by T. W. Emory
Cissy parked one hand on her hip and with the other removed a pair of round-lensed glasses that could have been stolen off of Winston Churchill or Mahatma Gandhi.
“Your caller sounded old, distinguished, and authoritative. He said it was important, but he didn’t leave a number. He said you’d have it. Is he the Rikard Lundeen?”
“The very same,” I replied, not telling her I was maybe one of five people who had special access to him on a very private telephone line.
She whistled softly. “Consorting with Seattle’s upper crust now, are we?”
I smiled. “I helped him out with a family matter.”
“Family matter. That’s a rather droll euphemism, isn’t it? It’s right up there with matters to attend to.”
I smiled. Ambivalence or not, I didn’t want to jeopardize that special access, so I changed the subject.
“Curt Sykes and his orchestra will be at the Trianon,” I said.
“And?”
“Feel like dinner and dancing this Saturday night?”
“The Trianon, huh?”
I nodded.
“So, tough guy, you feel up to skipping and shuffling with me at Seattle’s finest ballroom?”
“I’m sure.”
“Do you think those gumshoes can take the strain?”
“Feet of steel, Miss Paget. Feet of steel.”
She closed her eyes and put her fingertips to her eyebrows. “I’m getting a vision. I’m seeing you in a truck. You have a sheepish, desperate look on your face. You’re hauling a load of typing that needs to be done.”
“Cynical you. How do you know it’s not your enchanting company I’m after?”
“Are you sure it’s my company you’re enchanted with?”
“Am I that transparent?”
“Like a display window at the Bon Marché.”
Cissy was a brown-haired, narrow-lipped package of sweet-and-sour candy. She had those innocent chestnut eyes that crinkled when she beamed a smile that said the two of you were pulling a fast one on humanity. She’d been engaged in the fall of ’44, and her fiancé was killed six months before V-J Day. When I met her she was in her early twenties and convinced the whole world had gone loony—which of course it had. She was amusing company if you liked pert and brassy, annoying if you didn’t. She related to me with a fun-loving air. Slide this banister with me, tough guy. Lose the umbrella, Gunnar, can’t you see it’s raining? But like most of us walking wounded, she was assuaging pain. She failed miserably in trying to hide her empathy. She helped support her widowed mother with whom she lived in Magnolia. At a showing of Bambi, she led fellow patrons in a bawling jag. And more than once I caught her sniffling over some tragedy in the newspaper.
Cissy and I were buddies, but I was in no way immune to her feminine charms. I watched her taut rump slightly seesaw as she walked back to her workstation.
“Shouldn’t you be examining your mail, Gunnar?” she asked without having to look back.
“You are a mind reader.”
She shot me a glance before she went through the door. “In studying the orangutan’s mating habits, I’ve learned telepathy is not a requirement.”
I entered the inner pigeonhole before reading my mail. I stuffed my parcel in my desk drawer next to a paperback copy of Damon Runyon’s Take It Easy. It was one of those specially printed for men in the armed forces during the war. It had helped me fend off many a boring moment. I kept it for reasons I still can’t explain. An abandoned half-eaten éclair sat next to it. Its carapace was flaky but it still tasted okay.
Dag’s remodeling project left me with a window. I raised it and took in my minuscule view of Market Street. It was the beginning of June, and mild out. Rain had pelted the city during the night, so the filtered air smelled fresh as garments dried on a clothesline. Only a couple of small clouds hung around the edges of an azure sky. The Italianate storefronts had the tint of a faded postcard—which reminded me I had two letters to read.
I chewed on my éclair as I opened the top letter. It was from the American Legion. They wanted me to join up. I sailed their letter and the last scrap of éclair into what my old partner used to call the “spilth receptacle.”
The second item was a “Glad you ain’t here,” card from Honolulu, sent by an army buddy named Leahy. A color cartoon was on the front showing a goofy-looking tourist gyrating with three brown hula cuties. On the inside he’d written, “This beats huggin’ trees in the Hurtgen any day.”
