by Bill Moody
Fletcher gets up and begins to pace around. “It’s been years, but there was a guy in Rotterdam. He used to put guys up for a promoter down there. I even stayed with him once. I think he had some drug connections too.”
“You remember his name?”
Fletcher shakes his head. “Block or Blove or Stove, one of the few Dutch names that wasn’t van-something. I don’t know, I can’t remember. It was a long time ago. Anyway, let’s take a ride down there. Maybe it will jog my memory.”
“Us?”
“Oh, yeah. I want in too.” I think then about Pappy Dean, Cal Hughes, Natalie, Coop. Fletcher catches my change of expression. “What?”
“It’s not that I don’t want or couldn’t use some help, but well, in the past, I’ve gotten other people involved in a way I didn’t mean to. This thing with Ace could be nothing, or I could stumble onto something I shouldn’t, and that could be trouble. I don’t want to jam you up because of my meddling.”
Fletch laughs. “Is that all? Hell, man, don’t worry about me. I grew up in Harlem. I know all about that shit. You might need someone to watch your back, and I’m the man. Besides, I told you. I read Hoke Moseley books.”
I can see it won’t do any good to try and convince Fletcher it’s not a good idea, any more than he could persuade me to let the police handle it. Who can resist Fletcher Paige?
“Okay, Hoke. Let’s do it.”
“Hey,” Fletcher says. “I do understand where you’re coming from. Ace is lucky to have you for a friend. I just hope he appreciates it.”
***
Monday morning, while Fletcher is still sleeping, I call Inspector Dekker to let him know where I am and to see if anything has developed.
“I’m glad you called, Mr. Horne. I wanted to talk with you. I called the hotel and was told you had checked out.”
“Yes, I’m staying with a friend. You have some news?”
“No, it’s something else. Could you come down to the station this morning? There is something I want you to do.”
“Yes, of course.”
What now, if it’s not about Ace? When I get to the station, I’m ushered back to Dekker’s office very quickly. His door is open, and he motions me inside to a chair. “Thank you for coming so promptly, Mr. Horne.” Ace’s portfolio is on his desk.
“You mentioned wanting me to do something.”
“Yes,” Dekker says. He taps the portfolio. “I assume while this was in your possession you went through the articles and notes, yes?”
I shrug. “Well, yes, I’m afraid I did.”
“I’m not criticizing, Mr. Horne. It would be natural for anyone to do. You were looking for some clue as to Mr. Buffington’s whereabouts. What I would like you to do now is look through it again, see if anything is missing, or perhaps more important, if there’s something there that shouldn’t be.”
“I don’t understand.”
Dekker looks at me like a teacher impatient with a slow student. “Do you know anything about literature, Mr. Horne?”
The question catches me by surprise, and I wonder where this is going. “Well, I took classes in college. I read a lot, I suppose.”
“Hemingway?”
“Well, yes, some. Why do you ask?”
Dekker settles back in his chair. “Do you know the story about Hemingway’s suitcase, the lost stories?”
The question vaguely rings a bell, but nothing more. “I’m not sure I do.”
Dekker seems almost happy with my response. Now he can recite the story. “Hemingway was in Switzerland. He had left a number of stories he was working on in his apartment in Paris. His wife was to join him. On her own initiative, she took along the stories when she packed, thinking he would want to work on them during their vacation. But at the train station in Paris, she set the suitcase down for a moment, and it was stolen. She searched frantically, but it was gone. Then she had to confess her mistake to Hemingway when she arrived. At the time, he took the news fairly calmly, at least according to some biographers. More than a dozen stories in various stages of development were lost. He tried to re-create them but eventually abandoned the idea. Only one was saved; it had fallen behind the dresser in their Paris apartment and wasn’t in the suitcase.”
