The Timid Traitor (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 10)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  The Timid Traitor

  A Nick Williams Mystery

  Book 10

  By Frank W. Butterfield

  Nick Williams Mysteries

  The Unexpected Heiress

  The Amorous Attorney

  The Sartorial Senator

  The Laconic Lumberjack

  The Perplexed Pumpkin

  The Savage Son

  The Mangled Mobster

  The Iniquitous Investigator

  The Voluptuous Vixen

  The Timid Traitor

  The Sodden Sailor

  The Excluded Exile

  Nick & Carter Stories

  An Enchanted Beginning

  Golden Gate Love Stories

  The One He Waited For

  Their Own Hidden Island

  © 2017 by Frank W. Butterfield. All rights reserved.

  No part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without express written permission of the copyright holder.

  This book contains explicit language and suggestive situations.

  This is a work of fiction that refers to historical figures, locales, and events, along with many completely fictional ones. The primary characters are utterly fictional and do not resemble anyone that I have ever met or known of.

  Be the first to know about new releases:

  http://nickwilliamspi.com/

  NW10-K-20170711

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Author's Note

  Acknowledgments

  Historical Notes

  More Information

  I've been where you are now and I know just how you feel. It’s entirely natural that there should beat in the breast of every one of you a hope and desire that some day you can use the skill you have acquired here.

  Suppress it! You don't know the horrible aspects of war. I’ve been through two wars and I know. I've seen cities and homes in ashes. I've seen thousands of men lying on the ground, their dead faces looking up at the skies.

  I tell you, war is Hell!

  William Tecumseh Sherman

  To the graduating class of the Michigan Military Academy (June 19, 1879). As quoted from accounts by Dr. Charles O. Brown in the Battle Creek Enquirer and News (November 18, 1933).

  Remember that France has always had two strings in its bow. In June 1940 it needed the Pétain "string" as much as the de Gaulle "string".

  Charles de Gaulle

  Alleged remark by Charles de Gaulle in December 1946 to Colonel Rémy (Gilbert Renault), quoted in Henry Rousso, The Vichy Syndrome. History and Memory in France since 1944 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1991), p. 34.

  Timid

  ˈti-məd

  1. Lacking in courage or self-confidence

  Traitor

  ˈtrā-tər

  1. One who betrays another's trust or is false to an obligation or duty

  2. One who commits treason

  Chapter 1

  600 Market Street

  San Francisco, Cal.

  Tuesday, January 11, 1955

  Just past 7 in the morning

  "How many cups do you want, Nick?"

  I stamped my shoes on the concrete apron in the dank and cold morning air and replied, "Two. One for me and one for Carter." I gratefully took the two paper cups of coffee, both steaming in the pre-dawn light. It had been handed to me by Robert Evans, my property manager, who was standing behind a table that had been festooned for the occasion. "Thanks," was my brief reply as I turned to look for my husband.

  There was a small crowd of friends and well-wishers, a smaller number of newspaper reporters and photographers, and a larger number of passers-by who had stopped to see what all the fuss was about.

  The fuss was the grand opening of San Francisco's newest and most modern skyscraper. At twenty stories, the box of glass and steel stood at an odd angle to its surroundings. The grounds were dotted with newly planted trees. Grass had been laid in, creating a small park of sorts. It was all surrounded by newly paved sidewalks that connected the bank of glass lobby doors to the park and the surrounding streets.

  The skyscraper stood in a triangular spit of land that was bordered by Market, Montgomery, and Post. The entrance closest to Market Street invited visitors to walk up a small flight of broad steps and enter the gleaming glass and marble lobby. A small loading dock was accessible via a short alley that emptied out on Post.

  The building included a three-story basement garage and a lobby complete with newsstand, two banks of phone booths, shoeshine stand, and a small coffee shop that could accommodate up to ninety patrons during the lunch rush using fourteen tables and a long counter.

  Due to the vaulted height of the lobby, the second floor was small and was mostly housed the mechanical and electrical part of the building. The building management office was located on the third floor. Open spaces for offices, many that had yet to be leased, started on the fourth floor. My private investigation operation, known as Consolidated Security, Inc., had offices on floors sixteen through nineteen. Although we hadn't moved in yet, we would also share that space with a burgeoning law firm, now doing business as Wilcox Ross & Partners.

  600 Market Street was the official address given the building by the post office. We hadn't been able to come up with a better name. Right before Christmas, I decided I liked the address as the name for the building and had told Henry Winters, the engineer and project manager, to put that above the lobby doors.

  Carter Jones, my tall, muscular, ex-fireman of a husband, wasn't sure. My father, Dr. Parnell Williams, had huffed into his pipe and asked why The Williams Building, or even The Williams-Jones Building, wasn't good enough for me. I'd told him that we already had plenty of bad press without pointing out, by name, that the owners of the building were a couple of the male homosexual sort. He'd huffed again, shrugged, and said it was none of his affair. I'd openly agreed with him, which got me a wink from Carter and a bit of a mild scolding from Lettie, my indefatigable stepmother.

