Quicksilver (Nameless Detective)

by Bill Pronzini

  The other call on the machine, coincidentally, was also from an Oriental woman—a Japanese this time, who said her name was Haruko Gage and that she needed the services of an investigator. That perked me up a little; maybe it was the job I’d been lusting after. I wrote down her number, then went back into the kitchen to rescue my eggs. I put them on a plate and looked at them for about ten seconds. Then I opened the refrigerator and got out a celery stalk and put that on top of the salad in my grumbling stomach. I wasn’t eating these days; I was either swallowing chicken fruit or grazing like a bloody horse.

  Kerry, I thought, the things I do for you.

  In the bedroom again, I dialed Haruko Gage’s number. A man answered, and when I asked for the lady he wanted to know who was calling; he sounded timid and wary. I told him. “Oh, right,” he said, and the wariness was gone and he sounded timid and unhappy. “Well, she had to go out for a few minutes, but she’ll be back before long. I’m her husband. Art Gage?” He made his name into a question, as if he wasn’t sure who he was.

  “What is it your wife wants to see me about, Mr. Cage?”

  “These presents she keeps getting.”

  “Presents?”

  “In the mail. It’s driving us crazy.”

  “What sort of presents are you talking about?”

  Pause. “I guess I’d better let Haruko tell you. It was her idea to hire a private detective.”

  “All right. I’ll call back a little later, then—”

  “No, no,” he said, “why don’t you just come over to the house? She’ll be back by the time you get here.”

  “Where do you live, Mr. Gage?”

  “On Buchanan, just off Bush.” He gave me the number. “It’s on the fringe of Japantown.”

  The address was only about ten minutes from my flat. I looked out through the bedroom window to see if it was still raining so hard. It wasn’t, so I said, “I think I’ve got time to stop by. Give me about half an hour.”

  “I’ll tell Haruko you’re coming.”

  We rang off, and I put some dry clothes on and combed my hair. Then I called the outfit where my office stuff was stored and made arrangements for them to deliver it to O’Farrell Street tomorrow afternoon. And then I went back into the kitchen to eat those goddamn eggs.

  Chapter Two

  Japantown was just off Geary Boulevard in the Western Addition, a few minutes from downtown—a miniature ginza where a high percentage of San Francisco’s 11,000 citizens of Japanese descent lived and worked, and where a good many Nippon tourists either stayed or congregated. Its hub, the Japan Center, was a five-acre complex built in 1968 that housed restaurants, a large hotel, a theatre, Japanese baths, art galleries, bookstores, banks, plenty of shops, and a pedestrian mall that was supposed to look like a mountain village in the old country, complete with a meandering stream, plum and cherry trees, and fountains. On the dozen or so other blocks of Japantown, you found small businesses, hotels, a bowling alley, a couple of Japanese-language newspapers, apartment houses, and not a few old—and for the most part refurbished—stick-style Victorian houses.

  But the area surrounding the Nihonmachi wasn’t anywhere near as pleasant. There were a lot of low-income housing projects, and a lot of anger and frustration to go with them; Japantown and its residents and visitors were prime targets for young hoodlums. Security measures had been taken and police patrols increased, but it was still one of the city’s high-crime districts. That was a damned shame for several reasons, not the least of which was the fact that the Japanese were a polite, friendly, and law-abiding people. They could have given lessons to too many of the white and black population.

  There wasn’t much doing in Japantown this afternoon because of the weather. Street parking was usually at a premium, even up around Bush and Buchanan, but I found a place half a dozen doors down from the address Art Gage had given me. That block of Buchanan was quiet, tree-shaded, flanked by well-kept Victorians painted in bright colors in the modern fashion. The Gage house was one of an identically restored group, like a row of architectural clones: light blue walls and stoop, dark blue trim, with accents in red and gold.

