Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 01/01/11

by Dell Magazines

  There was a kid in his twenties, black-rimmed glasses and a cowlick, wearing a sweater vest over a shirt and tie, at the desk. I showed him my card and told him I was a private dick on a case. He said his name was Matt Fisher. He said he was willing to help.

  “What time did you come on, Matt?”

  “Seven, sir. Seven A.M.”

  “I have a client whose car was stolen here last night. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Just after I came in, sir. Maybe seven-ten. A guy in big baggy pants with suspenders, wearing just his undershirt, sunglasses, and a big hat came to the office. He said he was Mr. Valdes from Two-oh-nine. Said his car had been stolen. I said I’d call the police and he could report it. I started to dial, and then he put his hand down on the cradle, broke the connection. He says maybe he was mistaken, don’t call the police yet. ‘Maybe my wife forget where she park it,’ he says. Then he went out.”

  “Can I look at the register?”

  “Sure.” He spun it partway around and slid it over to me. There was a Mr. and Mrs. P. Valdes checked into room 209. They listed a purple Mercury with the same plate number Mrs. Maldau had given me. “Did they have a reservation?” I asked.

  “No.” He shrugged. “It ain’t that kinda place, sir. Most of our business just stops in if they see the vacancy sign on. Anyhow, about eight o’clock, Mr. Valdes comes back in, said everything was fine. He turned in his key and paid cash for the room, which was six bucks. The lady stayed outside with her back to the window.”

  “Short Mexican broad? Dark hair? Kind of stocky?”

  He looked surprised. “Mrs. Valdes? No, she was tall, at least as tall as him. She was blond. From the back, it looked like she had a good figure.”

  I asked Matt if I could see room 209, and he said sure; he doubted it had been cleaned yet. I said better still, and he gave me the key.

  There was a concrete outdoor staircase with a black iron railing. I took the steps two at a time, and the seagulls on the roof took off. Room 209 was in a corner. When I opened the door, the room seemed hazy, as if the fog had settled in. I flicked the light switch and a small lamp on a bed table came on. Then I took a breath and realized the haze wasn’t fog, it was reefer smoke.

  The light on the bed table wasn’t strong enough to attract a baby moth, so I pulled open the curtain. One ashtray held light gray ash, the stubs of a couple of homemade smokes, and five or six Old Gold butts. In the wastebasket was an empty bottle of Paul Masson Ruby Cabernet. Two sticky glasses sat on the table, one with peachy lip prints. A soggy towel lay crumbled on the floor of the bathroom. I lifted the spread and blanket from the bed. The sheets were soiled with the lees of a good time.

  I could scoop up the dregs of the reefer and I could get prints from the glasses but what for? I was looking for a bent car. So I turned out the lights and stepped out onto the landing, pulling the door to 209 shut behind me.

  There was a view from the second level across the courtyard and down to the street. To the south, on Lombard, I could just make out some red, white, and green pennants strung on a line parallel to the street flapping in the breeze. Black lettering on a yellow sign read, “Used Autos ... Lopez Motors ... Autos Usados.”

  ---4---

  I was considering a prewar Packard four-door the size of a PT boat when a sharp-dressed man in his forties, maybe five or ten years older than me, with slick black hair and a waxed moustache stepped out of the trailer that served as an office. “That’s a posh machine you’re looking at there, sir. All the luxury options, and only thirty-one thousand miles on it. You could save a lot on that. I just got it in. Picked it up at an estate sale.”

  “Buenos días. Señor Lopez?”

  The sun was over my shoulder and now he shaded his eyes with his hand and took a closer look at me. I gave him a friendly but dumb grin. I’d tipped the front of my hat brim up, and I hoped that I looked like a rube.

  “Sí, Jorge Lopez. Do I know you, señor?”

  “No, I don’t think so, Señor Lopez, unless you’ve bought grapes in Santa Rosa. Ha, ha, ha.” I clasped his right hand with both of mine and started working it up and down like a pump handle. “My name’s Kennedy, Francis Kennedy. I’ve just moved to San Francisco. Cómo va el negocio?”

  “Bueno, señor. Habla usted español?”

  “Ha, ha, ha. Solo un poco, señor, un poco. I was in Spain.” I hung on to his arm a little longer.