Dekker pauses, almost dramatically, to let this sink in. “The suitcase was never found, and of course there has been much speculation about its disappearance. Remember, at that time Ernest Hemingway was not famous, merely a struggling young writer. Some say the thief would find some clothes, and some paper with typing on them. The stories would mean nothing to him. The thief perhaps took what he wanted and threw away the rest, or left the suitcase for someone else to find. In any event, it was never found. Another theory is that the suitcase is long forgotten, still in someone’s attic in Paris. Can you imagine what a literary find that would be? The lost stories of Ernest Hemingway.” Dekker shakes his head in wonder.
“Inspector Dekker, you’re a romantic.”
“Hmmm. Yes, perhaps.” He allows himself a smile.
“But I don’t—”
He taps the portfolio. “It strikes me that your friend’s portfolio is similar, only it’s not lost—and it raises a number of questions beyond who is responsible. Why abandon it? Did the thief—we’ll call him that for now—want it returned and hope nobody noticed something was missing; or was something added to the contents, perhaps accidentally; or was it something he hoped someone would find? Do you follow me, Mr. Horne?”
Dekker looks as self-satisfied as if he’s spent the weekend working out this scenario, and now he has an audience. It doesn’t make sense to me, but I go along with him.
“Yes, I think I see what you mean. Should I look through it now, here?”
“Please,” Dekker says, “and take your time. I will show you to a room where you can have some privacy and even smoke if you like.”
“Fine. Show me the way.”
Dekker takes the portfolio and walks me down the hall. The room is small and bare—gray walls, a linoleum floor, probably an interrogation room. There’s only a small table and two chairs. “I will be in my office. Please tell me when you’ve finished.” Dekker sets the portfolio on the table and walks out.
I light a cigarette and get to work. Unzipping the portfolio, I take everything out and set it aside. Turning over each sheet, I skim the articles and note pages two or three times, careful to make sure nothing is stuck together. I know most of the material already, but three or four cigarettes later, I’m totally absorbed with the articles and read more carefully, learning more and more about Chet Baker but nothing else.
After over an hour, nothing strikes me as missing that was there when I first found the case at the hotel. More important, I don’t see anything new. It all looks familiar.
I check the portfolio one last time. There’s an inside pocket in the back, where I’d found the photos of Ace. Dekker has one; I have the other, so I didn’t bother much with it before. But now, there is something. I feel around, and my hand touches a small slip of paper. It’s some kind of printed receipt in Dutch. It’s hard to make out, as the ribbon on the register must have been nearly worn out. I check the pocket again, but there’s nothing else. As I’m about ready to go look for Dekker, he comes back in the room.
“Good timing,” I say.
Dekker’s expression, however, is different now—not so much angry as irritated about something. “Have you found something?”
“Just this.” I hand him the receipt. He sits down slowly in the chair opposite me and studies it, nodding. “What is it?”
Dekker holds it closer, trying to make out the faint printing. “It’s from a photocopy store here in Amsterdam, in Dam Square.” He flips through the stack of articles. “From the amount, I would say the entire contents were copied.” He looks up at me then, as if I have the answer.
I shrug. “No idea.”
“Yes, it is puzzling,” he says. He puts all the art
icles back in the portfolio but holds out the receipt and places it on top. He folds his hands and looks at me in the way he must look at a suspect when he wants a confession.
“I just talked to a Lieutenant Cooper with the Santa Monica Police. He too was concerned that you had checked out of the hotel.”
“Yes, I meant to tell him. We’re old friends, from school.”
“So it would seem,” Dekker says. “Lieutenant Cooper tells me in the past you have been involved in a number of investigations, one even assisting the FBI. I’m impressed, Mr. Horne.”
Oh, here we go. The warning lecture. “Well, my part was rather minor, as I’m sure Cooper told you.”