  . . .

  I walked over to where Carter was talking with Henry. I handed Carter his cup. He took it, wrapped both hands around it, and asked, "When does this shindig get started?"

  I shrugged. "Dunno. This is all Robert's doing. He invited the mayor and the full Board of Supervisors, along with both the chief of police and the fire chief." I took a sip of my coffee.

  "Any of them coming?" asked Carter.

  I shook my head. "Nope. Doesn't surprise me."

  Henry sighed and looked up at the building he had conceived. He wasn't the architect but it was his idea. This perfectly stacked square sitting in perfect orientation to the compass looked odd from the street. The east-west streets, like Post, ran slightly to the northeast and accentuated the odd positioning. Market Street, a broad avenue that cut from southwest to northeast, caused the corner of the building to appear to jut out into traffic, although it didn't.

  The papers, from what I'd been told, had been having a field day with the whole thing. Right after the start of the year, a columnist for the Examiner had decided to hav
e a sort of unofficial contest to give the building a name since I'd decided on using the street address. Herb Caen, the columnist in question and something of a wit, had decided the two best names were Nick's Folly and The Lipstick. According to Robert, The Lipstick had stuck and that's what most everyone was calling it. I didn't see it but, then again, I didn't give a damn.

  Carter patted Henry, his best friend from childhood in Georgia and ex-lover, on the back and said, "It's a beautiful building, Henry, and people will eventually fall in love with it like they always do with anything eccentric around here."

  At that moment, I looked past Carter to where a taxi was dropping off passengers on Post. Whispering, I said, "Here come the Four Terrors."

  Henry laughed while Carter shook his head and said, "If any of them every catch you saying that, you're gonna know what terror is, son."

  It was an affectionate name that had come to me one day when they had set upon me and demanded a donation to one of their causes. The cause, fighting against the Board of Supervisors' plan to redevelop an area of town known as The Western Addition, had been a worthy one and I would have given twice what they'd asked, and even more. Once I'd written the check, they'd flown away, like a gaggle of geese off to find new victims. Of course, their work was wonderful, and I was very glad to be on the same side of every issue with them. I had a nagging idea that, at some point in the near future, we might not be. I couldn't imagine what that would be, but I knew I didn't ever want to be in that position.

  The four ladies were quite formidable, each in their way, and I loved and adored them all. The first, the ringleader, was my stepmother, Mrs. Leticia Williams.

  Her second in command was Mrs. Geneva Watkins. Geneva had started out at Lettie's housekeeper. But, after they got to know each other, Lettie had decided to start a charitable organization, the Bay Area Beneficial Foundation, and hired Geneva as her lieutenant. There was now another woman coming in to clean house and cook for Lettie and my father, a gal by the name of Rosemary Hays. Miss Hays had been in the San Francisco County jail for some minor offenses and had come to Geneva's attention through their prisoner's aid work. That all seemed to be working out just fine.

  Next in the group was Carter's mother, Mrs. Louise Jones. And rounding out the bunch was her sister, Mrs. Velma Roscoe. The two of them had moved to San Francisco in September of '54 and were sharing a two bedroom apartment. It was just above the one my father and Lettie lived in on California Street, across Huntington Park from our house, a big pile of rocks built by my grandfather, at 1198 Sacramento at the corner of Taylor on Nob Hill.

  We were now all nice and cozy and living a little too close for my comfort. But it was working out. For the most part. My mother had died in '29. Lettie married my father in April of '54. I went from no mother to four in a short space of time and it was a lot to get used to. Carter was having his own troubles with his mother who seemed to be more comfortable with me being his husband than him having one.

  "Nicholas! There you are!" That was Lettie. She was dressed to the nines and was wearing a fur coat that I recognized as once being my mother's. She'd had it tailored in a more modern cut and to fit her figure. And, I had to admit, it looked good on her. But, it did surprise me at first.

  She pulled me in for a hug and whispered, "I hope you don't mind. It was in the clothes you gave me." Just after Thanksgiving, I'd finally gone through my mother's things in the attic and had, at her suggestion, handed the clothes over to Lettie. She'd promised to use them herself or give them away to those who might need them. I'd wondered how clothes twenty-five years out of fashion could be used and there she was, in that fur coat, showing me how that worked.

  I nodded. "It's fine. Just a surprise, that's all."

  She kissed me on my cheek. "Congratulations, my boy."

  "For what?" I asked.

  "For being the most famous of the Williams family. You've now surpassed your Great-Uncle Paul."

  "Famous or infamous?"

  She waved away my question. "Who will care in a few years?"