The krauts taught us to be tree huggers in the Hurtgen Forest. Normally you’d kiss the earth when shelled. But in the Hurtgen, the krauts used shells with fuses set to blow in the treetops, showering the ground with hot steel and wood slivers. Being one with a tree lowered your odds in the old shrapnel lottery.
I stood Leahy’s belated piece of gallows humor on the corner of my desk just above the spilth receptacle. I decided it could stay for awhile.
The mail was read, and there were no customers to delay the telephone call I had to make.
Rikard Lundeen was friendly, but our conversation was predictably brief. He insisted that we talk face to face. I agreed to meet him downtown for lunch.
“Surprised at my choice of a bistro?” Rikard Lundeen asked, with a mock grin that caused his thin mustache to ripple.
“Should I be?” I said, after swallowing. “It’s got ambiance, atmosphere, and a house specialty that makes it a subterranean paradise. Who am I to knock an institution?”
His grin remained.
Rikard Lundeen could easily have passed for under sixty instead of almost seventy, and he had those doted-on looks that money hires. But it was more than that. He was one of those incredibly lucky survivors of the genetic lottery. He’d inherited an amazingly lean physique that he aided and abetted with exercise and regular visits from a masseuse. His nails were precisely manicured and his full head of gray hair was carefully groomed and slicked straight back like those dandies you used to see on the covers of The Saturday Evening Post.
The lunch menu was easy. You either had the-gentleman-will-take-a-chance hash or the house specialty: corned beef and cabbage. We ordered the specialty. He picked at his. I wolfed mine down.
“I thought about having you as my guest at my club, but I wasn’t sure you’d be comfortable doing business there. I thought you’d feel out of place.”
He knew that I knew I’d never see the inside of his club. Not as his guest anyway. I kept chewing.
“Besides, I decided I wanted the privacy this place provides me. I’ve eaten here at the Moonglow off and on for years. Getting among the people clears the mind. Mixing with the ordinary man renews the senses.”
And it reassured him who was still on top, I thought but of course didn’t voice. The ordinary man is an effusive back-slapper. Lundeen was calculatingly reserved and congenial only when it suited him. The ordinary man dreams big but is tormented by bugaboos. Lundeen bankrolled and profited from the dream factories and torture chambers. The ordinary man defies the luck of the draw at every turn and his entire life is an uphill battle. Rikard Lundeen was a hardboiled pragmatist who printed and sold the lottery tickets others had to buy and he lived on top of the hill they never scaled.
“It looks to me that for some of these customers, ordinary is a big step up,” I said.
He laughed, but it didn’t come from the belly. It was one of those social chortles going no farther down than the vocal cords.
Most of the caterers to good taste had moved up the hill some years before. The Moonglow Eats was an underground cavern on First Avenue—an old strip of real estate with neon-shingled stop-off spots for flesh peddlers, the fortune-twisted, and those who didn’t give their right names. Fortunately, as you entered, the sharp aroma of corned beef and cabbage washed over all competing smells.
I’d arrived a couple minutes late. After making my way from the street down a dizzying flight of stairs that would never pass today’s safety codes, I saw Mr. Lundeen reading the comics section
of the Seattle Times. It made for an unusual opening. A Rikard Lundeen opening.
“Joe Palooka hasn’t been in the ring lately. A real disappointment to a boxing fan like me. I like to see a good mix-up, even in the funny papers. But, Alley Oop never disappoints. What a hoot. He’s being dogged by a persistent dinosaur and the old Grand Wizer is sorer than blazes at him. Cave men. Time travel. It stretches the imagination. Yes, indeed, a real hoot. Do you read the funnies, Gunnar?” he’d asked.
“Sure. I like Li’l Abner.” I’d started reading it during the war in Stars and Stripes.
“Good for you. Good for you. To my way of thinking, a man who doesn’t read the funnies lacks dimension. But I’d have taken you for a Dick Tracy man. What do you find appealing about Li’l Abner? Is it Al Capp’s narrative technique? His political satire?”
I didn’t usually give this much thought to the funnies.
“Gunnar, I’ll bet you like the comprehensive lampoons—the social criticism. Is that it, son?”