Dekker’s eyebrows rise slightly. “Minor? I don’t think so. I certainly would not characterize the apprehension of a serial killer as minor.” He sets the paper down and continues. “Be that as it may, Mr. Horne, I feel it is necessary to tell you that the Amsterdam police will not tolerate interference in any way. I would also remind you that you are not familiar with Amsterdam, and your American passport does not make you immune from Dutch law. So please, Mr. Horne, curb your tendencies to—go off on your own, as Detective Cooper put it, I believe. I understand your concern for your friend’s whereabouts, but leave it to us. If you have any ideas or thoughts on the matter, I will be happy to consider them, but that’s all.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good. Lieutenant Cooper said I might have to emphasize that to you.”
“I bet he did.” Dekker lets that one go. I give him Fletcher’s number and promise to be good. “I may run down to Rotterdam for a couple of days, but I’ll stay in touch with you.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, there are two jazz clubs I’d like to check out, for potential work. Nothing to do with my friend.”
“Yes,” says Dekker, but I can see he only half buys it. “Enjoy your trip.”
I go over to the American Express office to change some money and decide to call Coop at home, even if I do wake him up with the time difference.
“What?” is his friendly answer.
“Hey, Coop, what are you doing up so late?”
“Watching a movie. I understand you’ve already ingratiated yourself with the Amsterdam police. That didn’t take long.”
“That’s a pretty big word for a cop to use. Did you have to give Dekker my whole résumé?”
Coop laughs. “Yeah, I enjoyed that part. Just wanted to let them know what they’re up against.” His tone changes just as quickly. “No sign of Ace, I take it.”
“No, nothing. I suppose Dekker filled you in.”
“Yeah, sounds kind of weird. I’d watch myself with Dekker, though. Remember where you are.”
“Yeah, he gave me the stay-out-of-things-unless-you’re-asked lecture. I can’t figure it, Coop. This is not like Ace at all, and I’m beginning to wonder just what’s happening. His portfolio was stolen from my hotel room and then turned up with Dekker, everything intact.”
“No, he didn’t tell me about that.”
I fill Coop in. He listens, then says, “I won’t even tell you I told you so. Somebody besides Ace wanted it, didn’t find what they were looking for, and dumped it. Anyway, sport, got a new number where I can reach you?”
“Yes.” I give him Fletcher’s number. “He’s a musician I’ve been working with.”
“Okay,” Coop says. “Go easy. Oh, ran into somebody you know.”
“Yeah? Natalie again?”
“No, haven’t seen her. I had to go to a weekend seminar put on by the FBI. Andie Lawrence. She asked about you—quite a lot, I might add—but I just told her you were still in Europe.”
“Good.”
“She’s with the San Francisco bureau now.”
“Am I supposed to take note of that?”
“No, just letting you know.”
“All right, Coop. Thanks. Go back to your movie. What are you watching?”
“The French Connection. Already there,” Coop says.
I hang up the phone and walk outside. The streets are, as usual, full of shoppers and tourists as I walk up toward Dam Square, where several boulevards converge. I pick out an empty bench in the main square and just enjoy the passing parade for a while, thinking about Ace’s portfolio.
Who knew about it besides Ace, and why did it turn up again with nothing missing? Across the square, the name from the receipt on a store flashes at me like neon. Inside, it’s busy and noisy and looks like any Kinko’s. There’s a group of self-service machines, a counter, and several clerks behind it manning the larger copiers. I get in line for service, wondering if clerks pay any attention to what they copy.
The young man who helps me has on a white shirt and blue name tag with “Jerrod” on it. He’s confused by my request and gets somebody else to help. It’s a long shot, but I describe the pages that were copied to the second man.
“Do you remember the man who had the copying done? It’s important.”
The clerk thinks a minute. “Ah yes, Chet Baker. I remember now. We talked about his music. I too am a fan, and of course, Baker died here.”
“Yes, that’s right. These were typed pages he had copied. What did the man look like?”
“Hmm…very tall, he had a beard, I think. And yes, American.”
“Wait a minute.” I take out my passport case and show him the photo of Ace. “Is this him?”
The clerk takes the photo and looks at it. “Yes, this is the man.”
“Do you remember when this was?”
The clerk shrugs. “Only a few days, perhaps. No more than a week.”
