  "That's right. I saw you and I followed you twenty miles to this place. Did you think I just materialized out of thin air?"

  "Spying on me? Looking through windows? Jesus . . ."

  "I got there just as you were leaving," the little guy said. "Perfect timing. You didn't think I'd find out your name or where you lived, did you? You thought you were safe, didn't you? Stupid old Harry Chalfont, the cuckold, the sucker—no threat at all."

  Another head flop. This one made beads of sweat fly off.

  "But I did find out," the little guy said. "Took me two months, but I found you and now I'm going to kill you."

  "Stop saying that! You won't, you can't . . ."

  "Go ahead, beg. Beg me not to do it."

  Barlow moaned and leaned back hard against the counter. Mortal terror unmans some people; he was as crippled by it as anybody I'd ever seen. Before long he would beg, down on his knees.