"Take this down to the Delta Star steamboat and look about for a tall gentleman with a mustache and a fine head of bushy hair, a newspaperman from Nevada. When ye've found him, give him the watch and tell him Mr. Fergus O'Hara came upon it, is returning it, and wishes him a happy St. Patrick's Day."
"What's his name, mister?" the boy asked. "It'll help me find him quicker."
O'Hara could not seem to recall it, if he had ever heard it in the first place. He took the watch again, opened the hunting-style case, and saw that a name had been etched in flowing script on the dustcover. He handed the watch back to the boy.
"Clemens, it is," O'Hara said then. "A Mr. Samuel Langhorne Clemens . . ."
Chip
John Valarian felt as he always did when he came to St. Ives Academy—a little awkward and uncomfortable, as if he didn't really belong in a place like this. St. Ives was one of the most exclusive, expensive boys' schools on the east coast, but that wasn't the reason; he'd picked it out himself, over Andrea's objections, when Peter reached his eighth birthday two years ago. The wooded country setting and hundred-year-old stone buildings weren't the reason, either. It was what the school represented, the atmosphere you felt as soon as you entered the grounds. Knowledge. Good breeding. Status. Class.
Well, maybe he didn't belong here. He'd come out of the city slums, had to fight for every rung on his way up the ladder. He hadn't had much schooling, still had trouble reading. And he'd never been able to polish off all his rough edges. That was one of the reasons he was determined to give his son the best education money could buy.
He climbed the worn stone steps of the administration building, gave his name to the lobby receptionist. She directed him up another flight of stairs to the headmaster's office. He'd been there once before, on the day he'd brought Peter here for enrollment, but he didn't remember much about it except that he'd been deeply impressed. This was only his third visit to St. Ives in three years—just two short ones before today. It made him feel bad, neglectful, thinking about it now. He'd intended to come more often, particularly for the father-son days, but some business matter always got in the way. Business ruled him. He didn't like it sometimes, but that was the way it was. Some things you couldn't change no matter what.
The headmaster kept him waiting less than five minutes. His name was Locklear. Late fifties, silver-haired, looked exactly like you'd expect the head of St. Ives Academy to look. When they were alone in his private office, Locklear shook hands gravely and said, "Thank you for coming, Mr. Valarian. Please sit down."
He perched on the edge of a maroon leather chair, now tense and on guard as well as uncomfortable. The way he'd felt when he got sent to the principal's office in public school. He didn't know what to do with his hands, finally slid them down tight over his knees. His gaze roamed the office. Nice. Books everywhere, a big illuminated globe on a wooden stand, a desk that had to be pure Philippine mahogany, a bank of windows that looked out over the central quadrangle and rolling lawns beyond. Impressive, all right. He wouldn't mind having a desk like that one himself.
He waited until Locklear was seated behind it before he said, "This trouble with my son. It must be pretty serious if you couldn't talk about it on the phone."
"I'm afraid it is. Quite serious."
"Bad grades or what?"
"No. Chip is extremely bright, and his grades—"
"Peter."
"Ah, yes, of course."
"His mother calls him that. I don't."
"He seems to prefer it."
"His name is Peter. Chip sounds . . . ordinary."
"Your son is anything but ordinary, Mr. Valarian."
The way the headmaster said that tightened him up even more. "What's going on here?" he demanded. "What's Peter done?"
"We're not absolutely certain he's responsible for any of the . . . incidents. I should make that clear at the outset. However, the circumstantial evidence is considerable and points to no one else."
Incidents. Circumstantial evidence. "Get to the point, Mr. Locklear. What do you think he did?"
The headmaster leaned forward, made a steeple of his fingertips. He seemed to be hiding behind it as he said, "There have been a series of thefts in Chip's . . . in Peter's dormitory, beginning several weeks ago. Small amounts of cash pilfered from the rooms of nearly a dozen different boys."
"My son's not a thief."
