by Gores, Joe
‘When he did, Uncle Griff should have been sitting in Dave’s Barber Shop on McAllister and Fillmore, waiting for a Mr Hambledon to show up with some hot mining stock tips. Dave’s Barber Shop isn’t a place Uncle Griff ever goes.’
‘That wouldn’t be Mr Dashiell Hambledon, would it?’
‘The very same. Incognito for this important occasion.’
In crisp sentences, he outlined what had happened at Pronzini’s the night before, to appropriate comment and a lot of chuckles from the op. Finally he stood up and put on his hat.
‘How does the interrogation of the police brass look?’
‘An Inspector O’Keefe sounds brittle. And I think the lieutenant on the take from Molly is starting to get religion. I’ve got both of them coming back tonight. I’ll be taking them on myself. Want to sit in?’
‘Let me call you later.’ From the door, he asked, ‘What did the Pinks have to say about Tokzek?’
The op snapped his fingers. ‘Good you asked. Meinbress didn’t know me, so he wanted to check with some of the other boys before he looked in the files for—’
‘Meinbress?’
‘He took over as Resident Sup. when Geauque went out. I’m supposed to call him this afternoon, and he’ll give me whatever they have on him.’
When Hammett walked up the hill from a Geary Street car three hours later, Preacher Dan Laverty was leaning against the side of a dusty parked Reo, arms folded on his chest. He was talking with the wispy Frenchwoman who ran the hand laundry in the streetlevel shop below Hammett’s apartment building.
She went back inside with a dissatisfied look on her face when Hammett arrived. The Preacher faced Hammett squarely. He was troubled, his hard cop’s eyes worried.
‘Ah . . . Iook, ah, Dash, what do I hear about you being mixed up in this thing last night at Dominic Pronzini’s joint?’
‘The tong binders?’ Hammett shrugged. ‘I had to put pressure on Pronzini, and they were the only people in town I could think of who wouldn’t be scared to go up against him.’
‘Yeah-h-h . . .’ Laverty was hesitant, oddly unsure of himself. He began, ‘Dash, I want to . . .’ He stopped and shook his head. He sighed. In a tired voice, he asked, ‘What made you want to pressure Pronzini anyway? Why do you think he had anything to do with Vic’s death?’
Hammett ticked off his points on his fingers.
‘Vic called me that night, around one o’clock, from the YMCA on The Embarcadero. He was given directions and the password to Pronzini’s joint at the cigar store in the Hotel Commodore. With that, I went after Pronzini. He admitted, to me, that he fed Vic a Mickey. He admitted that he called Griff Mulligan. He admitted that someone came around to take a look at Vic. But he claimed that the last he saw, Vic was alive.’
‘You believe that?’
‘It might be the truth. But I know damned well it was his boys who dumped Vic’s body behind the Southern Pacific station.’
The sunlight had finally broken the noonday fog to move Laverty’s shadow, black and hinged in the middle, around on the sidewalk and up the tan bricks of the apartment building as he shifted position. In a thickened voice, he said, ‘I’d like to get that devil’s hound Pronzini down in the basement of the Hall of Justice for an hour. We’d find out the truth.’
‘Mulligan Bros would have him out of there on bond before you could work up a good sweat. And if you took him to a station house instead of the Hall, that White Top cab parked outside their shop on permanent call would deliver the bond before you could get him booked.’
Laverty nodded. The brief flash of fire within him had died. He asked, ‘Where’d you get the chinks?’
‘One of the big wineys in Chinatown owed me a favor.’
Laverty jerked his head in assent and went back to his black Reo. Seeing the car reminded Hammett. He leaned an elbow on the edge of Laverty’s open window. ‘Dan, you’ve seen the coroner’s report on Egan Tokzek by now. Was the guy coked up?’
‘To the eyeballs. C-and-M crystals. Still had the snuffbox in his watch pocket. Damned lucky for me he was, he emptied a .44 at me without hitting anything but glass.’
Hammett watched Laverty’s car go down Post Street, then stood unmoving for a full minute after it had disappeared. Egan Tokzek was a dope addict, longtime, habitual, as Pronzini had intimated. And he’d been on the hop the night of his death.
