The first thing I did was to check my answering machine. Up until the beginning of this year, I had subscribed to a regular service; but then inflation had forced them to raise their rates, and that in turn had forced me to go out and buy the machine. It was something I should have done years ago, maybe, except that I had an old-fashioned outlook on the conventions of the private detecting business.—I suppose because I identified strongly with the fictional eyes and cops in the pulp magazines I had read and collected for more than thirty years. I had always wanted to emulate the Spades and Marlowes and Race Williamses, and if that was childish and self-deluding, as a woman named Erika Coates had once claimed, then so be it. It was my life and the only person I had to justify my feelings to was myself.
I did not expect to find anything on the machine: I list my home number on my cards and in the phone book in case anybody decides on the weekend that he needs a private investigator, reasonable rates, strict confidence at all times. But I had had at least one call because the little window on one corner had a round white spot in it. I worked the controls and listened to my voice play back the message I had recorded. Then a woman’s businesslike voice said, “Yes, this is Mrs. Laura Nichols. Would you please call me as soon as possible?” She gave a number, repeated it—and that was all.
I wrote the name and number down on a pad. Then I went over and fiddled with the steam radiator until the pipes began banging and thumping. Took my coffeepot into the alcove, emptied out the dregs of last Friday’s coffee, filled it with fresh water from the sink tap in there, and put it on the hotplate to heat. Morning ritual.
Sitting at the desk, I opened the letter from my landlord. It said what I expected: my rent was being raised thirty dollars a month, effective December 1. No explanation, no apology. Nice. Some time ago the California voters had passed the Jarvis-Gann tax-reform initiative, Proposition 13, which gave property owners a 60 percent tax cut per annum; and ever since the governor had made a lot of noise about owners passing on some of that savings to renters. Result: a thirty-dollar increase on an office in the goddamn Tenderloin.
I threw the letter into the wastebasket. The thing with Christine Webster and my business card had already made it a lousy Monday; this was just the icing. Well, maybe Mrs. Laura Nichols, whoever she was, had something positive to offer. Like a job. I had not worked at anything in five days and I needed both the activity and the money.
So I pulled the phone over, dialed the number I had written down. While I waited I sat looking at the poster blow-up of a 1932 Black Mask cover that I had tacked up on one wall. It was not exactly appropriate for a business office, but I liked it and that was what counted. Eberhardt, on one of his infrequent visits here, had said that it made the place look like something out of an old Bogart movie. Me and Bogie and Sam Spade—
The same businesslike female voice said hello in my ear. I asked, “Mrs. Nichols?” and she said yes and I identified myself.
“Oh, yes—good. Thank you for calling.”
“How can I help you, Mrs. Nichols?”
“Are you free to accept a confidential job? It would be on a full-time basis for at least two weeks.”
“Yes, ma’am. Depending on what it involves, of course.”
“It’s a rather delicate family matter, concerning my brother. I’d prefer not to discuss the details on the phone, but it isn’t anything unseemly. We can discuss it at my home, if you don’t mind driving out. I’m sure it will be worth your time.”
“When would you like me to come?”
“As soon as possible,” she said. “The address is 2519 Twenty-Fifth Avenue North. In Sea Cliff.”
I raised an eyebrow. Sea Cliff is a synonym for money in San Francisco; you don’t live there unless your yearly income is around six figures. “I can be there within the hour,” I said.
“Fine. I’ll expect you.”
She rang off, and I cradled the handset, gazing again at the Black Mask poster. Full-time job for at least two weeks, working for a lady in Sea Cliff? It was the kind of thing that always happened to the pulp private eyes, but that happened to me about as often as a woman who said “yes” on the first date. So there figured to be a catch in it somewhere that I was not going to like. The last time I had worked for a rich client—one of the few times in my career—I had wound up in the hospital with a knife wound in my belly. I still had the scars, one you could see and one you couldn’t.
But then, why expect the worst? Maybe it was all going to be fine; maybe for a change I was going to get a break. I stood up and poured myself a quick cup of coffee. Then I locked the office and went down and out to pick up my car.
THREE
Twenty-five nineteen Twenty-Fifth Avenue North turned out to be a massive beige stucco house separated from its neighbors by a lot of bright green lawn. Its architecture was so old-California Spanish that it looked as if it belonged in Los Angeles instead of San Francisco: red-tile roof, decorative wrought-iron balconies framing all of the windows, front portico with a black-beam archway, wall patterns here and there done in four colors of mosaic tile. There were even mosaic tile inlays in the series of terraced steps that led up from the street.
I parked in front and climbed the steps. The rain had stopped, but the morning was still damp and dismal-gray with overcast; the wind here was blustery, knife-edged. Behind and on both sides of the house you could see the broad choppy sweep of the ocean and the entrance to the Bay, and through the low clouds the towers of the Golden Gate Bridge, the brown hills of Marin, the cliffs at Land’s End. The view would be spectacular on a clear day, which was what made the Sea Cliff area prime real estate; even now it was pretty impressive.
