by Jack Lynch
"Hello, Peter, I got pulled out of the office."
"So I heard. Anything special?"
"Not really. I'm calling from a dead whore's apartment on Eddy. She and her boyfriend had a beef. Listen, I just phoned in to see what we and the Marin sheriff have on Lind. It isn't much. Sacramento doesn't have anything unusual on his car. He doesn't have a local police record and because of his job a run was made on his prints in Washington. It only showed he had an okay Army record. So unless his car or a body turns up there's not much more to be done."
"Okay, John, I appreciate the help. You might ask the guys to flag his file. Tell them you have a half-assed friend who's interested if anything develops. I'm beginning to worry about the guy."
"Why's that?"
"I can't find anywhere he would have gone off to, or a reason to go. And he knew he'd be coming into a bucket full of money if he stayed put."
"Any idea it could be a San Francisco matter?"
"Not yet. He worked here, lived in Marin and traveled. If I see where it might be I'll let you know."
"Do that, Peter. Gotta go now."
I went back to the phone book and found the listing for a J. Thorpe, on Klondike. The male voice that answered had a curiously breathless quality to it.
"Yes, hello?"
"Mr. Jonathan Thorpe?"
The voice took a turn. "Who is calling?"
"The name is Bragg. Mr. Thorpe doesn't know me, but it's about a matter of some importance."
"This is Thorpe."
There were other voices, all male and gentle in the background. Laughter. The sound of glass meeting glass.
"I'm a private investigator, Mr. Thorpe. You might be able to help me with a case I'm on. If you'd be good enough to spare me a few minutes."
"When?" The voice was guarded.
"As soon as possible. I could drive out there right now."
"That's impossible. I'm in the middle of a cocktail party."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Thorpe. But this could turn into a police matter at any moment. I was just speaking to Inspector Foley of the homicide detail. Maybe if you could talk to me for a few minutes it won't be necessary for you to talk to him."
"Just a moment."
The receiver at the other end was put down and I heard the riffling of pages.
"Bragg, you said your name was?"
"That's right."
"Are you calling from your office?"
"Right again."
"Hang up, please. I'll call you back."
I hung up, to let him prove it for himself. I couldn't really blame Thorpe, if he and his friends were part of San Francisco's populous homosexual community. Things were better for them in San Francisco than in a lot of places, and even better than they used to be in San Francisco a few years earlier, but it still wasn't an easy life. And even private cops who professed to be ethical didn't hesitate to bring a little pressure to bear when they needed help. The phone rang.
"Bragg here."
"All right, Mr. Bragg. I suppose I'll have to see you. Do you have the address?"
"If it's the one in the phone book."
"It is. We're in a two-story flat on the corner. We're in the upper."
I drove on out. Thorpe lived in a quiet neighborhood of stucco and stone. I pushed the button under his mail slot. When the buzzer sounded, unlocking the front door, I stepped inside and climbed some stairs. They led to a hallway running the length of the flat. There were a lot of people and smoke in the place. Jonathan Thorpe came out to greet me. He was a tall, cadaverous-looking gentleman in his late thirties with thinning hair and eyes that didn't look as if they'd been getting much sleep. He wore dark slacks and a turtleneck sweater beneath a white sports jacket.
"You're Mr. Bragg?"
"That's right."
"Come along and have a drink."
"That won't be necessary. If we could just find a corner where we could talk for a few minutes..."
"No, Mr. Bragg," Thorpe said with a vengeful smile. "You insisted on barging in here. Now you'll just have to let me exhibit you." He paused at the doorway to a large living room at the rear of the building. "You aren't gay, are you?"
"Not beyond a friendly handshake."
"I thought not. As you might have surmised, everybody else here is. With the exception of one or two who might be closet straights gathering material for a book. At any rate, when I announced that a real private detective was on his way over, they thought it was just a scream, and insisted that I bring you in so they could size you up, so to speak. This way, please."