  “Ah, España. See, I know you don’t talk Spanish like a Mexican. How can I help you? You want to take this Packard for a test drive? It gives a great ride.”

  “This? Oh, no. Actually, this is too big for me. I was thinking about a coupé.”

  Jorge Lopez was happy to oblige, and I let him walk me over to a ’41 DeSoto two-door. “Ah, Mr. Lopez, what I’m really looking for is a post-war design. I like the way they’re building the new bodies now.”

  Lopez agreed that I was a man of taste and style. He liked them, too. But he said, “Unfortunately, not many folks have traded in their post-war cars yet. I could show you a ’forty-eight Chevy Aero, but truly, that is just a pre-war car built after the war.”

  “Really, what I’m looking for,” I said, and my left eye picked up a little tic, “is a ’forty-nine Mercury.” There was a distinct pause.

  “No, señor. I don’t have that.” He leveled a steady gaze on me. ”That’s a new car. You go to Golden Gate Mercury.”

  “Oh, I did go there. I want a purple coupé. They said it’d be about two months to get one. It’s very popular. They can’t keep ’em in stock. There’s a waiting list.”

  “That’s too bad. Maybe you want to get a nice used car now. I got a ’forty-one DeSoto. Or you like a purple car? I got a nineteen forty Plymouth in purple.”

  “Last night I had dinner at Rosa’s,” I said. “You know it? It’s a Mexican restaurant over by the Mission. Good enchiladas. Anyhow, after dinner I saw this kid parked out there in a ’forty-nine Mercury so I talked to him. He said if I want one and I don’t want to wait, I should see George Lopez.” There went my eye tic again.

  “Must be some other Lopez. I’m sorry, I can’t help you, Mr. Kennedy.” He turned and walked towards the trailer.

  “Three grand, señor. Two thousand, seven hundred, the price of the boiler and three hundred berries because I want it now.” He stopped. “All in cash, of course.”

  Lopez turned around and hitched up his pants. “It’s true; I have some good connections in the auto business. Sometimes I can get a car outside of the channels that the new car dealers have to use. Let me talk to some people. You have a number where I can call you?”

  I had better than a number. I gave him a card for Francis Kennedy, Wholesale Grapes, and wrote my Old Vine office phone number on the back.

  ---5---

  I stopped for an early lunch at the Black Lizard Lounge, a place I knew south of Market. I went with the fried chicken, and had a half-bottle of ’45 Vosne-Romanée from Henri Jayer to wash it down. They often say that burgundies have a dumb period, when they shut down. I think the Jayer was playing dumb.

  After that, I went to Motor Vehicles and looked up the plate number Karin Maldau had given me. It checked out—a purple, two-door, 1949 V-8 coupé, registered to Agustin Maldau. He’d bought it only two months ago. I took down the serial number for the engine, and the Maldaus’ home address, which was in Sea Cliff near Baker Beach.

  Then I swung by police headquarters and looked at the police blotter for stolen cars. No ’49 Mercurys had been reported missing for the last two weeks. Finally, I picked up a cup of java and went back to my office to wait for Karin Maldau’s call.

  I had a hunch Lopez might call me, too, so when the wire buzzed at three-ten, I answered by repeating my phone number. It was Lopez, so I became Kennedy. He was all cheery, like any slick used-car salesman. Good news, maybe he could help me out, if I was still interested in doing business. I told him I was more than interested, I was eager.

  “I made some calls, Mr. Ken
nedy, and I think I’ll have your car late tonight.” He asked me if I could come by his place after nine.

  “I thought you closed at six,” I said.

  “Usually we close, but tonight, I’m gonna stay late and wait for you.” I said we could do it in the morning. Lopez said it was a very special deal and he preferred to do it when there wouldn’t be other people nosing around.

  I told him I had to get a ride over, so that I could drive my new car home. “How about ten o’clock?”

  “Okay,” he said, “but no later. And look, this is a special deal. That’s why I’m staying late. I don’t want everybody to know about it, so come alone. Have your friend drop you off down the street, and walk the last block. And bring cash. Three thousand.”

  “I get the pink slip and everything, right?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he said. “You get it all.” It sounded to me like we had an understanding, so I said I’d see him tonight.

