by Will Rayner
LETHAL STREETS
Will Rayner
© Will Rayner 2017
Will Rayner has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published by Endeavour Press Ltd in 2017.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 1
Thomas Jefferson Flood, junior partner of Flood and Flood, Private Investigators, yawned. It was a grandiloquent, prodigious, protracted yawn. A yawn to end all yawns. Certainly the bench-mark yawn of 1936. T.J.’s jaw dropped to its absolute lower limit. His cheek muscles stretched alarmingly. Tears flooded into his eyes. Oxygen rushed into his air passages, suffusing his brain. T.J. lurched forward and had to grab a hand-rail to steady himself. He paused to wipe his eyes with a sleeve before continuing down the private car’s steps. Behind him in the car was a rich old coot by the name of Randolph Baggett. T.J., Baggett and a manservant named Loomis were returning from a business trip to Bakersfield. Flood was along for the ride because Baggett had been receiving death threats from a deranged woman who claimed she was entitled to a slice of his inheritance.
The telephone threats had become so numerous and strident that Baggett’s attorneys hired Flood and Flood to keep an eye on things. Now, as Southern Pacific’s Number 51 backed slowly down the train shed at the Oakland Mole, T.J. was half convinced that the whole thing was a hoax. Some frustrated dame, maybe, with a grudge against San Francisco’s upper crust, having a bit of twisted fun. To T.J. going without sleep for something like 48 hours wasn’t funny at all. He yawned again. Number 51 jerked to a gentle stop, and two attendants brought over a wheelchair. T.J. yawned one more time, shook his head sharply to dispel any lingering cobwebs in his brain and double-checked to make sure neither was a threat. A conductor hurried up and slapped down a stool. T.J. stepped down first and stood watch as Loomis and the conductor helped Baggett reach the platform. When Baggett was settled in the wheelchair, T.J. waved everyone away and took the handles himself. My responsibility, my duty, he knew. Can’t allow anyone to shove Flood and Flood’s meal ticket into the drink, accidentally or otherwise. He released the brakes and started pushing the wheelchair toward the entrance to the ferry dock.
Suddenly he spotted a nurse striding rapidly toward them. She was wearing a nurse’s cap and a long grey cloak. There was something odd about the cloak. You’re a little late, darlin’, he told himself – and broke off his thought as she started running and screaming. She tugged a machete from under her cloak and raised it above her head. “Holy mackerel,” T.J. whispered. He pushed the wheelchair hard toward a knot of people at the end of the shed and ducked. The machete went whizzing over his head. The woman, still keening shrilly, kept right on running down the platform toward the open end of the shed. Everybody else except T.J. froze. He hustled down to where Baggett was surrounded by the group of passengers waiting for their train. He was sputtering indignantly but basically unharmed. “Well, I’m wide awake now,” T.J. said to nobody in particular.
****
When T.J. came into the office well after the lunch hour the next day, Samuel Adams Flood and Agnes Wilkins were bent over the classified section of that morning’s Chronicle. Sam was the senior partner of Flood and Flood, while Agnes was their secretary and receptionist. “Keep looking,” Sam said, and motioned his son into his office. T.J. waited for the elder Flood to reach for his pipe, then lit an Old Gold. He let a tiny, residual yawn escape and watched his father tamp down his briar.
“You were a little terse on the phone last night,” Sam said. He looked off into the distance and repeated T.J.’s words: “I’m going to bed. The client is home, safe and sound. Some crazy broad tried to machete us to death on the Oakland Mole.”
“Brevity is greatly underestimated,” T.J. said.
“Oakland wants to talk to you about that machete business. They’re sending a detective over. Give me the details first, though.”
