“So far he had himself a perfect crime. He’d only have had to return to his cottage, get rid of the wig, stash the money, pick himself up a witness or two, and come back here and ‘find’ Speers locked up with the body. Under the circumstances he’d arranged, she would be the only one who could have committed the murder.
“What screwed him up was me showing up when I did. He heard me pounding on the door as he was working his trick with the filmstrip; he had just enough time to slip away into the woods before I broke in. But who was I? What had I seen and heard? The only way he could find out was to come back as soon as he’d dumped the wig and money. The fact that he showed up again in less than ten minutes means he didn’t dump them far away; they won’t be hard to find. There might even be a fingerprint on that filmstrip to nail your case down tight—”
Lauren Speers moved. Before anybody could stop her she charged over to where Craig was and slugged him in the face. Not a slap—a roundhouse shot with her closed fist. He staggered but didn’t go down. She went after him, using some of the words she had used on me earlier, and hit him again and tried to kick him here and there. It took Orloff, the security guy, and one of the patrolmen to pull her off.
It was another couple of hours before they let me leave Xanadu. During that time Orloff and his men found all the extortion money—$100,000 in cash—hidden in one of Craig’s bureau drawers; they also found the red wig in the garbage can behind his cottage. That was enough, along with my testimony, for them to place him under arrest on suspicion of homicide. From the looks of him, they’d have a full confession an hour after he was booked.
Just before I left I served Lauren Speers with the papers Brister had given me. She took them all right; she said it was the least she could do after I had practically saved her life. She also took one of my business cards and promised she would send me a check “as an appreciation,” but I doubted that she would. She was a lady too lost in alcohol and bitter memories, too involved in a quest for notoriety and revenge, to remember that sort of promise—running fast and going nowhere, as the comedian Fred Allen had once said, on a treadmill to oblivion.
I was too tired to want to drive all the way back to San Francisco, so I went up the coast as far as Big Sur and took a motel room for the night. I also bought myself a decent dinner in a place that overlooked the sea. Adam Brister would foot the bill for both as expense account items; I figured, after what had happened at Xanadu, that I was entitled.
Alone in my room, I tried to read one of the pulp magazines I keep in an overnight case with some toilet articles and a change of underwear, for motel stops such as this one. But I couldn’t concentrate. I kept thinking about Bernice Dolan lying there dead and bloody on the cottage floor, and about what her neighbor in the Cow Hollow apartment building had told me of Bernice’s passion for men and money. It was that passion, as much as Joe Craig, that had killed her. She had picked the wrong way to make herself rich, and the wrong man to share the wealth with. And the price she’d paid was as dear as they come.
I thought about Lauren Speers, too, and about Xanadu—the real one down the coast and the mythical one in the poem by Coleridge. “In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree.” Places of idyllic beauty, in both cases. The stuff of dreams.
But they were not the same. The dreams in the one I had just visited were of tinsel and plastic and pastel colors; of beauty measured by wealth, happiness by material possessions. Some people could find fulfillment with those dreams and in that place. Others, like Lauren Speers and Bernice Dolan, were not so fortunate.
For them, the pleasure domes of Xanadu were the stuff of nightmares.
ELEVEN
I got back to San Francisco at one o’clock on Thursday afternoon. The weather had turned cold and foggy; the Transamerica pyramid and the rest of the high-rise buildings downtown were wrapped in streamers of mist. The whole city looked insubstantial, almost surreal, as if it, too, were a mythical principality—the stuff of dreams.
I drove straight to Drumm Street, found a parking place not far from my building, and went in to find out if there had been any calls in my absence. There had been, a whole slew of them. The first four turned out to be anonymous; in each case the thirty seconds of tape following my recorded message on the answering machine were blank. The last five calls had been from Eberhardt, Charles Kayabalian, Kerry, and reporters I didn’t know on both the Chronicle and the Examiner. None of them said what they wanted, just that I should get in touch right away; Kayabalian and Kerry both sounded grim.
Now what the hell was going on?
Kayabalian was the first one I called. He came on five seconds after I told his secretary who was on the line. “I was beginning to think you’d gone underground,” he said. “Where have you been?”
“Down the coast on a business matter. I just got back. What’s up?”
“Haven’t you read the paper?”
“Which paper?”
“This morning’s Chronicle.” “No. Listen, Charles, what—”
“Go out and buy a copy,” he said. “Read the story on page two. Then call me back.”
Worried now, I hustled out and bought a Chronicle from one of the newspaper vending machines down the block. On the way back, I opened up the news section to page two. And then stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, with fog and people swirling around me, and started to shake with rage.
A three-column headline at the top of the page read: PRIVATE DETECTIVE ACCUSED IN BIZARRE HORNBACK MURDER.
The news story underneath said that Mrs. Edna Hornback, wife of the deceased, believed I was to blame for her husband’s death. She hadn’t come right out and told the reporter that she thought I had actually committed the murder, but the inference was there. The inference was also there that I was suppressing knowledge of the whereabouts of the more than one hundred thousand dollars allegedly stolen by Hornback from their interior design firm. Mrs. Hornback and her attorney, Ralph Jordan, were preparing a criminal-negligence suit against me, and she was quoted as saying, “I’m convinced a court trial will prove this man to be a menace to the people of San Francisco.”