Which didn’t make any sense at all, unless . . . Yeah, unless you turned it around. Considered the fact that he was a rumrunner for Pronzini, and that Pronzini brought most of his Canadian booze into Bolinas. Obscure excitement moved through him, feeding on half-understood . . .
He crossed quickly to Dorris Auto Repair and called the Townsend Hotel for Jimmy Wright. Dammit, by this time Jimmy should have heard something from Pinkerton’s on Tokzek.
‘Did you call?’ he asked without preamble.
‘Yeah. And from the tone of your voice I ain’t going to surprise you much to tell you that Heloise Kuhn, your fat dame up in Marin, is Egan Tokzek’s sister.’
‘Good, good,’ said Hammett rapidly. ‘Sure. What I thought. I kept trying to remember her from two hundred pounds back. She was a looker, was collared on a Mann Act rap, right?’
‘In 1916, right. Pinkerton’s made the collar in a white slavery case, and Tokzek drew five years – although it’s the sister who sounds like bad medicine. He got out in twenty-one.’
‘What were they supposed to be doing?’
‘Supplying Oriental girls to Colosimo’s house in Chi-town.’
‘Wasn’t Johnny Torrio running the house then for Big Jim?’
‘Torrio. Right.’
‘And when he retired, the Scarface took over,’ muttered Hammett to himself. He raised his voice. ‘Better count me out tonight, Jimmy, on those interrogations. I’m going to be busy.’
‘You have all the fun,’ grumbled the op.
Hammett laughed and hung up and dropped another nickel and asked for DOuglas 6400. He was lucky enough to catch George Biltmore in.
‘Well. Hammett.’ He sounded slightly uneasy.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘How’s my credit after Sunday’s performance?’
Biltmore’s heavy, relieved laugh boomed out. ‘With me, A-one. But May wouldn’t be too delighted to see you again. Since she obviously can’t blame the grieving widow, she’s blaming you.’
‘Yeah, well, I brought the booze. How’s that chauffeur of yours in a brawl?’
‘Harry?’ The laughter boomed again. ‘He fought in the First Matabele War in ninety-three against the flower of Lobengula’s warriors. Lost his eye in the Battle of Imbembese.’
None of which meant too much to Hammett; he hadn’t been born until a year later. ‘Think he’d be willing to drive me somewhere tonight?’
‘Promise him action, he’ll be there.’
‘Nine thirty ferry in Sausalito,’ said Hammett. ‘He can pick me up at the slip. It wouldn’t hurt to bring a gun if he’s got one handy, although I don’t expect shooting.’
‘You don’t need another man, do you?’ There was a wistful note in Biltmore’s voice.
‘Your wife’s sore enough at me the way it is.’
24
It was the damnedest car Hammett had ever seen, a huge dark-green beast with a chest-high hood. Its owl-eyed headlamps were augmented by a searchlight mounted on a nickel stanchion on the right running board. A second set of folding windshields protected riders in the back seat.
‘What the hell is it?’ he asked Harry. The solid, compact chauffeur wore dark clothes and a soft knit cap instead of his uniform.
‘This is the new Cadillac four-passenger Sport Phaeton, sir,’ he said in his formal South African accent.
‘Make that Dash,’ said Hammett.
‘Very well, Dash. Sir.’
‘Have it your way.’
He had a hunch the South African was grinning.
The motor roared, then dropped to a throaty grumble. The car’
s interior had glossy burled walnut paneling and seats of pale hand-crushed leather.
Harry said, ‘If I could know where we’re going, sir . . .’
‘To rescue a damsel in distress on the Bolinas Road.’
‘Sir.’
The car slid smoothly away from the curb. A few miles out of Sausalito, they swung left into the Bolinas Road at Dolan’s Corner, where their lights briefly showed them a rundown country store. They had the crushed-gravel road totally to themselves at that time of night.
‘Whom might the damsel in distress be, sir?’
‘A fifteen-year-old Chinese ex-whore named Crystal.’
Harry was silent, digesting this.
‘We’re saving her from a fate worse than death, is it, sir?’
The big car began the climb out of the valley on a road that wound and twisted back upon itself through grove after grove of close-packed eucalyptus trees and then, quite suddenly, redwoods. They kept climbing this shoulder of the mountain that lay between them and the sea. Hammett checked his strap watch.
