"Is this about Mr. Grossman?" asked Irma.
I nodded. "How'd you know?"
"I got a call from the airport. They wanted to know if we remembered seeing Mr. Grossman deplaning today."
"And?" I asked.
She shrugged. "None of us remember who he was. Bill at the flight desk didn't have a description and he couldn't tell me the man's seat number."
I nodded. "Maybe this will help. He was coming back to San Francisco from Africa. He was an engineer and had been working on a project in South Rhodesia. He'd been in London a couple of days over the weekend."
Jenny frowned at me. "Did he stay at Claridge's?"
I nodded. "Yes."
She looked at Irma. "I know who he was. He was the very tan one. Remember? You asked me if I thought he might be Italian? Or Egyptian?"
Irma nodded. "Right. He was in the First Class cabin. He had that overnight bag that had a Claridge's tag on it, didn't he?"
Jenny said, "Yes. I talked to him for a while."
"What'd he talk about?" I asked.
"He seemed to be excited to be coming home. He said he lived near here and that he was hoping to surprise his wife."
Right then, the waiter came up and asked about drinks. Jenny and Irma ordered two more stingers. Carol asked for a cup of coffee. I asked for a rum with Coke.
Once he was gone, I looked at Jenny. "Did you notice anything odd about him?"
She frowned and pushed a loose strand of red hair off her forehead. "Now that you mention it, I wondered if he was nervous about someone else on the plane."
I nodded and waited.
She looked at Irma, who said, "7A."
Jenny nodded. "Yes. There was a man in 7A who seemed to make Mr. Grossman nervous. He kept looking over at him."
"What seat was Mr. Grossman in?"
"9D," answered Jenny.
"So, Grossman could see the man in 7A but the man couldn't see him?"
She nodded.
Irma added, "I saw the man in 7A walk to the rear lounge a couple of times during the flight and I think he stopped to talk to Mr. Grossman one of those times. Whatever he said made Mr. Grossman wipe his face with a handkerchief."
Looking at Jenny, I asked, "Do you have any idea what Mr. Grossman was carrying in his bag?"
She shook her head. "He had that bag and a thick briefcase. I assumed the bag had toiletries in it, or something like that. He took it with him to the restroom."
I nodded. "What time did the flight get in?"
Irma replied, "We were a little late, so it was 3:45."
Carol piped up and said, "I was standing at the door when everyone deplaned."
"Yes?"
She took a sip of her Coke. "Yes. Mr. Grossman met someone on the tarmac, just outside the terminal building."
"Did you see who it was?" I asked.
She shook her head. "No. He looked official. I had a feeling he was with the F.B.I."
"Could he have had something to do with customs?"
Carol said, "This was a domestic flight."
I nodded and thought again. Just then, the waiter walked up. "How's everything?"
I stood and said, "It's all on me tonight, ladies, so enjoy yourselves. And thanks for your help."
Jenny smiled and nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Williams." Irma said the same. Carol just stared at me coolly and didn't say anything.
. . .
I followed the waiter over to the bar and said, "Will a hundred cover their tab?"
His eyes briefly bulged and he said, "Sure thing, mister. Everything and then some."
I pushed a bill into his palm and said, "Thanks."
As he moved away, Louise walked up and took my elbow. "May I have this dance, Nick?"
I smiled and said, "Of course."
As I was leading her over to the dance floor, the band started playing some Hawaiian song I didn't recognize. The rhythm was about right for a foxtrot, so that's where we started.
"Did you find out what you needed?" asked Louise.
I nodded and said, "Yeah," but didn't offer any details.
After a couple of moments, she added, "Are you fine with having Christmas in Vermont?"
"Of course. It only seems right." I realized I didn't sound very enthusiastic. To change the subject, I asked, "Is that where you and Ed are going to live?"
"We just told Carter, so I'll tell you. We're going to live here. Ed likes the City. Spending Christmas in Vermont is fine, but I can't imagine living through a winter there. We'll keep his house. And we've already been looking at houses here."