The rest of the story rehashed my account of Hornback’s mysterious disappearance from Twin Peaks and the eventual discovery of his body in Golden Gate Park, and included a statement from Inspector Klein, who was in charge of the police investigation, to the effect that absolutely no evidence had been found linking me to the crime and that I was not under suspicion. There was also a summary of my involvement in what the reporter called “several sensationalistic homicide cases” in the past. The final paragraph allowed as how my record as a police officer and a private detective appeared to be exemplary, and that I had never before been accused of wrongdoing, but nobody was going to pay much attention to that. The damage had been done; I would look guilty as hell in too many cynical eyes.
I stormed back to the office, wadded up the paper, and hurled it at the wastebasket. Then, seething, I call Kayabalian back. “All right,” I said. “I read the goddamn story.”
“Take it easy,” he said. “It’s not quite as bad as it might seem.”
“Isn’t it? That crazy bitch might have put me <<
out of business. Who’s going to put their trust in me after a thing like this?”
“You’re not guilty of anything illegal or unethical. We’ll prove that. And we’ll get a public retraction.”
“By then it’ll be too late.”
“No, it won’t. I’ve already begun preparing a countersuit for harassment and slander. I’ll file it as soon as she and Jordan file theirs.”
I said, “Why the hell did she go to the newspapers with this? I thought she wanted to give me an opportunity to prove my innocence to her.”
“She changed her mind. Or her attorney changed it for her. I called Jordan as soon as I read the story; he said Mrs. Hornback tried to reach you several times yesterday, and when she couldn’t she called the police. They told her you’d gone out of town on a
nother case, so she decided you weren’t interested in following her terms. That’s when she went public with her accusations.”
She must have talked to Klein, I thought; I’d told him, when I rang up the Hall before leaving yesterday morning, that I was going away to serve a subpoena for a client. Damn him. Damn her. I sat there with a stranglehold on the receiver and wished it was Mrs. Hornback’s neck instead.
“What am I supposed to do now?” I asked. “Just sit back and wait and let her drag my name through the mud whenever she feels like it?”
“There’s not much else you can do,” Kayabalian said. “I warned Jordan he and his client were skating on thin ice; I think he knows that, and I think he’ll keep her under wraps.”
“What about the newspapers? I’ve got two calls from reporters on my answering machine already.”
“Don’t duck them. Prepare a statement denying Mrs. Hornback’s charges and mentioning the countersuit. Stand on your record.”
“Yeah,” I said. “All right.”
“And don’t bad-mouth her or call her insane when you talk to the press. That wouldn’t help your position any.”
“All right.”
“And whatever you do, don’t contact her. From now on, under any circumstances, avoid her like the plague.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “As far as I’m concerned, she is the plague.”
As soon as we rang off I called the Hall of Justice and asked for Eberhardt. But he was out somewhere on a case and wasn’t expected back until late afternoon. I left a message for him that I would be in my office until five o’clock. Klein was off duty, but I got through to another inspector I knew; he said, predictably, that nothing new had turned up in the Hornback investigation.
My next call was to Bates and Carpenter. Kerry wasn’t in, either. Still out to lunch, her secretary said. I restrained an impluse to ask if it was another business lunch with Jim Carpenter; in stead I left the same message for her that I had left for Eberhardt.
Calling the Chronicle and Examiner reporters was something I did not want to do, not yet; I would need to prepare a statement first. So I dialed Adam Brister’s number. He was at his desk, and he listened attentively while I told him what had happened at Xanadu. After which he expressed the proper shock and dismay, but without any real sense of caring; the important thing to him was that the papers had been served on Lauren Speers and he stood to make a bundle out of her alleged negligence. He did express a professional curiosity in my own pending negligence suit— like everyone else in the city, no doubt, he had read the Chronicle story that morning—but it faded when I told him I already had legal representation. If he couldn’t make a buck out of a given situation, he had no more than a superficial interest in it. Lawyers. He and Ralph Jordan would have made a good team.
I put a sheet of paper into my portable and began to type out my statement to the press. I was three sentences into it when the phone ran. George Hickox. And the first thing he said was, “Mr. Mollenhauer and I read about your … difficulties in the paper this morning.”
Uh-oh, I thought, here it comes. The first backlash—the first alienated client.
I said, “Those charges are patently false, Mr.
Hickox. I’ve never done anything illegal or unethical.”
“I don’t doubt that,” he said. “Mr. Mollenhauer, however, expressed some misgivings. Not about your honesty,- about the negative publicity.”
I’ll bet, I thought. “I see. And I suppose he’s changed his mind about wanting me to guard his daughter’s wedding gifts on Saturday.”
“He did indicate that it might be prudent if another detective took your place, yes.”
“All right. If that’s the way he feels—”
“Nevertheless,” Hickox said, “the job is still yours. I took it upon myself to speak up in your behalf.”
“You did? Why?”