I decided his questions weren’t from curiosity but more likely an attempt to keep me in my place. I knew that Rikard Lundeen didn’t want his common man setting his sights too high, and that included the average private eye. So, while I liked Abner Yokum’s indestructible guilelessness, and how the big yokel brought out people’s true colors like a human litmus test, instead I said, “Al Capp works wonders with paper and ink. Those pretty hillbilly girls in their skimpy little outfits practically prance off the page.”
He beamed. “Why yes, son, I suppose they do at that. Yes, indeed, skimpy little outfits.”
We’d snagged a spot in a corner and gave each other across-the-table scrutiny. I’d freshened the pomade in my hair and wore my mole-gray suit for the occasion. Mr. Lundeen wore a dark brown leisure jacket and khaki-colored slacks. On the table he’d placed the pilot’s sunglasses I remembered he favored.
When he’d eaten a third of his meal he said, “Family.” He watched me with shrewd eyes in a beatific face. “In the end, Gunnar, what else do we have?”
What else? If the man lived to be a hundred and used twenties for toilet paper, he wouldn’t put a dent in his fortune. But I kept those thoughts to myself. I wasn’t sure what my reaction was supposed to be, so I did my rendition of a sagacious nod.
He gave me what I took for a conspiratorial twinkle. “Come from a big family, son?”
I shook my head as I wiped my mouth with a paper napkin. “My folks were killed in an auto crash when I was six. I was raised by my grandparents.”
“Ah, then you know something about enduring familial ties.”
I didn’t tell him that my grandparents had died when I was in my late teens. Instead, I gave an affirming smile.
“My beloved mother was one of the Mercer girls, did you know that?”
“Daughter of Asa Mercer?” I asked. Mercer was one of Seattle’s founding fathers and first president of the University of Washington.
“No, no. I’m not related to that fool schoolteacher. The only smart thing he did was to bring a number of single women West after the Civil War to help balance out Seattle’s man-to-woman ratio. I wouldn’t be here otherwise. My father Guttorm married one of the girls from Mercer’s second trip. I was the youngest of their five children—and their only boy.”
Which made him heir apparent.
“You name it, my father did it. He showed the way in Seattle’s early boom. Hell, he was the boom. He started off as a shopkeeper’s helper, became a partner in a printing firm, a banker, a hotel-builder and an investor in land and local industry. And believe me, son, I could go on.”
I believed him. Guttorm Lundeen was also an avaricious taskmaster, a strike-buster, and a payer of bribes and graft. And believe me, I could go on.
“Did you know that ours was one of the original families to move to First Hill?”
I confessed my ignorance.
“Well we were. Over the years I’ve merely enlarged upon and managed my father’s holdings. Yet, I’m considered one of the barons of the Northwest. But it was my father’s commitment to family that made it all possible. Do you know the maxim he lived by, son?” he asked solemnly.
Compound interest is your best friend seemed a reasonable guess, but I told him I didn’t have a clue.
“ ‘Rikky,’ my father would say, ‘blood is tikker dan sweat. Work hard, boy, but stand by your family, or all the sweat is vert-less.’”
I had no idea where this conversation was headed. But he was paying for lunch, so I sipped my coffee and waited patiently for the punch line.
It was a short wait.
“I understand you knew Christine Johanson—the girl who was killed over in Ballard last night.”
That surprised me. He noticed.
“Is my source wrong?”
“Yes and no,” I said. “I met her briefly the night before last. But I didn’t really know her. Was she related to you?”
“No, son. No relation. But the girl had a connection to my family. My godson was her boyfriend.”
“I see.”
“Not as clearly as I want you to, Gunnar. The murdered girl worked for one of my son’s commercial brainchilds. It’s an adjunct venture of Darlund Apparels. It’s one of those projects where Rod can toy with being a businessman. Frankly, it’s a dog. And it’s a costly dog at that,” he said, with a shake of his head. “But it keeps Rod occupied and provides us with a tax shelter. He doesn’t even actually head the fiasco. One of his favor-begging college chums manages things for him.”
