by T. W. Emory
I read the message from Britt as I ducked inside my two pigeonholes. I made a call to Frank Milland, who answered on the second ring.
“A driver of a dark sedan tried to run me down last night.”
“No shit.”
“Shit yes.”
Walter once talked for fifteen minutes straight on the Anglo-Saxon word for diarrhea, and how amazed they’d be to know that it now outperformed a wild card.
“Where’d this happen?”
“Right in front of my boardinghouse. Walter Pangborn saw the whole thing.”
“Any idea who’d want you dead?”
“A handful of people come to mind, most of them with overripe grievances from before the war. I’m guessing this maniac has a newly acquired grudge.”
“Meaning?”
“I think someone’s not happy about me nosing into the Johanson girl’s murder.”
“Uh-huh. And you know how that’ll go over with Lieutenant Lister, don’t you?”
“I’ve got a fair idea.”
“Well, fair idea this. He’ll accuse you and the Engstrom kid’s lawyer of fabricating a red herring to divert suspicion. And just how do I know that isn’t the case?”
“Walter was there. He saw the whole thing.”
“And who’d believe that freak?”
“Don’t call him a freak.” I said it slowly, pausing between each word. I was mad. Milland knew it. “Walter got that face fighting Huns when you were still in knickers. If you ever bothered to talk with him instead of just at him, you’d find he’s completely human and quite credible.”
Frank was silent for a moment longer.
“So what am I supposed to do about this info? Did your war hero happen to get a license number?”
I told him the details, and what we saw and didn’t.
“Gunnar, what happened to you not screwing up our investigation? That gun we found in the Engstrom kid’s place is the one that killed that Johanson dame.”
“Frank, Dirk Engstrom could still be your killer. I just thought you’d want to know what happened. That’s all.”
“Yeah, well, so now I know.”
“Yeah, well, so now you do.”
We hung up.
I reread the message from Britt. It told me that Guy de Carter had a mid-morning appointment near Woodland Park, and he wondered if I could meet him there about 12:30 for a duck dinner—he’d bring the duck. He said he’d look for me near the fountain in the rose garden.
It was okay by me. It gave me plenty of time to go see Addison Darcy in The Highlands.
Some compare Seattle to Rome because it’s built on a series of hills. By the 1890s wealthier families had built their homes on three of them: First Hill, Capitol Hill, and Queen Anne Hill. In the early 1900s the well-to-do started to shift their location to exclusive suburbs like Broadmoor and The Highlands. Both Addison Darcy and Rikard Lundeen lived in the latter.
The Highlands wasn’t really a part of Seattle. It was sort of an enclave outside the city limits.
I headed the Chevy north. I checked now and then to see if I was being followed, occasionally caressing my .38.
I shot a quick glance in my rearview mirror as I pulled up to the small gatehouse. So far I hadn’t grown a shadow.
The gatehouse guard came out and circled the front of my car to get to the driver’s side. He was a burly, bandy-legged hombre. He had an ex-bouncer look in his eyes that telegraphed a residual itch to French walk all trespassers and troublemakers. I rolled the window down and showed him as many teeth as I could.
“Good morning. Welcome to The Highlands,” said the guard, droning like a bored museum tour guide. His lapel badge read “Charlie.” Charlie glanced from me to the clipboard in his hand, then back at me again. It was his way of goading me to give my credentials.
“Addison Darcy is expecting me,” I said.
“Your name, sir?”
“Gunnar Nilson.”
When he discovered my name on his list, his mouth twitched into what resembled a smile and froze that way. I took it as a good sign. Charlie came across like one of those people who believe that the only thing they can be sure of is their own existence, because when he said, “Yes, sir, there you are,” he said it in a way that made me feel I didn’t really exist to him until I made my appearance on his list.
Charlie gave me directions. When he said “the Darcy residence,” it sounded like he was struggling with a second language.
I spotted a lead pencil in the grass near his feet.
“You really should check into that and find out who the guy was who was holding that pencil,” I said, pointing to it. “At the very least, you should let the police know. That’s got to be the worst case of human spontaneous combustion I’ve ever seen.”
I drove off. In my mirror I saw Charlie bend over to pick up the pencil. I liked to think that small discovery would lead him to start a solipsist splinter group with him as its leader.
The Highlands is still situated above a massive bluff, with spectacular views of Puget Sound. My route was mostly shaded and flanked by shrubbery, oaks, maples, and tall evergreen trees. I left my window down to take in the smells of fir and pine and to better catch the breeze coming up off the water. At points where the sun peeked through, I got glimpses of the bay, and beyond it the majestic mountain range of the Olympics.
Addison Darcy’s neighbors had long driveways. Their homes reflected the taste of the owner or the fad of the decade in which it was built. Tudor-style, early American colonial, opulent gingerbread cottages, and even a few Spanish haciendas dotted the remote acreage.
I saw a modest little sign that said “Darcy.” I pulled into the driveway and took a right past three outbuildings. I reached a sweeping space where I whirled the Chevy around and parked. Nearby sat four automobiles in or around a huge garage.