"I sincerely hope that's so. But as I said, the circumstantial evidence—"
"Why would he steal money? He's got plenty of his own—I send him more than he can spend every month."
"I can't answer your question. I wish I could."
"You ask him about the thefts?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"He denies taking any money."
"All right then," Valarian said. "If he says he didn't do it, then he didn't do it."
"Two of the victims saw him coming out of their rooms immediately before they discovered missing sums."
"And you believe these kids over my son."
"Given the other circumstances, we have no choice."
"What other circumstances?"
"Chip has been involved in—"
"Peter."
"I'm sorry, yes, Peter. He has been involved in several physical altercations recently. Last week one of the boys he attacked suffered a broken nose."
"Attacked? How do you know he did the attacking?"
"There were witnesses," Locklear said. "To that assault and to the others. In each case, they swore Peter was the aggressor."
The office seemed to have grown too warm; Valarian could feel himself starting to sweat. "He's a little aggressive, I admit that. Always has been. A lot of kids his age—"
"His behavior goes beyond simple aggression, I'm afraid. I can only describe it as bullying to the point of terrorizing."
"Come on, now. I don't believe that."
"Nevertheless, it's true. If you'd care to talk to his teachers, his classmates . . ."
Valarian shook his head. After a time he said, "If this has been going on for a while, why didn't you let me know before?"
"At first the incidents were isolated, and without proof that Peter was responsible for the thefts . . . well, we try to give our young men the benefit of the doubt whenever possible. But as they grew more frequent, more violent, I did inform you of the problem. Twice by letter, once in a message when I couldn't reach you by phone at your office."
He stared at the headmaster, but it was only a few seconds before his disbelief faded and he lowered his gaze. Two letters, one phone call. Dimly he remembered getting one of the letters, reading it, dismissing it as unimportant because he was in the middle of a big transaction with the Chicago office. The other letter . . . misplaced, inadvertently thrown out or filed. The phone call . . . dozens came in every day, he had two secretaries screening them and taking messages, and sometimes the messages didn't get delivered.
He didn't know what to say. He sat there sweating, feeling like a fool.
"Last evening there was another occurrence," Locklear said, "the most serious of all. That is why I called this morning and insisted on speaking to you in person. We can't prove that your son is responsible, but given what we do know we can hardly come to another conclusion."
"What occurrence? What happened last night?"
"Someone," Locklear said carefully, "set fire to our gymnasium."
"Set fire—my God."
"Fortunately it was discovered in time to prevent the fire from burning out of control and destroying the entire facility, but it did cause several thousand dollars' damage."
"What makes you think Peter set it?"
"He had an argument with his physical education instructor yesterday afternoon. He became quite abusive and made thinly veiled threats. It was in the instructor's office that kerosene was poured and the fire set."
Valarian opened his mouth, clicked it shut again. He couldn't seem to think clearly now. Too damn quiet in there; he could hear a clock ticking som
ewhere. He broke the silence in a voice that sounded like a stranger's.
"What're you going to do? Expel him? Is that why you got me up here?"
"Believe me, Mr. Valarian, it pains me to say this, but yes, that is the board's decision. For the welfare of St. Ives Academy and the other students. Surely you can understand—"
"Oh, I understand," Valarian said bitterly. "You bet I understand."
"Peter will be permitted to remain here until the end of the week, under supervision, if you require time to make other arrangements for him. Of course, if you'd rather he leave with you this afternoon . . ."
Valarian got jerkily to his feet. "I want to talk to my son. Now."
"Yes, naturally. I sent for him earlier and he's waiting in one of the rooms just down the hall."
He had to fight his anger as he followed the headmaster to where Peter was waiting. He felt like hitting something or somebody. Not the boy, he'd never laid a hand on him and never would. Not Locklear, either. Somebody. Himself, maybe.
Locklear stopped before a closed door. He said somberly, "I'll await you in my office, Mr. Valarian," and left him there alone.
