I thought about calling the police, of course. But only for a minute. I could just imagine the faces of the two flatfoots that had been in the office a few days before. “You had what stolen? And whose fingerprints did you say they were?” Considering the events that had led to their coming to the office, I didn’t think that was the best idea. Besides, you called the cops when you had the remotest hope of getting a thing back. But if someone had broken into our office with nothing in mind but getting Harrison Dempsey’s fingerprints, there was no chance at all that the cops would be able to recover them. Less than no chance.
Which led me to another thought. As far as I could see, only three people in the world knew we had those prints: me, Dex, and his coroner pal, Josiah Elway, in Frisco. Yet the proof was in the pudding. I got up and peered into the safe again, reshuffled the few semi-important papers and the cash float of five dollars and fifty cents that we kept in there for little more reason than justifying the presence of the safe. That stuff was all there—even the fin and the change. But Dempsey’s fingerprints? Those were quite gone.
I checked the rest of the office again. As far as I could see, nothing had been touched and nothing was missing. Dex’s top left office drawer was locked, so I couldn’t tell if anything had been taken from there, but the fact that it was still locked and the lock hadn’t been broken led me to believe that whatever had been in there was still in place.
The glazier got there and replaced the glass in the door quickly and efficiently, his stubby fingers nimbly removing the broken bits, then fitting a new precut sheet of pebbled glass where it belonged.
“I like these office windows just fine,” he said with some satisfaction while he worked. “Keeps my kids in socks.”
“You replace a lot of them?”
He looked up from his work with a grin. “You have no idea.”
Which I took to indicate that those glass panels weren’t the best for security.
Once I was alone again, I sat at my desk in the quiet and newly resecured office and just thought of all the things that had led me to that spot. After a while I figured that what I was thinking, Dex probably wouldn’t like.
Harrison Dempsey’s fingerprints had been stolen from the safe. It was just another odd piece of the case that had begun the day Rita Heppelwaite first visited the office. The case that had been over almost before it started, yet now wouldn’t seem to go away.
I thought about it. First Rita showed up and hired Dex to follow her beau. Then the beau was killed almost under our very noses. That was too much coincidence. Almost as though— and here I got excited and my thoughts seemed to begin to line up—almost as though someone had wanted Dex to see the murderer enter the house. Wanted there to be a witness. What no one could have anticipated though was the designated witness falling asleep. If what I was thinking was correct, Dex falling asleep might have thrown a monkey wrench into the works.
I suddenly felt very confident that, whatever we’d seen or thought we’d seen, we didn’t have the whole story. Maybe not even a fragment of it. It was even possible that we had only the piece that someone had wanted to give us, and perhaps not even a whole piece at that. It was an odd feeling, this new confidence. Marred only by the things I didn’t know, and there were many. But I had the feeling that if I looked at it all clearly enough, and if I just added one more piece, everything would begin to make sense.
And quite suddenly, I knew where I might find that extra piece.
I was in motion almost before I knew I was going anywhere. The feeling was a little disconcerting. Grabbing my handbag and my coat, even though I didn’t think I’d need it. Locking the office door behind me. Taking the elevator back down to street level. Letting my feet guide me in the opposite direction of the funicular trains that would take me home to Bunker Hill. I made myself aware of this in case I was trying to fool myself into thinking I was going home. I wasn’t. At that end of Spring Street, I finally had to admit to myself that there was only one place I could be going.
I kept my eyes off the fortress-like facade of the Los Angeles Stock and Oil Exchange. Though the building hadn’t been completed at the time of the crash, what it represented had meaning to me. My father had died because of what that facade represented.
It was hard not to look at the E. F. Hutton Building across the street from it. Even though it was a beautiful art deco tower, there was something about the building that jolted. An edifice to a time that was over before the structure could even be completed. It was also a reminder. As difficult as things were for so many people, as long as soup lines kept forming and even though thousands of good men found it difficult to put bread on their family’s tables, the swells were still here. Paying for private schools and big cars and summers abroad and going on just as they always had, only now they had to step more carefully to avoid the poverty that was blooming everywhere they looked.
The Banks-Huntley Building was next to the Stock Exchange and kitty-corner from Hutton’s ode to bad taste. Like so many on that part of Spring Street, the building was almost new, though it lacked the empty grandeur of either of the others.
I didn’t check the building directory but waltzed into the elevator as bold as you please. I told the elevator operator I wanted the floor where Harrison Dempsey’s offices were, and the kid put the elevator in motion without batting an eye. As we moved upward, it was obvious to me that—based on the address and the fact that he was known in the building— Harrison Dempsey had a pretty significant operation.
It was easy to find the office. The Dempsey Corporation took up more than half of the twelfth floor of the Banks-Huntley Building. The fixtures in the office gave nothing away to me. Based on what I saw, the Dempsey Corporation could have been an architectural firm or in real estate or oil. Maybe all of the above and more besides. But everyone there looked very busy, which suited me just fine.
The first hurdle was easy. Almost too easy by half. A severe-looking woman with a hard helmet of hair and the slightest hint of a mustache gave me the once-over and said, “You’re here to temp for Slacum.”
It wasn’t a question, so I gave her a smile and half a nod.
“We’ve been waiting for you all day,” she bit out. “Well, go and have a look around and settle in a bit for tomorrow. You’ll find him down that corridor. Second to last door on the right.”
With that she went back to her typing, leaving me to flounder for a moment, not quite sure what to do next. She settled the matter herself.