The main building on the Darcy estate was a three-story brick and stucco Tudor that made Blanche Arnot’s place look Lilliputian. Each floor of this manor home looked to have four times the square footage of Mrs. Berger’s entire house.
The door opened and there stood a lean woman in a dress the color of a coal miner’s face. She was on the far side of middle age and was long immune to the very best in disarming smiles.
Our chins would have been level without the threshold. But as it was, I had to stare up at the close-set peas that passed for her eyes. Her hair was pulled straight back into a bun the size of a man’s fist. Each strand of hair was stretched so tight it left her face strained and juiceless. It went well with the tightly drawn horizontal line that did duty as both a frown and a smile. She was the kind of female house servant you’d absolutely insist on if your husband had roving eyes. One word summed her up.
Scary.
“You are?” she said, in a voice that sounded like it was piped in.
“Gunnar Nilson. I’m here to see Mr. Darcy.”
“Come.”
I obeyed. As I stepped inside, my eyes were immediately drawn to the foyer’s vaulted ceiling. It made me feel tiny and prepared me for what came next. She quick-marched me into a first-floor parlor large enough to hold congress. A wizened finger pointed to a glazed, calico-covered armchair.
“Sit,” said the piped-in voice.
I sat.
“Wait.”
I did.
She gave me an abrupt nod. When she was out of sight I put a clove under my tongue. I looked around. The room had modern furniture and felt comfortable enough. The décor had the feminine touch—though definitely not by the talons of the she-goon who’d just greeted me. The place was festooned with foreign and exotic curios, highly valued little knickknacks, and rare and strange art, the sheer volume of which only the moneyed could afford and wish for. All was arranged with the care and devotion of a person not fettered by the workaday world.
On the table next to me were several framed photographs. I picked up one of them. It was of a nice-looking man in his mid to late twenties and dressed in a naval office
r’s uniform. The inscription read, To Mother and Dad, with all my love, Addie.
“That was my son.”
I put the picture down and stood up to face the voice. It came from a man wearing an ink-black velvet jacket and beige trousers. He walked over to me. He was a rugged old war-horse, the kind who told tall tales of the Crimean War—at least by Hollywood standards. Time had not been kind to him. From what Rikard Lundeen had said, Addison Darcy had to be somewhere in his late-sixties. He looked far older. His thinning top hair was more than offset by hirsute eyebrows and a bristly mustache no wax could conquer. Walter was right. He did look like C. Aubrey Smith.
He clamped my hand in his. It was more of a hand-wrench than a shake. He was baronial. He might have become more withdrawn in his old age, but he still projected a manly carriage, a residual sureness from past achievements. After introductions we sat down, and Addison Darcy pointed to the photo of his son.
“He was killed in the Pacific. Damnable kamikaze plowed right into his ship. Not very sporting of those Japs. Not very sporting at all.”
I agreed, but chose not to mention the two atom bombs we finally dropped on Japan. The timing wasn’t right. Talking about his son, Addison Darcy had a familiar look about him. He had that injured-spirit glaze to the eyes. I’d seen it in many a dogface, including the one in my shaving mirror.
“Addie would have gone far. Groomed him myself. He had a rare business savvy. He’d have gone far and done exceedingly well.”
He was quiet for a moment.
“Can I offer you anything, son? Coffee? I know it’s early, but I can trouble Hildy to get you something stronger.”
I told him no thanks. I guessed that Hildy was his scary receptionist, and I didn’t care to trouble her whatsoever.
Addison Darcy went on, “I’ve given up alcohol, myself. Doctor said my liver would explode if I didn’t. But I sneak a drink now and again. Hell, what’s life without a few guilty pleasures?”
I gave a commiserating smirk.
“As it happens, I received a telephone call not half an hour ago that summons me away before noon. So I’m glad you came early. I was just about to take a quick steam bath. Would you care to join me, son? We could talk while we sweat.”
Hot and murky had no appeal. I preferred to sweat where we were, so I declined and told him I wouldn’t keep him long.
“I’m not really clear as to why you want to talk with me. I’ve told the police what little there is to tell.”
“Maybe you’ve given things more thought, and you’ll tell me something you didn’t tell the police. I just have a few questions,” I said.
“Well, old Rik speaks highly of you, son. If it weren’t for him we wouldn’t even be having this little parley, of that you can be certain. I’d just as soon keep my nose and name out of anything connected to that salesgirl’s murder.”
I told him I understood. “You saw Christine Johanson squabbling with Dirk Engstrom the day of the homicide.”
“Yes, that’s true. Only the girl didn’t say much. The Engstrom lad did all the shouting. He’s hot-tempered like his mother. But I suppose you could call it a quarrel. The girl was none too happy to see him, of that you can be certain.”
“The police said that one of you bystanders heard Dirk Engstrom threaten to kill Christine.”
“No. That wasn’t me, son. Although he might have done so at that. His conduct was abominable.”
“Tell me what you saw and heard.”
Mr. Darcy told me he was buying perfume for his wife and Christine was letting him smell samples when Dirk Engstrom grabbed her by the elbow and jerked her aside.