The younger Flood did. “We had just got Baggett into the chair and we’re all set to head for the ferry when this nurse comes up,” he said. “At least, I thought she was a nurse. She was wearing one of those white caps, and a long, grey cloak. I thought the cloak looked kinda funny. Suddenly, she whips out this machete and starts running at us, screaming. She lets the machete fly. If I hadn’t given Baggett and the wheelchair a good shove, she would have nailed him, right there on the platform. She would have got me, too, if I hadn’t ducked. Then – poof! – she’s gone.”
“Did you get a good look at her?” Sam asked.
“Damn right. Her face was really contorted, but she was no spring chicken. In her 50s, maybe. Greyish hair, what I could see of it.”
“Tall, short?”
T.J. thought for a moment. “Mebbe an inch taller than Agnes. And thin, like Agnes, under that cloak.”
“That would make her about five-ten,” Sam mused. “Tall enough to provide good leverage when launching a weapon.”
T.J. almost laughed. That was his old man, all right. Calculating range and trajectory and leverage when under attack. Me, I just ducked. What T.J. really wanted to know, though, was more about their client – or probably former client by now.
“Gimme the straight dope on this Baggett fellow,” he said. “I know he’s been getting death threats from some bimbo who claims to be his long-lost sister, but those legal boys admitted right out loud at our meeting the other day that they couldn’t afford an around-the-clock, fully-manned detective agency. Are we going to get paid?”
“Oh, we’ll get paid,” Sam said. “Mr. Baggett is not as rich as he used to be. His fortune, or what’s left of it, is controlled to some extent by Derby & Kneith, who hired us. The transaction in Bakersfield should bring in a tidy sum, even with today’s depressed prices. That fancy railway car of his is up for sale, too. Has been, I’m told, for a couple of years now. Now, tell me about the Bakersfield end.”
“Overcast. Muggy. Everything was quiet when we get there, and it’s still quiet when we leave. Meanwhile we pile into these Hoover Buggy contraptions and we go look at a patch of desert. Fluvial conglomerate, somebody says, might be part of the Kern Valley oil deposit. Poor old Baggett almost goes flat on his kisser a couple of times, even with that cane he has to use. I stay on the ball on the ride down and on the ride back, and I stay up all night in between. For what? That phony sister of his had no intention of getting on any train. She was waiting for us all the time in Oakland. Phooey! What a waste!”
“Not a waste at all,” Sam said mildly. “We were paid to do a job no matter where it took us. And Flood and Flood were on hand at the critical moment to thwart a tragedy, thanks to your quick thinking. You had better get started on your report, including any expenses you incurred. Now, I must consult with Agnes.”
“I hope you’re looking up
‘Situations Wanted’ in the want ads,” T.J. said. “This joint could use another live body.”
Sam ignored his son’s jibe about working long hours. “We’re looking for a bookcase for sale,” he said. “I’m thinking of buying a set of Collier’s National Encyclopedia. Eleven volumes, bibliography, index and an atlas, including maps of several American cities.” He opened a desk drawer and took out a brochure. ‘A scholarly, systematic, continuously revised summary of the knowledge that is most significant to mankind,’ he quoted. “It will place a fund of information at our fingertips,” he added. “The more information we have, the better. And it will cut down on Agnes’s trips to the library.”
“Systematic, that’s us. “ T.J. said. “I wouldn’t give two-bits for our sum of knowledge, sometimes, though.” In his office, he hung up his fedora and his jacket, and loosened the buttons on his vest. There was a little breeze trickling through the partially opened window from Bush Street, but his office was warm this time of day. With a sigh, followed by a baby yawn, he put his Detective Special in one drawer of his desk and took out a pad of foolscap from another.
T.J. had just finished his report more than an hour later when Agnes rang to say the detective from Oakland was here. She showed him in. The cop’s name was Binns. He was short and rotund – just like pop, T.J. thought, except for the age difference. With the details of the incident fresh in his mind, T.J. easily and clearly gave his version of the confrontation in the train shed. Binns took notes, nodding appreciatively a few times. “You make a good witness,” he said at one point. “Mr. Baggett’s recollection of events was somewhat hazy.”