"Where?" I asked.
"Over by the Presidio. In a neighborhood called Sea Cliff."
I nodded. "Nice."
"Yes. Between what Leroy paid me for the lumber mill in Albany after Wilson died and what you settled on Ed from your mother's estate, we have plenty of money to live on." Leroy was her late brother-in-law and Carter's uncle. We'd discovered Carter’s father had won the lumber mill he'd worked at for most of his life in a poker game not long before he was murdered. Louise had inherited it and immediately sold it to Carter's Uncle Leroy, who already owned the other big lumber mill in Albany, a medium-sized town in South Georgia.
"It's colder over there," I said.
"That's what everyone tells me. But after last summer, I can't imagine anything worse." It had been cold the previous summer. The temperatures had barely reached the upper 60s during July. "Besides," she added, "the views are just gorgeous. Imagine waking up every morning and seeing the Golden Gate Bridge from your bedroom window." She sighed.
"This is a big change from your old life."
"Thank the good Lord for that," she said with a laugh. "Like I told you last summer, I really thought I would die in that kitchen in Albany."
"Are you going to sell your old house?"
"No. I'm renting it out." She laughed. "I don't think I've ever told you boys, but part of the condition of the lease is that the tenants have to send me the red plums every spring. I have one of the local farmers go by to pick them and pack them."
I grinned down at her. "Well, that explains how you were able to pull that jar of jam out of your purse in Beverly Hills last July."
She smiled. "I really wish Ed hadn't given that away. I was going to leave that jar in your refrigerator for you to find after we'd left that morning."
"Well, you have Mrs. Strakova hooked on the stuff." She was our cook. "Did you have any of the tarts or whatever they were that she made with your jam last month?"
Louise nodded. "She made a huge batch of them for us to serve at one of our board meetings. They were gone in no time."
The music stopped as the band leader announced they were taking a break. I led Louise back over to where everyone else was seated. The stewardesses had left by then.
Chapter 5
1198 Sacramento Street
Wednesday, October 12, 1955
Just before 8 in the morning
Once we were done with breakfast, I walked into the office in the front of the house and had a seat at my desk. I picked up the phone and dialed 113.
"Information. What city?"
"Mill Valley."
"For what listing?"
"Residential. Last name Grossman. First name David. I don't have an address."
"One moment."
I could hear the operator turning pages. After about ten seconds, she said, "I have your number, sir."
I picked up the pencil by the phone. "Go ahead."
"Dunlap 8-3332."
As I wrote that down, I asked, "Could I have that address, as well, Operator?"
"Certainly. It's 26 Cornelia Avenue."
"Thank you."
"Shall I connect you?"
"Yes, thanks."
"My pleasure."
After a couple of clicks, I heard the sound of the phone ringing on the far end. After about five rings, a female voice said, "Hello?"
"Mrs. Grossman?"
"Yes," she said warily. "Who is this?
"
"It's Nick Williams in San Francisco."
"Yes, Mr. Williams." Her voice suddenly had a note of hope in it. "Do you have any news for us?"
"Yes. The folks at Bechtel were expecting your husband to be back at work yesterday."
"Yes."
I was expecting her to explain why she hadn't mentioned that when we'd met the day before, but she didn't say anything, so I said, "It seems like your husband did arrive at the airport on Monday afternoon. One of the stewardesses on the flight talked to him. He told her he was looking forward to surprising you."
She didn't say anything for a long moment.
"Mrs. Grossman?"
"Yes, I'm here." I could hear her take in a deep breath. "What else?"
"Well, there was a man on the flight who the stewardesses seemed to think was making your husband nervous. The man talked once to your husband and one of the stewardesses saw him, your husband, that is, wipe his face with his handkerchief afterwards. Does that mean anything to you?"
She sighed. "Yes. David always does that whenever he feels backed into a corner. He's a terrible poker player. Everyone knows that about him."
"Any idea what might have made him feel that way about this man?"
"I have no idea, Mr. Williams."