“He told her to take a good look at how she was behaving—something like that. She tried to speak but he kept at her. I started backing away. I’ve never been one to borrow trouble. I haven’t lived as long as I have for nothing. I did hear the Engstrom lad say he didn’t want a floozie for a wife. I do remember that.”
“Dirk told me that when he walked in the place you were smelling the nape of Christine’s neck. He said that’s what set him off.”
He glared at me. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” he asked coldly, leading to a hot question, “Is my behavior on trial now?”
I didn’t want Hildy getting me my hat just yet.
“Frankly, I’m finding Dirk is the overly jealous type. He’s got a temper that goes with rash and wild remarks. He probably misinterpreted or exaggerated what he saw. What’s your version?”
Mr. Darcy was straining with his anger, driving it off, packing it away. A small frown remained a moment then disappeared.
“Well, perhaps the young woman gave the lad just cause.”
“Do you think Christine Johanson was a floozie?” I asked.
He gave me a crafty grin. “It was she who controlled the atomizer. She chose where to spray the perfume. She invited me to take a whiff. You know how some girls of the common variety can be, son.”
I smiled and raised an eyebrow that said I knew the ways of common variety girls.
“When I was a young buck,” he continued, “it was mainly actresses and showgirls who were looking for a good time. The age of bobbed-hair, flappers, and bootleg changed all that. Now a man can find willing girls most everywhere he turns. The kind you have fun with but don’t take seriously, of course. I think that’s a big part of the Engstrom lad’s problem. Of that you can be certain.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“Dirk was getting serious with the wrong type of girl. Anyone could see that she had round heels. What did he expect from a salesgirl?”
“The common variety,” I said.
“Exactly.” He pointed to his son’s photo. “My Addie was heading down the same path. He was going to make the same foolish mistake.”
“Foolish mistake?”
“Addie was getting serious about some trollop. A dancer. He carried on with her to the point where he was talking marriage. Fortunately, the boy listened to reason and I was able to put a stop to it. You sow your oats with that kind. You don’t marry them. A man would have to be insane to do so.”
He insisted that he had nothing more to add and steered the conversation briefly to politics and then to business. He did a little of that boasting Rikard Lundeen had warned me about. He talked of real estate holdings, the structure of companies, trusts, securities portfolios, and corporate investment entities. But he spoke more in terms of past battles fought and won. I sensed detachment behind what passed for eager prattle. Rikard Lundeen was right. Addison Darcy made a remark here and there that told me he’d personally taken a fairly static position toward the management of his holdings ever since his son was killed.
The talk grew tedious. I went along for the ride awhile before telling him it was time for me to go and for him to take his quick steam bath.
As he escorted me to the door I asked him if he’d ever been to the New Amsterdam Theatre in New York.
He laughed and gave his thigh a slap. “Many times, son. The New Amsterdam, the Manhattan, the Palace, the Majestic—you name it. When I was a younger man I made regular business trips to New York. At one point, I practically lived in that city six months out of the year. I always made a point of taking in a show or two.”
And a showgirl or two as well, I thought. Of that I could be certain.
My visit with Addison Darcy was a dead end as far as I was concerned. But I had to be onto something or someone wouldn’t have tried to grind me into roadbed. It was a perverse form of encouragement.
I’d purposely given myself a little time to kill before meeting Guy de Carter. I headed over to the Atherton Building. I planned to pick up that list of customers from Britt Anderson and question Meredith one more time.
It was 11:00 when I sauntered in the Maison le Swank sitting room of Fasciné Expressions. Another gorgeous female of the fashion plate persuasion pranced up to me.
She was a little taller than the other girls, had a broad face, skin like porcelain, and hair the colo
r of charcoal briquettes. She was wearing an imperial purple suit and told me her name was Peggy in a sultry speech that made the name sound original and its bearer as enchanting as she looked. Her engaging scent was distinctly overstated. Before she could ask me how she might be of help, I gave my name and purpose in calling.
“Oh, yes. You’re the private eye,” she said, giving me a top-to-bottom reappraisal. “Miss Anderson said if you were to stop by we were to tell you to go on back.” Her voice went from sultry to soothing nasal. “She said you’d know how to find her.”
Peggy was turning to leave when I said, “I understand Guy de Carter comes in the store quite a bit. Do you know him?”
She frowned, tried to smile, but the frown stuck. “I know him a little. More than I care to.”
“Sounds like he made an impression.”
“Not with me,” she said. “When he’s on one side of the room, I manage to be on the other.” I could see she was debating over what to say next. “A friend of mine went out with him a few times.”
“Happy times?”
“If you call getting smacked around a happy time.”
“Rough customer?”
“That’s putting it mildly, buster.”
“Was it one of the girls who work here?”
She shook her head.
“You didn’t make Guy’s date book I’m guessing.”
“You’d be guessing right,” she said, pleased with her answer. “But I do think I’d like to make yours.” She was instantly in a better humor, her sultry voice returned. “You already know where you can find me.”
I watched as Peggy flounced back to her station. She was definitely one of the team and out after more than just sales commissions. An exquisite pair of legs flexed smoothly while round hips swung and derrière jiggled under her rayon skirt. She gave me a parting smile over her shoulder.
The Parisian model La Voodoo clearly had local competition in Peggy.