  About fifteen minutes later, the phone rang again. This time it was Karin Maldau. “Mrs. Maldau, nothing definite yet, but I might have something for you later on this evening. I have a good lead.”

  “My husband has gone to Half Moon on business, Mr. Swiver. I expect him to spend the night. If you get the car back tonight, could you come by the house?”

  “Are you alone?”

  “I have a Chinese servant, but no one else is in the house tonight. We may rely on her discretion.”

  “Very well,” I said. “If things work out, I’ll call you, and then come out. It’ll be eleven or twelve.”

  “I look forward to seeing you then.” She hung up.

  ---6---

  I closed up shop at four-thirty and drove home. One leftover piece of roast pork, a couple glasses of Louis Martini’s Monte Rosso Zin, and three hours later, I put on some coffee. While it was brewing, I changed into some dark duds for the evening.

  By dusk, I’d had my java and, flashlight in hand, I headed out the back door. I walked eight blocks north on Octavia to Greenwich Street, then I turned left, staying a block south of Lombard.

  I arrived at Lopez’s lot at about ten minutes of nine, well after dark. I scrambled over the link fence and eased my way between the rows of cars toward the trailer, taking my time and staying in the shadows. About nine, I saw Lopez link a chain between two concrete posts on Lombard Street, then go inside his office. A half a minute later, the big lights on the back lot went out, though the small ones on the office stayed lit. And there she was, basking under a dim bulb behind the trailer, a ’49 Mercury coupé in dark purple.

  There were no plates on the car. I could check for the serial number, which I had with me, but I had an easier way to find out in the dark if this was the heap I was looking for. I had the keys.

  So I duck-walked between cars until there was no more cover, then I sprung across the open space the last fifteen feet, crouched by the passenger side of the Mercury, and slipped the key in the door. It worked. I got in, slid across, and put the key in the ignition. Pulling out the choke, I stepped on the clutch and pressed the starter. The V-8 roared to life and went into a fast idle. Don’t stall now, Swiver.

  I had the touch with the clutch and I slipped the tranny into first and wheeled around the trailer, heading for the Lombard Street gate. I saw Lopez open the trailer door and come down the wooden steps. He grabbed at the back of his head, and I realized he was wearing a rug and losing it in the excitement. Then he pulled a short revolver out of his waistband.

  I went over a curb to avoid the chain, spun right onto Lombard, and changed up to second. I’ll say this for that Merc—it took off like a goosed waitress. I swung left on Fillmore and pulled out the headlight switch. Easing in the choke, I took a sharp right on Bay. I swung right on Van Ness and started to cruise easy. No tail from Lopez’s joint. And it didn’t look like I’d awakened any cops. Grand theft auto. Two could play that game. I turned right on Pacific and headed back to Octavia and Lafayette Square. I pulled the Mercury up the drive, eased it into the garage, cut the motor, and had the garage doors shut before you could say Bonnie and Clyde. It was just nine minutes past.

  ---7---

  In the quiet of the garage, I could hear my heart beating. First thing I did was pull the hood release to see the engine on this baby. It was a flathead V-8, like you might find in any Ford, but it had three Holley carbs lined up down the middle of the V, instead of the standard Stromberg. Each carburetor had its own little cylindrical air cleaner, like a miniature gun turret, on top. I took out my pocket flashlight and compared serial numbers. It was indeed Agustin Maldau’s bus. Next the trunk.

  I found a man’s blue-jean jacket, a small black leather satchel, and a large canvas sack. I started with the jacket. ID in the breast pocket showed it belonged to Pacho Valdes of Oakland. Pacho had also left an envelope in the side pocket containing a small amount of marijuana and a package of Tip-Top cigarette papers.

  I opened the leather satchel next. It was stuffed with ten-dollar bills, banded in packets about a half-inch thick, maybe about fifteen packets. Things were getting interesting.

  The canvas bag was about a thirty-gallon sack, the size that holds fifty pounds of onions or potatoes. It was full of bricks, about two inches by six inches by ten. They were wrapped in brown butcher’s paper, and each one was tied with a pink string. I took out my knife and made a long slit in one. A pungent, grassy, and sagelike smell escaped. It was marijuana, leaves, sticks, stems, and seeds pressed into resinous bricks. I took a deep breath, then put my brick back in the sack, closed the trunk, and went inside.