"When he got off the plane, he was met by someone outside the terminal who appeared to lead him away. One of the stewardesses thought it might have been someone from the F.B.I. Do you know anything about that?"
"No, Mr. Williams." Her voice was suddenly tense.
"Are you sure?"
"Quite." Her voice was sharp.
"I see." I waited to see if she would tell me what she suspected. After about three beats, I said, "I'll check in with you later today and let you know what else I find. Call me at my office if you have anything you want to tell me."
"I can't imagine what that might be."
Ignoring that, I asked, "Do you have the number?"
"Prospect 7-7777."
"That's it. Thank you—" Before I could finish, the line went dead. I put the phone receiver back on the hook and sat back in my chair. As I looked out the window that faced Sacramento Street and Huntington Park, I heard Carter walk into the office.
"How'd she take it?" he asked.
I stood and looked up at him. "She knows something but either didn't want to tell me over the phone or just plain didn't wanna tell me."
He asked, "We going to the airport before we go to the office?"
I nodded.
"Since your car is at the office, we'll have to take mine."
I nodded again. I was waiting for what was coming next. I could see it on his face.
He tilted his head and sighed. "You're gonna be in so much trouble with Mike."
I grinned and nodded again. "Yep."
Chapter 6
Offices of Trans World Airlines
San Francisco International Airport
Wednesday, October 12, 1955
A few minutes before 9 in the morning
"What can I help you with, gentlemen?"
It had taken a while, but we'd finally tracked down Bill, the man Irma had mentioned the night before. His name was William Merritt. He stood about 5'9", had blond hair and washed-out blue eyes, and was trim. I pegged him at about 35. He was obviously one of us and was grinning from ear to ear as he looked Carter up and down.
Carter, taking advantage of the situation, leaned down on the counter and said, "We're hoping you can help us find the name of a passenger on Monday's flight 35."
Bill licked his lips and replied, "I'm not really supposed to give out that kind of information."
I watched as Carter cut his eyes at the other person in the small room, a gal who was filing papers in a large cabinet.
Bill cleared his throat. "Wanda?"
"Yes, Mr. Merritt?"
"Can you go find those replacement ribbons I asked you about yesterday? Try the ticket counter. I bet Mr. Kompski can tell you where to find some."
Wanda looked at me and rolled her eyes. She was probably all of 25 and seemed to have the whole story already scoped out. Her reply was perfectly professional, however. She said, "Yes, Mr. Merritt. I'll be right back."
"Oh and feel free to take your coffee break in the terminal, if you want," added Bill. "In fact,"—he pulled out two quarters and put them on the counter—"can you bring me one of those sticky rolls?"
She walked over and picked up the quarters. Rolling her eyes at me with a grin, she marched out and was gone.
"Now, then," said Carter, "about that passenger."
I walked over to the far end of the room and looked out the window. I could see a maintenance hangar off in the distance. There were two planes being looked at. One was a Super Connie and the other was a DC-6.
"What was the name?" asked Bill. His voice was full of innuendo.
"I don't have the name, I'm afraid. But I have his seat number. It was 7A." Carter was slathering on the honey in his voice.
"That's fine. Let me take a look at something."
As much as I wanted to watch what was happening behind me, I kept my eyes glued on the maintenance hangar. I was afraid to move. I didn't want to break the trance that Carter was weaving around the man. I heard a drawer open, some papers rustle around, and then a drawer close.
"Here we go. Flight 35 from Chicago Midway on Monday the tenth. Let me see. 7A." He tapped what sounded like a pencil on the counter. "Ah, yes. Mr. Zinger."
"Zinger?" Carter didn't sound convinced.
"Yes, Arthur Zinger. The manifest says New York City. Does that help?"
"Well," said Carter. He used no less than three syllables to string out the word. I really wanted to turn and look but I was determined to watch the two maintenance crew members who were very interested in something they were looking at under the belly of the Super Connie.
"Let me call Kansas City. Hold on."
"Thank you, Bill. That's mighty nice of you."