‘We ought to be there by eleven. Time I explained the setup, Harry.’
He did so as the Cadillac cleared the redwoods and rolled across windswept grassy hilltops clumped with genista and greasewood bushes. Far behind, across the black void of the bay, Hammet could see the twinkling lights of the city through the clear air. There was no fog.
‘I don’t quite understand why you think the missing girl might be held at the farmhouse here in Bolinas.’
Hammett explained the way he had been run off on his previous visit.
‘The way a bootlegger chases off someone snooping around his barn. We know there’s a connection between the girl and the woman, we know the girl was once kidnapped into the white slavery racket and taken to Illinois. We know the Kuhn woman and her brother were arrested for white slavery back in sixteen – picking up naïve Chinese girls through newspaper ads for domestics, and running them back to brothels in Burnham, Illinois. I think that all goes beyond coincidence.’
In hairpin turns the road made its descent along the face of the coastal hills toward Stinson Beach. The wind whipped and plucked at them as it poured up over the bluffs from the sea. Hammett was glad of his wool clothing and knitted cap in the open touring car.
‘But how would the Kuhn woman get her hands on Crystal at this time?’
‘On May twenty-seventh, Crystal apparently saw something in the papers that terrorized her so completely that the next afternoon she disappeared. Nobody’s seen her since. She might have come up here to hide, if she’d been told the house was now empty. Anyway, that’s what I hope we’ll find out.’
They had passed Stinson Beach, a crossroads store with a gas pump and a couple of houses, and had swung away from the coast toward the long lance of Pacific known as the Bolinas Lagoon. The Kuhn Farm was on the eastern shore of the lagoon.
‘What did she see in the papers that frightened her so?’
‘Again, I just don’t know. But I think it was an article about a man named Egan Tokzek who was killed in a running gun battle with police and had a dead Chinese girl in his car when they got him. Tokzek was the brother of Heloise Kuhn.’
Harry cut the lights and motor, and the sounds of the marshland night closed in on them. Carrunking frogs, sawing crickets, and trilling cicadas. The car motor creaked as it cooled. Harry took a gun from the pocket of his black horsehide coat and laid it on the pale leather seat. Hammett picked it up.
‘Holy Christ!’ he exclaimed, startled. ‘What kind of howitzer is this?’
‘A howdah gun, sir. Originally intended as a personal sidearm when hunting tigers from the back of an elephant. In case the beast leaped up on the elephant’s back with you—’
‘I can stick my fingers down the bore,’ said Hammett in awe.
‘Yes, sir. It fires a .577 Snider with eighty grains of black powder. Made by Wilkinson, the London sporting goods suppliers. Beyond about two yards it’s rather less effective than throwing a rock, sir, but—’
‘Yeah. But you’d hate to have it blow its nose at you, even so.’
Hammett walked up the grass ruts shoulder to shoulder with the South African. He was damned glad the case had brought him back here. He didn’t like the depth of terror this woman and her idiot son had opened in his psyche; he wanted to scab over the wound with a second confrontation.
When the house came into sight, they hunkered down. Harry brought his lips close to Hammett’s ear.
‘If I might say so, sir, I’m damned good as a red Indian.’
Hammett watched his bulky shape melt into the night. Strain as he could, his ear could catch no crackle of leaf or rustle of grass. He waited with the placidity of long hours spent in windy doorways, tailing suspects. He yearned for a cigarette, but otherwise . . .
To mind, abruptly, vividly, came the time Gloomy Gus Schaefer’s jewel gang had been traced to a roadhouse near Vallejo. Hammett had been sent in to learn where the Shapiro jewels, stolen in Minneapolis, had been hidden. He’d waited in the weeds like this for an hour, then tried to climb up the side porch to the second-story window of the room where the thieves were meeting. The drainpipe gave way and dumped him in the underbrush, bruised but unhurt. Shapiro’s men had searched for half an hour before . . .
A strong hand imprisoned his, with his .38, in his pocket. Harry, after a moment, took his own hand away. Red Indian was right.