I sighed and followed the fellow into the crowded room. It wasn't the first occasion I'd had to mingle with groups of homosexuals. This was a pretty refined bunch. They dressed well and could easily have been taken for any stag bunch of men. If some of them seemed to hold their cocktail glasses kind of funny, or to posture a bit more than seemed normal, I figured it was just because I was looking for it. But they had a way of making you pay. When a solitary straight guy entered their midst, they could remind him he was in lonely country. As Thorpe and I worked our way through the crowd I tried to ignore the quiet comments usually made somewhere just behind me.
"...some muscle..."
"Not a youth, by any means..."
"If I had his body I'd make you all behave..."
Thorpe led me to a bar setup. "What will it be, Mr. Bragg?"
"Bourbon and water will be fine."
"James, a bourbon and water for Mr. Bragg here."
James was the bartender. James was slender and graceful. Almost willowy, you could call him, and not a day over eighteen. James was not overdressed. He wore a pair of men's yellow bikini swim trunks and a knowing smile. He gave me my drink and Thorpe led me over to a corner window with a fine view of the sloping rows of homes marching toward the sea.
"Now, Mr. Bragg. What is this about homicide?"
"We don't know for sure that's what it is. If we did, you'd be speaking to somebody on the municipal force. But let's start with your car."
"My what?"
"Automobile. A blue Mercedes, this year's model. License number Four-Zero-One-Bee..."
"Yes, that's my automobile, what about it?"
"You don't know where it is, right?"
"I certainly do. It's in the garage downstairs."
"You have it?"
"Of course I have it. Would you like me to go back it out a few times for you?"
"You reported it stolen to the Coast West Insurance Company."
Thorpe raised one hand to the side of his long face. "Oh my dear God, I certainly did. And when I got it back I telephoned the police and told them, but I forgot to notify the insurance people."
"Mind telling me about it?"
"You want to hear about the Mercedes?"
"If you don't mind."
Thorpe turned to search the crowded room, then called out. "Ted? Oh, Teddy, over here, please."
A round-faced man with a deep tan crossed the room toward us. He was a few years younger than Thorpe. He wore casual sports clothes, a white shirt and cherry-colored ascot. He joined us with a tentative smile and arched eyebrow.
"Teddy, this is Mr. Bragg, the detective I announced was coming."
Teddy's eyebrow straightened.
"Mr. Bragg wants to know about the Mercedes, Teddy."
Teddy's smile went the way of his arched eyebrow. When he spoke it was to Thorpe, as if I'd wandered off over a hill.
"I borrowed it."
"For an entire week," Thorpe declared.
"That's right, I drove up to Lake Tahoe and stayed there an entire week because I had time on my hands and I didn't think you'd be going out anywhere for some while."
"And you didn't tell me you were taking it, did you, Teddy?"
"You knew I had a set of keys to it."
"I did not."
Teddy turned in my direction now, his face getting a little flushed beneath the tan.
"Do you know anything about..." Teddy's eyes quickly encompa
ssed the room. "...us, Mr. Bragg?"
"Sure."
"Well, Jonathan and I were—close friends..."
Now it was Thorpe's turn to be nettled. "Teddy..." he warned, his voice rising.
"Don't 'Teddy' me, Jonathan," Teddy snapped. "You wanted me to tell this gentleman about the Mercedes and I'm going to tell him about the Mercedes..."
Thorpe shot a glance toward the ceiling. "Oh, for God's sake." He turned and hiked over to the bar for another drink.
"Well?" I asked.
"Jonathan and I were thinking of sharing this place," Teddy continued. "I had made arrangements to take a week's leave from my job to make the big move, when on Friday night I dropped in to find him with a boy he'd picked up over at the Lance—that's a bar—and I had thought we had all that straightened out. His promiscuousness, I mean. But it turned out that we hadn't. Well, I was just plain mad. And here I was with a week to do nothing in, and I wasn't even going to speak to Jonathan again. But he had given me a set of keys to his car, so I just took it. And he knew it, because it was parked right in front and I drove off in it right after catching him and that child right in this very room. And that's the entire story."