  I hustled up onto the narrow porch, shook rainwater off my hat, and rang the bell. The door opened pretty soon and I was looking at a slender, almost fragile blondish guy of about thirty. He was handsome in an undistinguished sort of way, or he would have been if he hadn’t had a weak chin, liquidy blue eyes, and the too-white skin of a shut-in. He was wearing Levi’s, moccassins, and a blue Pendleton shirt.

  He said, “You’re the detective?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come on in. Haruko’s in the front room.”

  He took my coat and hat, then led me down a short hall and through an archway into 1920. Chairs with tufted velvet cushions, little round tables with fringed gold cloths, rococo lighting fixtures, a tiled Queen Anne fireplace above which were mirrored glass panels. There was too much furniture: china cabinets and a highboy and a secretary desk and a claw-footed mahogany couch, in addition to all the chairs and tables. It had the look of a room designed for show rather than comfort, like a private museum exhibit. But the problem was, none of the furnishings appeared to be a genuine antique; even I could tell that. They were an oddball mixture of reproductions, simulations, and garage-sale junk.

  The woman sitting on the claw-footed couch looked out of place among all that ersatz Victorian stuff. She was in her mid-twenties, not much over five feet tall, small-boned, inclining to plumpness, with classically pretty Japanese features and silky black hair that would hang to her waist when she was standing. But there was none of the delicacy that you usually found in small Oriental women. I sensed instead a willful strength, a kind of sharp-edged Occidental determination. If appearances were accurate, there wasn’t much doubt as to who ran the Gage household.

  She stood up as her husband and I crossed the room. Gage performed the introductions, and she gave me her hand and a small solemn smile. “Thank you for coming,” she said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you called back; I had to deliver some designs to one of our customers.”

  “Designs?”

  “We’re artistic designers,” Cage said. “And creative consultants for several large firms—”

  She looked at him and said, “Art,” and he shut up. Then she said to me, “My husband likes to glorify what we do. The truth is, we design wallpaper.”

  “Ah,” I said, a little blankly.

  She laughed. “It’s one of those odd professions most people aren’t aware of. They look at wallpaper, even the most intricately patterned kind, and they take it for granted; they don’t realize someone has to have designed it.”

  “It’s not simple work, either,” Gage said. He sounded defensive. “It takes a lot of talent, you know.”

  “I’m sure it does, Mr. Gage.”

  “Besides, it pays very well—”

  “Art,” she said.

  He quit talking again and took a package of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and set about getting one lighted. He didn’t look at either his wife or me while he did it.

  She asked me, “Would you like some tea? I’m going to have a cup.

  “Well ... I’d prefer coffee if you have it.”

  “Of course. Art, will you put the water on? Make my tea the lemon grass, all right?”

  He gave her a look like a housewife reacting to a bossy husband. But he didn’t say anything. And he went out of the room almost immediately, the cigarette hanging out of his face.

  Haruko sat on the couch again. I sat on one of the fake Victorian chairs; it was about as comfortable as sitting on a fence. The rain made a steady thrumming noise beyond the room’s velveteen-draped bay windows. Out in the kitchen, Gage banged pots and cupboard doors—angry sounds in the stillness.

  I said, “What was it you wanted to see me about, Mrs. Gage? Your husband mentioned something about presents, but he didn’t elaborate.”

  “I’m glad he didn’t. He gets emotional
on the subject.”

  “What sort of presents are they?”

  “Expensive ones. Different pieces of jewelry. The latest was a white jade ring.”

  “Who’s sending them to you?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “That’s the problem,” she said. “That’s why I want to hire you —to find out who’s doing it.”

  “Let me get this straight. These gifts come in the mail?”

  “Yes. First-class.”

  “No return address?”

  “None.”

  “Insured?”

  “No.”

  “Postmarked where?”

  “Here in the city—all of them.”

  “No accompanying notes or anything?”

  “Only with the first one. A one-line note.”

  “What did it say?”

  “It said, ‘With all the love in my heart.’ ”

  “Just that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you still have the note?”