I nod. “Thanks, thanks very much.”
“Not at all.”
I go outside in the busy square again, traffic and people buzzing all around me, but only hearing that voice in my head, asking another question: Why would Ace need to copy the entire contents of his portfolio?
Chapter Eleven
It’s a little too quiet when I get back to the flat. No music playing, no sound of Fletcher’s saxophone. Nothing. I close the door and listen for a moment. “Fletch, you in?”
“In here,” he calls from his room. I breathe a sigh of relief and walk down the hall. His horn is set aside, lying on the neatly made bed. He’s in jeans, T-shirt, and sandals, holding something up to a high-intensity light at his desk with one hand. In his other hand is a small knife. He pauses for a moment to push his glasses up. I look around his room for the first time.
“Be with you in a minute,” he says. He glances over for a second, looking at me over the top of his glasses, then turns back to what he’s working on. “I’m a neatnik, huh?”
He is. Not only is the bed made, everything seems to have a place. Books in low cases along one wall, and I know without looking they’re in alphabetical order by author. There are a few strays stacked neatly on the nightstand by size. The pictures on the wall, the posters of jazz festivals, are arranged symmetrically. The closet door is open to several suits, hangers spaced evenly.
“Getting these how I like them too,” he says without looking at me. I see now he has a saxophone reed in his hand, shaving the edge carefully with a small knife. He blows on it, checks it again. “Want to hand me my horn?” I get it and bring it over. He puts the reed in the mouthpiece and tightens it in place. He blows a few notes, his eyes open, listening, then runs through the first few bars of “Body and Soul” before he puts the horn down. “Yeah, that’s it. Don’t know why they can’t make them like that out of the box.” He looks at me now. “Hey, man, you been out early.” He pads out of his room and lights a cigarette.
“Yeah, I called the police. Dekker wanted me to come down and go through Ace’s portfolio again.” Fletcher looks at me through a cloud of smoke and laughs. “What?”
“I was just thinking. You called the police.”
“Okay, okay. He wanted me to see if anything was missing or if something had been added.” I watch the smoke curl over
his head. “What happened to the smoking rule?”
He shrugs and looks for the ashtray. “Hell, Margo ain’t here. We can always air the place out. Anyway, this thing has me keyed up. Find anything?”
“Just a receipt for some photocopying. Everything in the portfolio was copied. I checked at the store, showed the guy the photo. He remembered all right. It was Ace.”
Fletcher sits down and looks at me. “Let me see the photo of Ace. I didn’t know you had one.”
“Yeah, guess I forgot to tell you.” I take it out and show Fletcher. He studies it for a moment.
“Yeah, that’s the guy I talked to all right. Just wanted to make sure. This was in the portfolio?”
“Yes, there were a couple. I…okay, I kept this one.”
Fletcher nods knowingly. “Why would he copy everything?”
“My question exactly.”
Fletcher is still squinting at the photo. “We’re missing something here,” he says, “but damn if I can figure what it is.” He hands it back to me.
“I know. Nothing about this makes any sense.”
Fletcher goes to the window, pulls the drapes apart, and turns the crank to open the window. Cool air rushes into the room. “Want some coffee? I was just gettin’ ready to.”
“Yeah, sounds good.” We walk back to the kitchen. Fletcher puts on the kettle to boil water, gets coffee out of a canister, and spoons some into a French press. “You ever been married, Fletcher?”
“Oh, yeah. Twice. My second wife and I split about ten years ago, but we’d been separated a long time before that.”
“Kids?”
Fletcher grins. “Yeah, one daughter. Prettiest thing you ever seen. She’s married, made me a granddaddy a few years ago. Lives in Portland. She’s a lawyer.”
“Hmmm. My ex-girlfriend is about to become a lawyer.”
“Ex?” He cocks his head to the side. “You ain’t got no ladies waitin’ for you back home?”
“Well, one maybe. I talked to my cop friend this morning. He says the FBI agent I worked with in L.A. is asking about me.”