“Did you find the machete?” T.J. asked. “The last I saw of it, it was headed for the bay next to the pier.”
“Yes, we recovered the machete and the cap,” Binns said. “We’ll try to trace the machete, of course. It’s an … unusual …murder weapon. By the way, we’d appreciate it if you kind of kept an eye open over here, maybe spot her on the street.”
Great, T.J. thought. Sort of an unpaid Flood watch. That’s all I need. They ain’t no fun, even when someone hires us.
After the detective had departed, Sam poked his head into T.J.’s office. “I’m leaving now. I’m going to drop in on Solly Silverman. Tomorrow, I’m going down to see Margaret. Make sure you get your report to Agnes today. I want it on my desk when I return so I can bill the client. And give Agnes a hand looking for a bookcase.”
T.J. threw his father a half-salute before organizing the paper on his desk. Away ol’ Poppa goes, trailing edicts behind him like a string of puppy turds, he told himself. Margaret was Sam’s second wife, now confined to a rest home with senile dementia. T.J. had never got on well with Margaret. His mother had died giving him birth and T.J. had long resented the fact his father had remarried.
****
Solomon Silverman was in the hat trade. He had a shop on lower Powell Street. He and Sam had been friends for years and now they sat sipping lemon squash in Solly’s small office at the rear of his display room.
“How’s Margaret?” Silverman asked. “And the boy?”
The ‘boy’ was T.J. “Meg is about the same,” Sam said. “Sometimes she knows me, sometimes she doesn’t. I’m taking the train down to see her tomorrow. Thomas is about the same, too. Still prickly. Still pushing back. He had to go without sleep for a couple of days and he blames it on the world in general.”
Sam and Solly had been out of town together on the night T.J. was born and Silverman knew Samuel had long carried a burden of guilt because he wasn’t at his wife’s bedside. Solly knew this guilt had colored the relationship between the two Floods and had suggested more than once that San sit down with Thomas to talk things out.
“My sister Esther is worried about Sharon,” Silverman said. “You remember my niece, Sharon.”
“She’s the one who was going to convert the Hottentots?”
Solly smiled briefly. “That’s the one. She’s 17 now and hasn’t been home for two days. The whole Greenberg family is worried. We’re all worried.”
“What, she just went out and didn’t come back? Or she didn’t come home from school? What?”
“Sharon’s been helping out at the relief center. The other day, she just didn’t come home, Esther tells me.”
“Has anyone gone looking? Her father?”
“Irving is still working on the Boulder Dam on the Colorado River. He won’t be back for a while yet.”
“I thought the dam opened this past March,” Sam said.
“It did, but Irving’s a stonemason. He still has some finishing up to do.”
“Well, the missing persons unit at the police department will have to be notified. Mrs. Greenberg should go down and talk to them. They won’t turn her away, but Sharon might be at the bottom of a long list. After I get back to the city tomorrow, we’ll talk again. They’ll find her, don’t worry.”
His reassurance was the stock response, but Sam Flood knew missing persons were sometimes not found. And sometimes they were found dead. Of course, Sharon could very well prance through the front door at any moment, unharmed after indulging in a girlish escapade. Except that Sharon wasn’t that kind of girl. Very serious, very involved, if I remember correctly.
Chapter 2
Thomas Jefferson Flood had his feet up on his desk, reading a feature article in the Examiner about construction problems on the new Golden Gate Bridge. Why do they wanna build a bridge there, anyway, he asked himself? What’s at the other end? Zip. Oh sure, Sausalito, the metropolis of Northern California. Big deal. San Quentin? It would still be a long drive for anyone dumb enough to visit that crowbar hotel. The ferry was quicker. He was pondering whether to take a jolt from the office bottle when he detected a soft knock on his door. T.J. knew that knock. It was Agnes. “Enter, my fair lady,” he called.