"Not a problem, Mr. Jones." Bill's voice cracked a little as he spoke. I figured he was licking his lips again. I heard him pick up the phone and say, "Give me Kansas City Operations." After a moment, he said, "Thanks, hon."
While I watched, a third man in a navy suit walked over to where the two men were looking at the belly of the plane. One of the maintenance men pointed to something I couldn't see. The man in the suit looked up and reached inside the hold. After a moment, two more maintenance men, both abandoning the DC-6, walked over and stood behind the first two maintenance men. A second man in a suit came along about a minute later. As I watched him look at what the first man in the suit was pointing at, I heard Bill begin to speak.
"This is William Merritt at the San Francisco flight desk. I need to talk to Harold Oberman." After a brief pause, he said, "Sure."
The crowd of six men all tried to squeeze in to see what the first man in the suit was looking at. One of the original maintenance men broke away from the group and trotted off to an office door just to the right of the hangar.
"Harry, it's Bill. How are you?" Two beats. "You'll never guess who I'm talking to, right now." One beat. "Carter Jones. You know. The —" One beat. "That's right. That's the one." Two beats. "Oh yes. Much more than you would think." Two beats. A giggle. "I know. Look, hon, I have a favor. Well, Mr. Jones has a favor." Two beats. Another giggle. "Sure. He wants to talk to you."
Carter said, "Harry? This is Mr. Jones."
Just as he said that, two things happened in the hangar. All the men who'd been looking at the Super Connie began to run away from the plane and out onto the tarmac. At the same time, a firetruck siren started off in the distance.
"We're trying to track down a passenger on your flight 35 on Monday. His name is Arthur Zinger from New York. I need any other information you can give me."
Right then, a yellow firetruck came around the far side of the hangar and moved into place in front of the plane. The five men who'd run away were gathered near the office door. The sixth man, accom
panied by two other men in suits, walked out of the office and stood next to them. They all watched as the firemen did something. I couldn't see what they were doing because the firetruck was blocking my view.
"I know." Carter was spreading honey again. "That's real sweet of you, Harry." He was practically purring into the phone. After a moment, I heard him laugh as if Harry had just said the funniest thing Carter had ever heard. I recognized that laugh. There was nothing real about it but it sounded convincing.
"Sure, I'll wait."
Just then, two firemen brought some sort of box around the firetruck, carrying it between them. They carefully put it down on the tarmac about twenty feet away from the truck. They then ran away from it, joining the crowd of men who'd been watching them.
"Let me repeat that back to you. 654 Park Avenue, Apartment 12-B. Murray Hill 7-8821. Thank you, Harry."
I began to get a knot in my stomach. The group of men began to back away from the small box on the tarmac, heading around the side of the hangar as a group.
For some reason, and without knowing why, I ducked down. Two beats later, there was a flash and a loud explosion. The window above me cracked but didn't break.
"What the hell was that?" asked Bill.
I stood and looked through the cracked window as Bill and Carter ran over to where I was standing. The box had obviously exploded. There must have been some paper inside because it looked like a ticker-tape parade was happening outside as little bits and pieces flew around in the morning sun.
The men in the group were all running towards where the box had been. All that was left was a charred patch on the tarmac.
Chapter 7
Offices of Consolidated Security
Wednesday, October 12, 1955
A few minutes past 10 in the morning
We walked off the elevator and into the main part of the office. As we came around the corner, I could see Marnie talking on the phone. As soon as she saw me, she said, "Never mind, Gustav. They're here." She put down the phone and said, "You're late."
"I know," I said, as Carter and I walked past her and into my office. At the far end of the room, I could see Kenneth and Benjamin. With them was Theodore "Teddy" Higginbotham, the United States Attorney for the Northern District of California. They were all standing at the window, looking down at Market Street. Sam was seated in a chair by the sofa and looking at his fingernails. Mike was leaning against the wall, watching the three lawyers, and looking annoyed.
The Childish Churl (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 15) Page 4