A big brass knocker shaped like a lion’s head sat in the center of the front door, but I found a doorbell button and used that instead. Chimes sounded faintly inside, faded to silence. Another ten seconds went by before a peephole above the knocker opened and an amber-colored eye peered out at me. A woman’s voice, different from the one on the phone, said “Yes?” in the tone people use on door-to-door salesmen.
I gave my name and added that Mrs. Nichols was expecting me.
Pause. “You’re that private detective.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Another pause. Then the voice said, “Just a moment,” and there was the scraping of a lock, the door opened, and I was looking at a tall slender woman in her early twenties. She had fine, pale-blonde hair cut short in the style we used to call shag and a pale sensitive face dominated by high cheekbones. The amber eyes were wide and striking. She wore one of those long button-down skirts that are supposed to be popular now, a white blouse and a little black knit vest.
“Come in, please.”
I went in. She shut the door, locked it again, waited for me to give her my coat, and then hung it away in a closet—all without smiling, speaking, or even looking at me. We went down a dark hall and through another of those Spanish archways into a living room. The floors were tiled and carpetless; my heels clicked so loudly that it made me a little self-conscious, the kind of feeling you get when you walk through a church or maybe a museum.
The young woman gestured to a large bulky sofa. “I’ll tell my mother you’re here,” she said.
“Thank you.”
She went away through the arch. I sat on the sofa with my hat on my knees and looked at the room. The Spanish effect seemed overdone, as if the people who lived here were trying too hard to create an atmosphere of old-world gentility. The antique furniture included a refectory table, a pigeonhole desk, several big chairs with flat wood arms and bare wood backs; a massive rococo chandelier hung from the ceiling. On the far side a set of narrow glass doors gave access to a patio that had a mosaic tile floor and a lot of bushes and plants growing out of brown urns. It was all dark and ponderous, a little depressing. There was not much color anywhere; even the old paintings on the walls were somber-hued. About the only modern things in the room were a stereo unit and a typewriter on the desk, and they s
eemed out of place.
I sat there for about two minutes. There was no sound anywhere, not even the ticking of a clock. Then I heard steps on the hall tiles, and got on my feet as a large handsome woman in her late forties or early fifties appeared at the arch. She came through it like a stockholder entering a board room: poised, purposeful, self-assured. A tailored green pants suit set off carefully coiffed blonde hair and the same amber eyes as her daughter, just a little darker under long curling lashes. There was a diamond as big as a grape on the ring finger of her left hand.
No smile from her either. She said, “I’m Laura Nichols,” and offered me her hand, then shook mine in the same businesslike way. Her eyes went over me in frank appraisal, but there was nothing in them or on her face to tell what sort of impression she was getting. She asked me to sit down, and when I did she went over and arranged herself in one of the heavy wooden chairs.
“Would you care for coffee? Tea?”
“Thanks, no.”
She nodded as if she approved of my answer. “Then I’ll get directly to the point,” she said. Her enunciation was careful and precise; I had the feeling that everything she did would be with care and precision. “I’ve asked you here because of my brother, Martin Talbot. He’s had a very unfortunate experience, you see.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Two nights ago, while he was driving back from a Los Angeles business trip, he fell asleep at the wheel of his car near South San Francisco. The car veered into another lane, struck another car and caused it to spin into an overpass abutment. Martin wasn’t hurt, miraculously enough, but one of the two people in the other car was killed.”
A very unfortunate experience, she’d said. That was some way of putting it.
Mrs. Nichols went on, “The driver of the second car, a man named Victor Carding, also escaped serious injury; it was his wife who died. Later, in the hospital, my brother insisted on seeing Carding and spoke to him alone for a minute or two. During that time the man called Martin a murderer, threatened his life, and then tried to attack him. Two interns came in and restrained him just in time.”
“You’re afraid Carding might try to carry out his threat—is that it?”
“Yes. He’s due to be released from the hospital today.”
“Have you talked to the police?”
“Of course. As soon as Martin told me.”
“And?”
“They seem to feel there’s nothing to worry about. When they spoke to Carding he told them he couldn’t remember threatening Martin or trying to attack him. He claims not to hold my brother responsible for what happened.”
“Well, that’s probably the case,” I said. “People do and say things in shock and grief that they don’t really mean.”
“Perhaps. But we can’t be certain of that. Carding is a construction worker, a common laborer; there’s no telling what a man like that is capable of.”
Common laborer, I thought. Why do people like her always use the word “common” as if there was some social stigma attached to being a blue collar worker? Christ, we’re all laborers of one kind or another.
I said, “What does your brother think?”
“That Carding would be justified if he chose to seek revenge.”
“I’m not sure I follow that, Mrs. Nichols.”
“You would have to know my brother to fully understand,” she said. “He’s an unusual man.”
“In what way?”