Agnes seemed to be brimming with exciting news. “I’ve got a wonderful idea about Mr. Sam’s bookcase,” she gushed.
“Spill it, sister.”
Agnes sat down primly in one of the client chairs and leaned forward. “DeeDee, up in Abel and Baker’s office, tells me Mr. Baker is leaving and some of his office furniture is available. There’s a low bookcase that would be perfect for us. It has two shelves, it’s dark wood so it will match our own stuff and it will fit perfectly against the wall across from me. And the new Collier’s would fit perfectly.” She stopped abruptly, aware that she was beginning to ramble. “Oh, dear,” she said.
T.J. swung his feet down. “How much,” he demanded.
“Five dollars. I think that’s a very reasonable price. They just want to clear some things out.”
“Do you recommend we purchase this item, Miss Wilkins?”
Agnes almost giggled. T.J. sounded just like Mr. Sam. She hesitated, unsure of herself. Then her chin came up. “Yes, I do,” she said firmly.
“Is there five bucks in petty cash?”
Agnes thought for another moment. “Yes, I believe there are,” she said.
T.J started buttoning his vest. “Well then, let’s go get it.”
“But, but shouldn’t we wait for Mr. Sam?”
“Agnes, we are both grown-ups. We don’t need a pat on the head from anybody. Let the phones ring; let the clients wait. C’mon, let’s march!”
Tingling a little, Agnes led the way to Abel and Baker. She had long harbored a secret longing for Thomas, and every time they went on ‘missions’ together, she felt warm inside. The deal was done inside 15 minutes. T.J. inspected the bookcase; it was indeed just the thing for a set of encyclopedia. Agnes handed over five singles and obtained a receipt. At six-foot and 190 pounds, T.J. could have wrestled the item into the elevator with little trouble, but a burly lad named Trevor was available so he helped speed the bookcase on its way to a new home …
… A home it shared this day with an ominous envelope which had been placed in the precise center of Agnes Wilkins’s desk while she and T.J. were absent.
They bid farewell to Trevor and
Agnes approached her desk to file the receipt. She halted abruptly, gave a gasp and staggered back a step. In an instant, T.J. was at her side. What appeared to be a blood-soaked envelope lay on Agnes’s blotter.
Gently, T.J. turned her away and led her to one of the visitor’s chairs. “Is it … is it blood?” she asked weakly as T.J. went to examine the object.
“No,” he replied after a short pause. He touched one of the letters hesitantly with a pinkie finger. “It appears to be red crayon. Dried blood wouldn’t have quite that shade of crimson.” Carefully, he picked up the corner of the envelope with his fingertips and took it into his office.
When he returned to the anteroom a minute later, he was brisk and positive. “I think it’s a prank,” he said. “Your job now, my dear, is to get out your dust rag and give our new bookcase a thorough dusting and polishing so the boss will be delighted with our choice. And then you can take yourself home.”
Agnes sprang up. Duty calls. She approached her desk, then slowed to inspect the blotter. It was unstained. As T.J. closed his office door behind him, Agnes was rooting through the drawer where she kept her cleaning supplies.
T.J. studied the envelope on the desk before him. The word ‘FLOOD’ was printed in large, red letters. A crayon, he confirmed after closer inspection. Streaks of red ran down from each letter, simulating dripping blood. A crude drawing of a skull and crossbones occupied the top right-hand corner. Now that’s a real stamp collector’s exhibit, he thought. He fished out his letter-opener and used it to flip the envelope over. There was nothing on the other side.
“Damn,” he whispered derisively to himself. “No return address.” He unfolded his handkerchief and used it to grip the envelope as he slit open one end. A single sheet of bond paper was inside. On it were the words: ‘He must die and so must you.’ The letters of each word had been cut out of a magazine and pasted onto the sheet of paper. There was no signature. T.J. studied the message for a moment. This is a death threat, he told himself. A real, genuine, honest-to-God death threat.