Rod Lundeen’s fame-claim had been his prowess as a University of Washington athlete in the mid ’20s. He’d turned into a flabby middle-aged man whose strengths lay more in the high life than in the life of commerce.
“And your concern is for Rod?” I asked.
“Not at all, son. At this moment Rod and wife number three are on a luxury liner mindlessly cruising the inland waters of Canada. As usual, I’m left to tend to business. This time, some rather unfortunate business. So much for semi-retirement.”
I heard a complaint in there, but it was a hollow one. I knew that Rikard Lundeen would be ship captain till the day they carried his corpse from the pilothouse. And even then they’d have to pry his hands from the wheel. I continued to look at him between forkfuls of apple pie.
“But since young Dirk is involved—”
“Dirk?”
“My godson. Dirk Engstrom. I’ve known the family for years. His late grandfather was my best friend. And his father and I regularly go on fishing trips together. He’s a local jeweler and a gem of a man. Pardon the pun.”
I absolved him with a lift of one brow.
“And this jeweler’s son is the Dirk who was romancing Christine Johanson?” I asked.
“Precisely. Dirk’s learning the jewelry business from his father. Listen, son, if you haven’t guessed it, I want to hire you to look into the girl’s murder.”
“Why not let the police handle it? I’m sure they’ll be thorough.” Especially for a man with your green, is what I thought.
“Maybe so. But I’d hate for them to get thorough in a troublesome way. The police are being discreet for now. But the murdered girl worked for a Lundeen company, and I view young Dirk and his father as my own family.”
“And blood is thicker than sweat—”
“Exactly. You’re tracking right with me, son. If the police should dig up something ugly, the scandal could hurt Engstrom Jewelry. And I believe I’d even rather see Rod’s costly enterprise die its own pathetic death than go down in some messy embarrassment. So, I want my own unofficial inquiry, and some effort made to contain anything disturbing that may come to light. It might be quite the task, but when it comes to discretion, you’ve definitely won my confidence, son.”
I met his look of shared meaning.
“I noticed you kept it out of the papers,” I said.
“An easy matter, once you helped me to spike her guns.”
I shrugged. “Most people with larce
ny in their souls have something to hide. It’s just a matter of discovery.”
He sighed. “I’ve mellowed with age, son. That little tramp was lucky I only gave her walking papers.”
Lundeen’s inamorata had hoped to score big. For a B movie bit player, she was an A-1 actress. She threatened to play the part of an ill-used plaintiff in a paternity suit. I learned she had a record of just enough small-time forgery, petty theft, and bunco activity to lack proficiency. The trouble was I kind of liked her. It was not my finest hour.
Mr. Lundeen’s hand disappeared inside the front of his jacket and came out with a checkbook. “Will five hundred dollars do as a retainer?”
I almost choked on a bite of pie. “That should cover it,” I said.
“I thought it might. And you keep it as a bonus if everything goes well. What do you charge again, Gunnar?”
“Thirty dollars a day.”
“Let’s make it forty-five, and I’m assuming that your expenses are extra.”
“Right.”
“I’ve got some suggestions as to where you can start your investigation.”
“I’m open.” Hell, for what he was paying me I was downright pliable.
“Head on over to Fasciné Expressions. Talk to Leonard Pearson. He heads the operation. I’ve told him to expect you.”
He handed me a check that he’d made out ahead of time. I was a little irked at being presumed upon. But my wounded pride healed as soon as the check was in my wallet.
As I wrote down the address, Mr. Lundeen explained that Rod’s “costly dog” was a two-year-old boutique with a parent company in New York. It was a local showcase for new product lines but with provincial flavorings.
“Frankly, the place is more than a bit excessive. I tried to tell Rod that we’re not ready for such local sources of sophistication. The Eastern and European salons aren’t likely to be forsaken by Seattle’s toplofty. They’re too chary and pompous to take up with Rod’s enterprise. And all the others trying to scale the peaks are too pusillanimous not to follow their lead. No, the people of this city are still too wedded to the conventional to become his regular clientele.”