  She nodded. “I saved it and the wrappings from the last couple of packages. I’ll have Art get them for you. The jewelry, too.”

  “When did the first package arrive?”

  “A little over two months ago.”

  “How many others have there been?”

  “Three. One last Saturday, another yesterday.”

  “And you say they all contained expensive jewelry?”

  “Yes. Four pieces, each one different, worth a total of over eight thousand dollars. I had them appraised.”

  “That’s a lot of money for anonymous gifts.”

  “Exactly,” she said.

  “And you have no idea at all who’s sending them?”

  “None. It’s driving Art crazy. He thinks I either had or am having an affair.” She gave me a level look. “He’s wrong. If they were that sort of present I certainly wouldn’t have told him about them, would I?”

  “I don’t suppose you would.”

  “Art is like a little boy sometimes,” she said, and the tone of her voice indicated she felt that was pretty much true of all men. I decided I would not have liked being married to her. But then, I wouldn’t be her type anyhow. Art Gage was her type; I had a feeling she hadn’t picked him by accident.

  I said, “Is your husband’s jealousy the reason you decided to hire a private detective?”

  “Not really. At first the presents were amusing; every woman likes the idea of a secret admirer. But now I’m getting worried. Whoever he is, he has to be at least a little crazy. Who knows what he might do?”

  I made an agreeing noise: she was right.

  “I want to know who he is,” she said, “and I want him to stop sending me things. And I don’t want him bothering me in any other way.”

  “Has he bothered you in any other way? Anonymous phone calls, cars following you, anything like that?”

  “No. Just the gifts. I’ll even give the jewelry back to him if that’s what it takes.”

  “You mean you’d prefer to keep it?”

  “Of course. Why shouldn’t I?”

  I just looked at her.

  “Well,” she said, “he’s put me through all this worry. And now there’s the expense of hiring a detective. Don’t let this house fool you; Art’s dad is a realtor and he got it for us cheap and gave us part of the down payment as a wedding present. We aren’t all that well off. Designing wallpaper makes us a good living, but there’s no extra money for luxury items. And I like nice things. What woman doesn’ t?”

  Neat rationalizations. But I was not going to argue with her; what she did with the jewelry was her business, not mine.

  “Your admirer is probably somebody you know,” I said. “It usually works that way. Do you have many male friends?”

  “Not many, no. Mutual friends of Art’s and mine, mostly. But none of them has eight thousand dollars to spend on fancy jewelry. Besides, they’re all perfectly normal guys.”

  Sure, I thought. Except that nobody knows what goes on inside another person’s head. Any number of “perfectly normal” people have committed all sorts of screwball acts, from mass murder on down to indecent exposure in front of old ladies, zoo animals, and park statues.

  I asked, “How long have you been married, Mrs. Gage?”

  “A little over two years.”

  “Your first marriage?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any serious involvements prior to that?”

  “Well ... I dated a lot of men.”

  “Did any of them ever propose marriage?”

  “Yes. One.”

  “So he must have been pretty serious, then.”

  “I suppose he was.”

  “How did he take it when you turned him down?”

  “He was disappointed, naturally.” She frowned; you could see her working her memory. “Very disappointed, as a matter of fact. But I can’t imagine ... no, it couldn’t be Kinji. He’s only been in this country six years and his beliefs are old-world.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “His beliefs toward women. They’re very proper.”

  “You said his name is Kinji?”

  “Kinji Shimata. He owns an art gallery at the Japan Center.”

  “Successful, this gallery?”

  “Oh yes. He could have afforded all that jewelry, but I still can’t—”

  A sudden shrill whistling interrupted her: a tea kettle going off in the kitchen. The noise went on for four or five seconds, until Art Cage did something about it. I used the time to get out my notebook and write down Kinji Shimata’s name.

  “Were there any other men serious about you?” I asked Haruko.