"Okay. Thanks for the help."
I went back over to the bar where Thorpe stood talking to the skinny kid in the bikini.
"That's an interesting yarn your friend just told me, Thorpe."
"Mr. Bragg, why don't we go out into the hall, where it's a little quieter."
"No, Thorpe, you wanted it in here, and in here is where it will be."
The voices of nearby guests dropped to a murmur.
"The story your friend Teddy tells could leave you open to some criminal charges."
"Such as?"
Our end of the room was dead silence now. "Falsely reporting a criminal felony to the police. Attempt to defraud the insurance company. There are a lot of ways to stub your toe when you report a crime out of spite, Mr. Thorpe."
"But how was I to know he didn't plan to keep it? It wasn't a false report to me. And I'm sorry I forgot to tell the insurance people that I had it back. It was an honest mistake."
"All right, Thorpe, so it was a mistake. But in the course of the time your car was gone, you probably were interviewed by an investigator from the insurance company."
"Yes, I was."
I showed him the mug shot of Jerry Lind. "This the man?"
"Yes. I don't recall his name."
"It's Jerry Lind. What did you talk about?"
"The car, naturally."
"Nothing else?"
"No."
"Okay. What did you tell him about the car?"
"That it was stolen from the street out front. I didn't tell him the story Teddy told you, if that's what you mean."
"That's what I mean. Then so far as Lind was concerned, the car was just gone when you woke up the next morning, and you didn't have any idea who took it."
Thorpe lowered his eyes. "Is this going to get me into trouble with the police? I didn't tell them any more than that, either."
"It won't so far as I'm concerned, so long as you're telling the truth now. How long a talk did you have with Lind?"
"Not long. Ten minutes at the most."
"Where did you talk?"
"In the downstairs landing. My mother was visiting that day. I didn't want to disturb her."
"Do you remember what day it was?"
"On Tuesday, following the theft."
"Theft, my eye," said Teddy from across the quiet room.
"Okay, Thorpe, so you had a brief talk about the car. Now this, I want a frank answer to. Jerry Lind is a young fellow. A pretty handsome young fellow. Did you make any sort of advance toward him—however vague?"
"I don't quite know what..."
"Yes you do, Mr. Thorpe. We both know what I mean."
Somebody in the crowd snickered. I turned toward it and a hush settled.
Thorpe made a gesture with one hand. "Oh, I don't know, I might have said something. But he didn't respond to it."
"You're sure about that?"
He raised his head and spoke in a firm voice. "Yes. Quite sure."
I turned to the others gathered around. "Gentlemen, maybe one of you can help me. I'm questioning Mr. Thorpe about a young man who is missing. I'm personally beginning to fear for his safety. He might already be dead."
A couple of them cleared their throats.
"Now, while I'm not a part of the gay community, my work has brought me into contact with people who are. I know it is not an easy life. I also know a man can be happily married to a woman and have children and still have urges in other directions. I hold no moral judgment on any of this.
"The man I'm looking for is Jerry Lind. He's an investigator for Coast West Insurance. I have a photo of him here that I'd like you all to look at. If any of you recognize him, I'd like to hear about it. Nothing I'm told will be passed along to his family or anyone else. I just need your help."
I made a slow circuit of the room, holding up the snapshot. The speech seemed to have worked. There was no longer any snide hostility. They were a group of concerned citizens. I hoped. But nobody responded. There was a lot of shaking of heads and murmured no's. I worked my way back to the bar and showed the photo to the boy in the swimsuit. He shook his head.
"Okay, Mr. Thorpe, I'll tell the insurance company that it was just a mixup. That you've got your car back. Here's my card. If you remember anything else about Lind, I'd like to hear from you."
Thorpe nodded. "I'll do that. Let me see you to the door."
I followed him down the hallway. Just before I started down the stairs, Teddy hailed us.