He hesitated before going in, to calm down and work out how he was going to handle this. All right. He took a couple of heavy breaths and opened the door.
The boy was sitting on a straight-back chair—not doing anything, just sitting there like a statue. When he saw his father he got slowly to his feet and stood with his arms down at his sides. No smile, nothing but a blank stare. He looked older than ten. Big for his age, lean but wide through the shoulders. He looks like I did at that age, Valarian thought. He looks just like me.
"Hello, Peter."
"Chip," the boy said in a voice as blank as his stare. "You know I prefer Chip, Papa."
"Your name is Peter. I prefer Peter."
Valarian crossed the room to him. The boy put out his hand, but on impulse Valarian bent and caught his shoulders and hugged him. It was like hugging a piece of stone. Valarian let go of him, stepped back.
"I just had a long talk with your headmaster," he said.
"Those thefts, the fire yesterday . . . he says it was you."
"I know."
"Well? Was it?"
"No, Papa."
"Don't lie to me. If you did all that . . ."
"I didn't. I didn't do anything."
"They're kicking you out of St. Ives. They wouldn't do that if they weren't sure it was you."
"I don't care."
"You don't care you're being expelled?"
"I don't like it here anymore. I don't care what the headmaster or the teachers or the other kids think. I don't care what anybody thinks about me." Funny little smile. "Except you, Papa."
"All right," Valarian said. "Look me in the eyes and tell me the truth. Did you steal money, set that fire?"
"I already told you I didn't."
"In my eyes. Up close."
The boy stepped forward and looked up at him squarely.
"No, Papa, I didn't," he said.
In the car on the way back to the city he kept seeing Peter's eyes staring into his. He couldn't get them out of his mind. What he'd seen there shining deep and dark . . . it must've been there all along. How could he have missed it before? It had made him feel cold all over; made him want nothing more to do with his son today, tell Locklear he'd send somebody to pick up the boy at the end of the week and then get Out of there fast. Now, remembering, it made him shudder.
Lugo was looking at him in the rear view mirror. "Something wrong, Mr. Valarian?"
At any other time he'd have said no and let it go at that. But now he heard himself say, "It's my son. He got into some trouble. That's why I had to go to the school."
"All taken care of now?"
"No. They're throwing him out."
"No kidding? That's too bad."
"Is it?" Then he said, "His name's Peter, but his mother calls him Chip. She says he's like me, a chip off the same block. He likes the name, he thinks it fits him too. But I don't like it."
"How come?"
"I don't want him to be like me, I wanted him to grow up better than me. Better in every way. That's why I sent him to St. Ives. You understand?"
Lugo said, "Yes, sir," but they were just words. Lugo was his driver, his bodyguard, his strong-arm man; all Lugo understood was how to steer a limo, how to serve the mob with muscle or a gun.
"I don't want him in my business," he said. "I don't want him to be another John Valarian."
"But now you think maybe he will be?"
"No, that's not what I think." Valarian crossed himself, picturing those bright, cold eyes. "I think he's gonna be a hell of a lot worse."
Opportunity
Coretti and I went to check the thing out.
The call had come in to the captain of detectives at eight thirty-five from an occasionally reliable department informant named Scully. We were logging reports in the squad room when the word came down. It had been a quiet night, like you can get in early winter; the sound of the wind and a thin rain snapping at the windows, and none of us relished the thought of leaving the warmth of the squad room. So we matched coins with the two other teams of inspectors on the four-to-midnight swing to see who would take the squeal. Coretti and I lost.
It didn't sound like much, but then you never know. A parlor collector for a string of bookie joints in Southern California had vanished with a substantial amount of weekend receipts. Scully didn't know how much, but since the betting had been unusually heavy at Caliente on Saturday his guess was six figures. Scully's tip, uncorroborated and filtering north on the grapevine, was that this Feldstein had beat it to San Francisco and gone into hiding in a tenement hotel near Hunters Point. The captain thought we ought to run a check.