  “Well, Nelson Mixer asked me to move in with him. But that was purely sexual, I think. It’s not the same as a serious proposal of marriage.”

  “Maybe not,” I said, but I was thinking that it could be. “This Mixer is Caucasian, I take it?”

  “Yes. He teaches California and U.S. history at City College. I met him there while I was taking some classes three years ago.”

  “Have you had any contact with him since your marriage?”

  “No. I haven’t seen Nelson since right after I refused to move in with him. I haven’t been back to City College and we don’t move in the same circles.”

  “So Mixer went away quietly, then—no bad feelings or anything like that?”

  “No. Nelson isn’t that kind.”

  “What about Kinji Shimata? Did he go away quietly?”

  “Yes. I still see him now and then, because the Japan Center is so close. He’s always very polite and reserved.”

  Art Gage reappeared carrying a lacquered-wood tray with two cups and little bowls of sugar and milk on it. He put the tray on a boxy-looking table between his wife and me. Then, without saying anything, he went over and sat down next to her.

  She let him get settled before she said, “Art, would you get the jewelry and the other stuff and bring it down? The jewelry’s in the bedroom; the rest is in that box in the studio.”

  He gave her an irritated look, she gave it right back to him. It was no contest. His will was about as strong as an old lady’s belch, and hers was like pig-iron; he’d never be able to hold out against her for more than a few minutes on the best day he ever had. This wasn’t his best day and he didn’t make it past five seconds. He sighed and said, “Shit,” and got up and went out of the room again.

  “Any other men you dated more than casually?” I asked Haruko. “Who might care for you more than you thought at the time?”

  “The only one I can think of is Edgar Ogada.” She hesitated, then reached for her tea and said, “And Ken Yamasaki, I suppose. I never did know what he was thinking.”

  “Let’s take this Ken Yamasaki first. Who’s he?”

  “Just a guy I went out with for a while. He works evenings—I guess he still does—at Tamura’s Baths. That’s a Japanese bathhouse on Pine Street.”

  “So
he isn’t well off financially, then.”

  “Because he works in a bathhouse? Well, I’m not sure. His family must have money; he always had plenty of it to spend.”

  I did some scribbling in my notebook. “What did you mean, you never knew what he was thinking?”

  “Oh, Ken is very quiet and introspective. He reads a lot—Albert Camus, for one, if you can imagine a Japanese-American reading Camus.”

  I couldn’t imagine it because I had no idea who Albert Camoo was. Some French writer? Well, it didn’t matter; I probably wouldn’t have liked his work anyway. Pulp writers were the ones I liked, which no doubt made me a lowbrow and a cretin in some people’s eyes. But that didn’t matter either. As far as I was concerned, lowbrows and cretins had snobs beat all to hell.

  “How long did you date Yamasaki?” I asked.

  “Off and on for a few months.”

  “When was that?”

  “About two and a half years ago.”

  “Have you seen much of him since?”

  “No. I’ve run into him a couple of times, the last one at a festival a few months ago. That was the last time I saw Edgar, too, come to think of it. He was there with his father.”

  “Edgar Ogada, you mean?”

  “Yes. He’s the only old boyfriend I still get together with once in a while.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “Well, I guess you could say Edgar’s a free spirit. All he’s interested in is having a good time: parties, sports car races, sailing, that kind of thing. I liked him a lot when I first met him five years ago —I still do—but ! I could never have gotten deeply involved with him. He has no ambition, so he’ll never be successful at anything.”

  Uh-huh, I thought. Meaning you couldn’t manipulate him the way you do Artie.

  “I think he still loves me in his own way,” she said. “That’s why I mentioned him. But he just couldn’t be my admirer. He isn’t the type to send anonymous presents; it isn’t his style.”

  “Could he afford to spend the money?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe he could.”

  “What does he do for a living?”

  “He works for his father. The Ogada Nursery on El Camino, in South San Francisco.”