  Uncle Paul had been my grandfather's brother. He'd taken his share of their father's Gold Rush fortune and multiplied it several times over. He'd also been the one who put the word "Gay" in the "Gay Nineties." He was a notorious rake. I'd read his journals, and the man had documented his many sexual conquests, primarily among the City's firemen. He'd also left me and my sister, Janet, the entirety of his fortune, much to our surprise. My father and the rest of the family had tried to get the courts to distribute the estate to them, but they'd been rebuked all the way to the California State Supreme Court where they'd lost in a stinging ruling. I'd been notified of my inheritance when I'd turned 21 in '43 and was at sea, serving on a hospital ship in the South Pacific. By '49, the run through the courts was over. Janet, being younger than me and, by Uncle Paul's antiquated logic, less capable since she was a girl, had received her inheritance in '52 at the age of 25. She was murdered a year later by an employee of my father. That event seemed to unsettle the old man like nothing else, and now he was becoming increasingly more tolerable and almost likable, which was nothing short of a miracle.

  Lettie walked over to Carter as Geneva came up and shook my hand. "Congratulations, Nick." Looking at the building, she smiled, and said, "It really is something isn't it?" Her dark eyes looked right at me. I had never been able to figure out her actual age since her dark mocha skin was stretched taught over her cheekbones. She could have been any age from 30 to 70, as far as I knew.

  I laughed and asked, "Are you gonna call it The Lipstick?"

  She smirked at me and cocked her head to the side. "No. It will always be 600 Market Street. I hope you're not paying attention to any of that foolishness."

  I shook my head. "I'm not. I don't read the papers, in any event."

  She nodded. "Good. Now, where can I get some of that coffee? And will there be a tour later?"

  Remembering my manners, I used my head and not my fingers to indicate where Robert was standing. "Coffee is over there, and once we've had the ribbon cutting or whatever it is, there'll be a tour."

  "Good." She kissed me on the cheek and said, "And, again, congratulations. It really is something, this building of yours."

  I smiled as she moved over to get coffee. As she did, Mrs. Jones walked up and said, "Well, Nick, this is that exciting day, isn't it?"

  I leaned over and gave Carter's mother a brief hug, which is all she would let anyone do. I asked, "Didn't Henry do a great job?"

  She nodded and glanced over at Henry, who was talking with Lettie and a man I didn't recognize. "He did, indeed. His parents, poor souls, would be so proud of him right now." No one in Henry's family back in Georgia would speak to him. Not since he'd left under cover of darkness in '39 with Carter to escape to San Francisco. And things hadn't improved when they'd found out he'd been in Albany back in '53 to help Carter and me investigate Mr. Jones's murder and hadn't told them he was in town.

  I nodded and was about to ask Mrs. Jones about some work she'd been doing when she said, "Will you excuse me, Nick? I want to catch Mr. Hagen before I forget." I nodded as she scooted over to the man who'd been talking with Henry and Lettie, took his arm, and walked with him over to the coffee table. I wondered who he was and what that was all about.

  Aunt Velma was next. She walked up, embraced me with a kiss on the cheek, and then said, "Well, this is a day I've been looking forward to for some time, Nick." Putting her gloved hand on my face, she said, "Congratulations. And I can't wait to see the view from upstairs."

  I smiled and said, "Me, too. I haven't been up there since everything got set up. Henry and Robert wanted to make sure not to spoil the surprise."

  She smiled, looked up, and said, "There's that sun. Now maybe things will warm up a bit." I looked over my shoulder and saw the sun peaking at us from over the Ferry Building at the end of Market Street. The weatherman on the radio had said 40s for the high, so I knew Aunt Velma would be disappointed.

  . .
.

  In the end, no local worthies showed up. My father was a bit late because of some errand he'd had to run. So, when Henry and I were standing in front of the big ribbon, having our photographs taken, I saw him get out of a cab and walk up with a package under his arm.

  The photographers got our photograph, along with the Four Terrors, who were making quite a name for themselves in the papers. I asked Robert, who'd brought along his German camera, to get a photo of Carter and me behind the ribbon.

  Finally, the time had come to cut the ribbon with the big golden scissors. I did the honors without any fanfare. The photographers got a few more shots. There was a brief flurry of applause from the bystanders. And, with that, the ceremony was over.

  . . .

  I had to admit, the view from the nineteenth floor was something. There was a whole crowd milling around in my office. Robert had already outfitted the place, including wall-to-wall carpet, a new desk, a big leather chair, the works. It was on the northwest corner of the building and had quite a view: Golden Gate Bridge to the Ferry Building.

  Everyone stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows and gushed about how beautiful it was and how ethereal it felt and how they would all probably be coming to see me every day just to look out the windows. By about 9, I was ready for everyone to leave. We had work to do and I wanted to get to it.

  Folks did begin to drift out, but not before my father handed me the box he'd brought with him. He said, "This is my contribution to your new office, Nicholas." At that point, there were only a handful of people in the room. Marnie, my stepsister and the best secretary a guy ever had, was standing by the window with her husband, Alex. Carter was by my side. Lettie was watching us from a spot on the low and wide sofa on the far end of the room.

  I said, "Thank you, Father. You didn't have to do anything like this, you know."

  "Be that as it may, I wanted to."

  I opened the big square box and found two smaller rectangular boxes inside. The first one contained two crystal tumblers. The second box held a somewhat dusty amber bottle sealed with red wax that contained a dark liquid of some sort.