“You struck me as honest, reliable, and competent,” he said. “And I’ve always thought it unfair for a man to be judged in the newspapers.”
Hickox was the last person I would have expected to champion the cause of someone like me. Or, for that matter, to worry about whether or not a person was being judged in the newspapers. Maybe I had misjudged him; maybe underneath that stiff-necked exterior he was a decent sort after all.
I said, “I appreciate the vote of confidence, Mr. Hickox.”
“Yes. Well, I also explained to Mr. Mollenhauer that it was a bit late to make arrangements with another detective. And that he and I and a few others in the immediate family were the only ones who would know you were on the premises; it’s hardly likely that you’ll run into any of the other guests.” ‘
I smiled a little, cynically. Now that was more in keeping with my original conception of the man. So much for Hickox as a sweet guy overflowing with the milk of human kindness. He was what he was. Hell, weren’t we all?
“You and Mr. Mollenhauer won’t regret your decision,” I said. “I’ll be there at two o’clock on Saturday, as promised—”
“One o’clock,” he said.
“Pardon? I thought you told me it was two.”
“I did. But the time of the wedding has been moved up an hour, to accommodate the minister, so you’ll need to arrive by one. That’s the main reason I called.”
“One o’clock.” I said. “Fine.”
“Don’t forget to wear a tux,” he said.
“I won’t.”
The line went dead. I may have been given his vote of confidence, but I still didn’t rate a goodbye. Common courtesy was not one of Hickox’s long suits.
I finished typing up my statement for the press. It came out to a page and a half, double-spaced, and it sounded flat and defensive when I read it over; but it was the best I could do. Then I called the Chronicle and Examiner reporters and told each of them that I would be available for an interview at four o’clock. Both said they would be here and both sounded eager, like a couple of lions invited to a feast. Reporters, to my way of thinking, were in the same class as lawyers—feeders on the carrion of human misery. They may have been necessary creatures in the scheme of things, but that didn’t mean I had to like them much.
I had had enough of telephones; I sat and worried. About Mrs. Hornback and her damned public accusations. And about the disappearance and murder of her husband. For the fifth or sixth time I went over the events of Monday night. No plausible explanation presented itself this time, either; the pieces just would not fit together. What was the motive behind the whole business? Why would Hornback’s killer have taken the body away from Twin Peaks and dumped it later in Golden Gate Park? How could he have got it and himself out of the car without me noticing that something was going on?
The questions seemed to hang in my mind like spidersilk. I got up and made some coffee. I sat down and drank it. It got to be three-fifteen—and the telephone rang again.
Kerry. She had read the newspaper story, of course, and she was concerned; the concern made her voice intimate, without any of the distance I had perceived in recent days, and that in turn buoyed my spirits a little. I told her all about Mrs. Hornback and how Kayabalian and I were handling the situation. Then I told her about the killing I had walked into in Xanadu. Talking to someone who really cared was a relief; my head felt much less cobwebby when I was done.
She said; “My God, you’ve really had a week, haven’t you?”
“Yeah. Living my life to the fullest, that’s me.”
“I hate the detective business sometimes.”
“Me too,” I said.
“It’s all going to resolve itself, isn’t it? I mean, you’re not going to be hurt by what that Hornback woman is claiming?”
“No, I’ll be all right.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive,” I lied. “Hey, are we still on for dinner tonight?’”
“Of course. I’m going to bake some lasagna.”
“Oh? I thought we were going out.”
“Well, I’
ve got a great lasagna recipe, and I thought I’d try it out on you.”
“Sounds good to me. An intimate dinner at your apartment; I like that idea.”
“I thought you would.”
“And I’ll bring dessert,” I said.
“What did you have in mind?”
I told her what I had in mind. The only thing was, I said, I didn’t think I could fit it into a cake box.
She laughed. “I swear, you’re the horniest man I’ve ever known.”
“It’s a tradition among private eyes,” I said. “Didn’t you know?”
We settled on eight o’clock for dinner and then said our goodbyes. I caught myself smiling a little as I replaced the handset. She was still my lady; the doubts and the jealousy I had been feeling were gone, or at least tucked away in a dusty corner of my mind where they belonged. The week had started with my love life looking rocky and business on the boom. Now it seemed to be the other way around. Never a dull moment in the saga of Lone Wolf, the last of the red-hot private snoops.
I made out a bill and an expense-account sheet to send to Adam Brister. I was finishing up the report that would go with it when the first of the reporters showed up, dragging a photographer with him. The other reporter and his photographer got there five minutes later. I handed out the statement I’d prepared and then let the photographers blind me with their camera flashes for twenty minutes while I fielded questions. The reporters kept trying to goad me into maligning Mrs. Hornback; I managed to restrain myself, keeping my responses polite and low-key as per Kayabalian’s advice and my written statement. The four of them left at four-thirty looking mildly disappointed; the carrion I’d fed them had not tasted quite as good as they’d hoped.
At four forty-five Eberhardt called. He sounded less than sympathetic, even a little snottily superior—as if he found a certain small satisfaction in the predicament Mrs. Hornback had put me in. That sort of perversity was something new for I
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