“In many ways. Our father was a banker, quite well-to-do, and when he passed on he left Martin and me a substantial sum of money. Martin refused to accept his share of the estate; it was his belief that he had no right to the inheritance because he hadn’t earned the money himself. He worked his way through college, received a degree in electrical engineering, and proceeded to follow his own path in life. He has been moderately successful, I’ll admit—”
She broke off because her daughter, silent as a wraith, had appeared in the archway. Mrs. Nichols gave her a somewhat annoyed glance and said, “What is it, Karen?”
“Do you mind if I come in?”
“I’m discussing a business matter, dear.”
“Yes—with a private detective. About Uncle Martin. I’ve a right to know what you’re planning, why you want a detective.”
Mrs. Nichols pursed her lips and looked at me. The look said that children really could be difficult at times, couldn’t they? I kept my expression stoic and attentive; I had no opinion on the subject of children. And none I cared to show about a mother who appeared to think of her twenty-odd-year-old daughter as a child.
“Oh, all right,” she said to Karen. “Come in, if you must. You won’t leave me alone, I suppose, until you do find out.”
The girl came inside and sat on one of the chairs at the refectory table—with her knees clasped together and her posture erect and her hands folded in her lap. I wondered if there were still such things as finishing schools. If so, Karen had no doubt been sent to one—whether she wanted to attend or not.
All of Mrs. Nichols’ attention settled on me again. She said, “As I was about to say, my brother is also the most moral man I have ever known. He lives by the strictest code of behavior imaginable; what is right is right, what is wrong is wrong, and there are absolutely no gray areas or extenuating circumstances. I’m sure that’s why he’s still a bachelor at forty-four; he simply never found a woman who measured up to his standards.”
I said, “He feels guilt over the accident, then?”
“That is an understatement. He has barely slept since it happened, eaten almost nothing, and hasn’t gone back to his job or even left his house except for short walks around the neighborhood. He considers himself to be just what Carding called him: A murderer. His ‘negligence’—his word, not mine—caused the death of another human being. He even expressed the desire to stand trial for manslaughter; thank God that isn’t legally possible. The point is, if Victor Carding attempted to harm him, I doubt Martin would try to prevent it. He is altogether on Carding’s side on the matter, if you see what I mean.”
“Yes,” I said, “I see what you mean.”
“In view of that, it’s my duty to have him protected. That’s why I called you.”
I frowned at her. “You want me to act as his bodyguard?”
“Essentially, yes.”
“Why would he consent, feeling as he does?”
“He wouldn’t, if he knew about it.”
“If he knew about it?”
“Martin lives across the street from Stern Grove; you can see his house from inside the park, front and back. What I want you to do is watch the house for any sign of Carding and also to follow Martin whenever he goes out walking. He’s a compulsive walker, you see; and of course he refuses to ever drive a car again.”
I knew there’d be a catch, I thought. Damn, I knew it.
I shifted on my chair. I had been offered a lot of different jobs over the years, not a few of them of the screwball variety, but this was something new out of left field. Bodyguard-from-a-distance. Christ. People get the damnedest ideas into their heads.
Karen apparently had a similar reaction. She said, “I don’t think that’s a very good idea, mother.”
“Don’t you, now?”
“No. Victor Carding isn’t going to come after Uncle Martin; I don’t believe that. But even if he did, what could this man do about it?”
“I’m afraid your daughter’s right, Mrs. Nichols,” I said. “Carding could just ring the doorbell and attack your brother when he answers; there wouldn’t be time enough for me to stop him. Or he could let Carding inside, of his own free will. In that case I couldn’t just break in—not without a hundred-percent certainty that an attempted murder was about to take place. I’m a private investigator, not a police officer. I don’t have any more rights than you or any other private citizen.”
“Don’t you suppose I’m aware of all that?” Mrs. Nichols said. Her voice was cool, almost patronizing, as if she felt now that
she was dealing with a pair of “children” instead of just one. “But there might be something you could do. You might be able to prevent another tragedy. If no one watches over Martin, then no one can prevent anything from happening in an emergency.”
She more or less had a point. But I said, “You’d want me to keep this watch on your brother for at least two weeks?”
“Yes. If nothing were to happen in that time, I would feel satisfied that Carding’s threat was meaningless.”
“Would you want a full twenty-four hour vigil?”
“Certainly.”
“That’s a three-man job,” I said. “I’d have to hire two other operatives and pay them full salary.”
Karen said, “You know what he’s saying, don’t you, mother? It would cost a small fortune—”
“I know what it will cost.” There was frost in the lady’s voice now; she did not like to be argued with. “The expense is of little importance. Your uncle’s safety is all that matters.”
“I still don’t think it’s a good idea—”
“I don’t care what you think, young woman. And I’ll thank you to be quiet from now on or else leave the room.”
Karen glanced at me, looked back at her mother, and then lowered her eyes to her folded hands. I thought I saw her lips form words, thought I recognized what they were; but it was difficult to be sure with her head bowed and the lighting in there. If I was right, though, the words explained a good deal about her side of this mother-daughter relationship.
Labyrinth (The Nameless Detective) Page 2