Coretti and I rode the elevator down to the garage in the basement of the Hall of Justice and signed a check-out slip for an unmarked sedan. We drove out into the frigid, drizzling San Francisco night. The hotel Scully had named was off Third Street, in an area that was primarily industrial. At least it wouldn't be a long ride.
Neither of us had much to say. We'd been partners a long time and we didn't need a lot of conversation. The heater in the sedan made labored whirring sounds and threw nothing but cold air against our feet.
Coretti picked up Third at Townsend, followed it out over China Basin. I lit a cigarette as we passed over the bridge, and as soon as I exhaled smoke the pain in my stomach almost doubled me over on the seat. I jammed my hand under my breastbone and held it there, waiting for the sharpness of the seizure to subside so I could breathe again.
"Arne," Coretti said, "you all right?"
I fumbled out the bottle of prescription painkiller, swallowed some of it. It was strong stuff and it worked quickly. Pretty soon I said, "Yeah. Okay now."
"The ulcer again?"
"What else," I said.
"You take that medicine like it was candy. Doesn't seem to be helping much."
"It's mostly for the pain. Doc says I've got to have an operation. He's afraid the thing will rupture."
"So when you going in, Arne?"
"I'm not."
He gave me a sharp look. "Why not? Man, a perforated ulcer can kill you."
"I can't afford an operation right now. I'm up to my ass in bills. You've got a family, Bob. You know how it is."
"Yeah, I know how it is."
"Maybe next summer," I said. "The car loan'Il be paid off then."
"Does the captain know how bad the ulcer is?"
"No, and don't you tell him. I haven't even told my wife yet."
"You can't keep it a secret, Arne," Coretti said. "Some of the boys are beginning to notice these spasms you get. Captain's bound to find out. It'd be a lot easier if you told him yourself."
"You know as well as I do what it means if I tell him—disability. I can barely live on what I make now, Bob. How can I live on disability pay?"
"Just the same, you can't keep on this way. You look worn out. If
you won't go in for the operation, why not take some time off at least? You've got sick leave coming."
"Maybe you're right. I could use a rest."
"Sure I'm right," Coretti said. "And if I were you, I'd do some serious thinking about that operation. Talk it over with Gerry, too."
"Some R&R is all I need for now. I'll tell Gerry when the time comes."
"When you can't put the operation off any longer, you mean."
"Let's just drop the subject, okay? I don't feel like talking anymore right now."
It had begun to rain in earnest now. Coretti put the wipers on high. The bitter cold wind blowing in across the Bay whipped sheets of water across the windshield, and you could hear it howling at the windows of the sedan. I sat with my legs straight out in front of me to ease the gnawing in my stomach. I wished I were home in bed with Gerry's warm little body against my back.
Coretti made a left-hand turn, drove two blocks, made another turn. The hotel stood between a storage warehouse for an interstate truck line and an iron foundry, midway on the block. It was a three-story wooden affair, well over half a century old—a shambling reminder of another era. A narrow alley separated it from the iron foundry on the right.
We left the sedan's semi-warmth and hurried inside. The rain was like ice on the back of my neck. The lobby stank of age-must and disinfectant, the smell of death wrapped in formaldehyde. It was small, dark, sparsely furnished; no elevator, just a staircase leading to the upper floors. A desk paralleled the wall on the right. No one was behind it.
"Nice place," Coretti said, glancing around. "Homey, you know?"
From behind a closed door next to the desk came the sounds of a TV, the volume turned up high. We went over there and I knocked and pretty soon a rheumy-looking old character in a T-shirt and baggy trousers held up by three-inch-wide suspenders peered out at us.
"You the night clerk?" I asked him.
"Yep. Night clerk, night manager, handyman." He peered harder. "You fellas looking for a room? If you are, I got to tell you we—"
"Police," I said. We showed him our shields. "Inspectors Kelstrom and Coretti. We're here about one of your tenants."
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