‘Nobody on watch, sir,’ he said in almost normal tones. ‘Just that light in the living room. I checked the barn, also. No auto. The back door is locked . . .’
‘And the front porch creaks like hell, I noticed that the other day. Is there a pantry window?’
‘Locked, sir.’
‘That’s all right.’
When they were pressed up against the side of the house, they heard a high thin ululating whine through the wood. After a moment, Hammett chuckled and motioned the South African on. At the rear of the house he found the pantry window and took a roll of automobile friction tape from his pocket to lay three overlapping strips against the glass where the inside thumb-latch was. He tapped the tape twice with his gun butt, then peeled it away in one piece. He snaked a forefinger through the opening where the adhering glass had come away with the tape. He opened the lock.
‘Very handsome,’ breathed Harry.
‘Streets and houses, Harry. My kind of hunting.’
From another pocket, Hammett pulled a black woolen sock with a knot in it. From this he took a heavy square-cut oblong of brown laundry soap with which he waxed the tracks until the lower half of the window slid up easily and noiselessly.
Gun in hand, he slipped over the sill to the utter blackness of the pantry. Only the pale strip of light under the door was visible. He crouched and laid an eye to the floor. Nothing to trip over between him and the door to the kitchen.
They went toward it and through it.
The dim light came down the hall from the front room. At the far end of the hallway were the stairs to the second floor and a wide archway into the front room. Hammett slid an eye around the doorframe.
It was a barren room with dime-store shades, no drapes or curtains at the windows. The couch spilled horsehair from half a dozen rips. The kerosene pressure lamp that coned light down on the fat woman in the overstuffed chair needed pumping. The chair was so permanently sagged by her weight he could see the bottoms of half a dozen springs resting right on the floor beneath it.
Heloise had her head back and to one side and was snoring. Her mouth was open and her false teeth had slipped enough so one edge of the upper plate was visible.
Against the wall was a floor-model Silvertone radio receiver, the six-tube console model. One of the knobs on the cabinet door had been replaced with an acorn. From the radio came the thin whine Hammett had earlier identified as a dead station.
He stepped back into the hall, pointed at Harry and then into the room, then pointed at himself and up the stairs. Harry nodded. Hammett started u
p the inner edge of the stair treads, his .38 cocked and ready in his hand.
Nobody.
The bathroom held a claw-footed tub and a surprisingly modern low-tank closet toilet. The three bedrooms held only beds, chairs, and bureaus. The far one stank of Heloise and its bed sagged nearly to the floor.
In the middle room, Hammett was rewarded with several long glossy black hairs on a greasy pillow. He stood cold-faced for several moments, staring down at the circle of light from his flash: There were blond hairs, too. Andy, the idiot son. The bathroom clothes hamper yielded a pair of silk panties that would not have stretched around Heloise’s thigh.
He went back downstairs and into the living room.
‘The kid took her off somewhere, probably right after I was here last time. Somebody isn’t taking any chances.’
He didn’t bother to lower his voice. Heloise slumbered on, merely stirring in her sleep and making chomping noises. Spit had dribbled from the slack corner of her mouth.
Harry said in an almost apologetic voice, ‘Better let me have a bash at it, sir. I had a bit of experience at this sort of thing during my younger days in South Africa. Now, if we could just have a bit of dance music on the radio . . .’
Hammett twiddled the knob. ‘Ain’t She Sweet’ suddenly came from the instrument.
‘KPO. They go off the air in twelve minutes,’ he warned.
‘That’s time enough. Now turn it up sharply, sir.’
Hammett turned it up sharply, and backed away as a blaring voice began extolling the virtues of Iswan Ginger Ale. A hoarse shriek that did not come from the radio whirled him about.
Heloise bellowed again and tried to crowd her vast bulk back into the chair. Harry’s face was six inches from hers. His left hand was holding up his eyelid so the first thing she had seen upon being jarred from sleep was the moist empty pink socket the lid usually covered.
Harry straightened up. ‘That’s got you awake, then, has it?’ he shouted over the radio cheerily. He turned to Hammett with a quieting motion.
Hammett was glad to reduce the volume as Bob Nurok and the Ginger Ale Joys began rendering ‘Give Me a Ukulele and a Ukulele Baby.’