  I sat down in the kitchen to think. I think well with a glass of zinfandel, so it was back to the Louis Martini bottle. At about ten, I called Karin Maldau.

  “Things are running smooth on my end. I’ve got your crate and I can bring it out, if you like.”

  “My car,” she said, “is everything okay?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You know, no damage? All intact?”

  “I didn’t see any scratches. The license plate’s gone. Everything else appears to be there. I’ll put my plate on and drive out there now.”

  ---8---

  The Maldau house was on 25th Avenue North, which I needed my city map to find. It was a big two-story house, and the breeze from behind it was salty, with a whiff of kelp.

  I parked in the drive, walked to the front door, and rang the bell. In a few seconds, the door flew open, and a short young Chinese bim stood there, looking inscrutable around the mouth and eyes, and damned exotic. “You come in,” she said. It was a welcoming invitation, yet with a hint of command. She backed up a couple steps and drew her red silk kimono closed, but not with any great modesty. Her legs were bare and lean, and a bit of slender brown thigh peeked out.

  “Missy Karin, she upstairs.” She moved her left arm up, pointed toward the center hall steps, then twisted her wrist and hand to indicate I should turn left at the top. I stood there looking a little dumb taking her in, so she said, “You go up.” Again, it had that mix of invitation and command. Again, she waved her hand pointing up, motioning for me to turn left. This time I took a good look down the wide opening of the short-sleeved kimono and saw enough to know she was naked under the little silk robe. She shut the front door behind us. Then she padded past me towards a downstairs room, hard calf muscles flexing, and I watched her long black mane dance left and right at the top of her butt cheeks with each step.

  I went up the stairs and turned left. There was a door ajar and I stepped into a bedroom with peach walls, lit by a low gas fire. A bed with a black spread, a dressing table and chair, and a chaise by the window were all of a sleek, modern design. I went over to the window and checked behind the curtain. At first I saw nothing but blackness, but soon I could make out the white curl of waves rolling up to the beach.

  A bathroom opened off the bedroom and that door was ajar too. I heard water draining. I cleared my throat.

  “Bao-yu, bring me my towel.” A peach-colored Tu
rkish towel lay on the bed, so I picked it up and stepped toward the voice. The tall blonde stood naked in the tub, very tall, very blond. Although she was light-skinned, there was nothing pasty or sallow about her. Her skin was taut and she looked as solid as a marble statue, especially in the long thighs. But she’d been worked over, and the surface of the fine marble was marked with red and purple swelling. I held out the towel, and she took it and rubbed off gently, just patting the bruised parts.

  “Someone’s hurt you,” I said.

  “More than one someone.” She wrapped the towel like a turban around her wet hair, and put out an arm for me to assist her. I helped her step out of the tub. Her right eye was swollen and mostly shut. Both eyes were black. Her upper lip was cut.

  “Come,” she said. “Tell me about the car. You brought it?” We went to the bedroom and she sat up tall at the dresser, facing the mirror and crossing her legs at the knees. I sat on the chaise where she could see me in the mirror. She began to powder her body.

  “I brought it. I can see now why you were willing to pay four hundred dollars to get a twenty-seven-hundred-dollar car back.”

  “You like the car?”

  “Oh, yeah. I like the car, but you’re paying me because of what was in the trunk.”

  “You found the pieces of luggage?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’ve got the money, and I’ve got the merchandise.”

  “Then you have saved my life, Mr. Swiver. What would you like to know? Ask me.”

  And so I did. I asked her about the dope, the dough, and Pacho Valdes. It seems Mr. Agustin Maldau was in the import business. Maldau sent his wife to meet the buyers, deliver the drugs, and bring back the jack. Pacho Valdes of Oakland was one such buyer. As far as Karin knew, Pacho was a big dealer across the bay.

  I learned that Mr. Agustin Maldau was a middle-aged man, twenty-four years older than his wife. They had been married five years. He used Karin in his business, and he used her as his wife. He liked to be seen with her, and he used her as an object. Karin wanted love. She wanted someone who would treat her like the vital young woman she was. Karin and Pacho had done business many times, and now, when he made a buy, she spent the night with him. It was one occasional night of pleasure in a drab existence, and her little revenge against Agustin Maldau, the man who used her.