"Just a moment, Mr. Bragg." He hurried up to us, glanced once at Thorpe and fidgeted with the glass in his hand. "I just wanted to say, Mr. Bragg, that what Jonathan told you is the truth. About the missing man, I mean. Jonathan told me about it when I got back. He mentioned—as you observed—that this Lind is a pleasant-looking chap. Jonathan told me he'd dropped his hanky a time or two in the course of their conversation, but that the young man ignored it. Jonathan might be an old goat, but—well, I just wanted you to know."
"All right, Teddy, thanks."
"Yes," said Thorpe. "Thank you, Teddy."
I left them at the top of the stairs looking at each other as if they were seeing a sunset together. Or maybe a sunrise. What the hell. It wasn't any of my business.
FIVE
I drove back downtown and had dinner at Polo's, on Mason Street. I ordered their special, a platter of ground beef with an egg and some spinach stirred in, and washed it all down with a couple glasses of the house red. I also did some more thinking about the missing Jerry Lind. I still hadn't pinned him down. An Army veteran in his middle twenties, but from the sound of things he still was a half-formed personality, full of romantic notions about his job. He wasn't particularly good at his job, either. It wasn't just the way his co-worker, Wallace, had assessed him. The boy hadn't pursued the matter of Jonathan Thorpe's missing Mercedes with nearly the wit or energy he could have. Properly handled, he should have gotten the real story soon after his original interview with Thorpe. As for home life, he was married to a girl with a sensational body and questing mind who was crying for a bit of attention. Lind didn't seem to know what to do about it. Lind also seemed to be a loner, but his solitary nature didn't translate into a particularly thoughtful individual. Maybe he was a whiz of a painter. But I still didn't know what sort of things went on inside his head. I could only hope that Miss Benson might be able to give me an idea.
I got to her house a little after ten and made my way down to her apartment. Her door had an upper pane of glass covered with some sort of graph paper. I squinted at it, light filtering through from inside. It was an old actuary graph showing at what age people in various occupations tended to die. It didn't carry a rating on law enforcement people. Of course cops started the dying process inside, where the insurance statisticians couldn't see. I rang the bell, and after a mome
nt a different-looking Miss Benson opened the door.
"Hi," she said, gesturing me inward with a swing of her head. Her hair wasn't in a bun any longer. It fell below her shoulders. She'd taken off her glasses and changed into a taut white sweater and low-belted pair of gray slacks that were made out of a material that gave a little, emphasizing the slight pouch of her stomach and her upswept buttocks.
"Can I fix you a drink?"
"Sure."
"What would you like?"
"Anything handy. Bourbon, Scotch..."
"Good. I have bourbon."
"If you have some water to go with it I'll be a happy man."
She crossed to a sink, stove and refrigerator beyond a small dining table to my right. The place was really just a large, one-room apartment. There was one other door next to the kitchen that probably led to the bathroom. The opposite side was mostly glass, looking out over a wooden deck and offering a view of the water below. The room was divided by a sofa and chair, and there was a queen-sized bed beyond that. When she carried a couple of drinks over to the sofa, she walked in a manner that indicated she was a little drunk.
"Have a good time with the old school chum?"
She groaned and settled on the sofa with a slope-mouthed face. Women who did that made me uncomfortable. I'd known two of them who used the expression regularly. They both were acute neurotics. Maybe Miss Benson only did it when she drank. I sat a ways down from her on the sofa.
"It went about the way I expected. He didn't want to buy me anything to eat down at the Trident, but suggested we pick up a couple of steaks and come up to my place, et cetera, et cetera. So I just drank with him until almost nine, then told him I had to come home for a very important appointment. He wanted to come along anyway, so I told him about you. We argued in the parking lot for so long I barely had time to get home and shower before you got here."
"If you haven't eaten, why don't you fix yourself a sandwich or something? I can wait."
"No, that's okay." She had an open can of mixed nuts on a stand beside her that she dug into. "Want some?"
"No thanks."
"They're good." She was looking at me alternately with one eye then the other. Miss Benson, it seemed, was more than a little drunk.