“Did you not hear me?” she asked, steely voiced. “Second. To. Last. Door. On the right. Get a move on. He’s waiting.”
I didn’t really have much choice. I set off down the corridor. But when I saw the door she’d sent me to—clearly marked Everett Slacum—I veered off down another corridor, deeper into the office.
“You look lost.” The man’s voice surprised me. I hadn’t seen him approach. He looked and sounded friendly enough though.
“I guess I am, just a bit.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Harrison Dempsey’s office,” I said, with as much confidence as I could muster.
“He’s not in today,” the man said.
“I’m … I’m picking up some papers,” I improvised.
“Ah, well, Harry’s office is down this hallway, all the way to the end. You can’t miss it. It’s the big one in the corner. You’ll see his secretary, Miss Foxworth, at her desk right outside his office. I’m sure she’ll be able to help you with whatever you need.”
“Thanks,” I said, heading off in the direction he’d indicated.
I slowed when I approached the end of the hallway. I didn’t need to be introduced to Miss Foxworth to recognize her. Her desk, set up squarely in front of the door marked Harrison Dempsey, was larger than any of the other secretary’s desks I’d passed. She didn’t notice me at first. I watched from a distance, shielded by a small forest of fig trees in large, gilded pots.
Clearly, the Dempsey Corporat
ion was a darn sight busier than Dex’s little operation. The secretaries here didn’t need books to read to fill in their days. There was always a phone ringing somewhere, the rings punctuated by the clatter of a half score of typewriters. People were running here and there, and I wondered what they all were doing. Developing this, architecting that; I still didn’t have a clear idea.
There was a large clock over Miss Foxworth’s desk. From where I stood I could see it was nearly five o’clock. Which gave me an idea.
I approached the desk cautiously. “Excuse me,” I said, and she looked up, seeing me for the first time. Her eyes narrowed while she judged me and decided where I fit.
“Temp?” she said. Her voice had a hoarse quality, like she smoked too many cigarettes. A full ashtray at her elbow confirmed the idea.
I nodded.
“For who?”
“Uh … Everett Slacum.”
It was her turn to nod. “Down this hallway, you’ll see the door marked about midway to the far wall.”
I looked at her blankly.
“The powder room,” she said, eyeing me curiously. “I thought that’s what you were looking for.”
“Oh, yes. Of course. Sorry. I mean … thank you,” I said, forcing myself to shut up and putting my feet in motion before I said something even dumber.
I found the ladies’ room without a problem and tucked myself into one of the stalls. Like I figured, after a few minutes an ever-increasing number of women came to freshen up before heading out in little clusters to begin their way home. I tried to listen to the snippets of conversation that they let loose once they were in the relative freedom of the bathroom, but there were too many of them to follow, and in any case I didn’t know the people they were talking about.
“Sara-Beth thinks she might be in the family way.”
“Really? Should you be repeating that? I know they’ve been married awhile, but with him gambling and having so much trouble getting work, that can’t be a good thing. And you know that if she is, she’ll get fired for sure.”
“Of course she will. It’s not like she could work once they start a family. But maybe a baby would settle him down,” said a third voice.
“Or shake him up,” said still a fourth, and then the sound of laughter receding.
I heard only one thing that had any meaning for me, and even that was kind of foggy.
“Harry’s not here again today, huh?”
“Frisco, last I heard.”
“Huh! How do you like that? He hiding from the missus?”
More laughter. “Wouldn’t you?”
Finally, after perhaps fifteen minutes had passed, there were no more voices, and I figured it was now or never. After all, her day had to end sometime too. And with her boss out of the office, I figured there’d be less than usual for her to do. When I saw her desk was empty, I thought I’d figured right. I headed for the elusive door behind her desk, “Harrison Dempsey” emblazoned on a large square of frosted glass.
But just as I reached Miss Foxworth’s desk, I noticed a cigarette smoldering in the ashtray.
In the same moment I heard high-heeled footsteps heading down the nearest corridor. Heading, that is, toward me.
I made a most unladylike rush for the door, not thinking about the fact that it might be locked until my hand touched the knob. I was grateful when it opened.
I didn’t look behind me. I couldn’t; I hadn’t the time. So when I slipped through the door of Harrison Dempsey’s office, I didn’t stop to admire the corner view of the burgeoning young city, or the book-lined walls, or the zebra skin rug in the center of the floor. I just leaned against the heavy oak door and willed my breathing to come evenly again, instead of the heavy pant-pant-pant that was now pushing through me. And I willed at the same time that Miss Foxworth had not seen me.
So I waited in that position, my back against the door, for a few minutes, while I caught my breath, anticipating discovery. I was breathing normally before very long, but the office door never did burst open, and after a while, I assumed a more normal stance and allowed myself a look around.
The house on Lafayette Square had been a hint. It was the house of a swell. Why would I have expected any less of his office? And yet somehow I had. I’d expected something more dreary perhaps. More in keeping with my idea of a man whose background I’d thought was somewhat shady; someone who owed great sums of money to men like Lucid Wilson.
But though I’d been born with wealth and raised with it to a certain age, and though my friends had been among the young elite of California, both south and north, nothing had prepared me for the personal inner sanctum of Harrison Dempsey.
There was no decor, really. That is, the office was not done in a certain style. It looked as though if a decision had been needed between two items, Dempsey had chosen the more expensive one. And that’s when I realized what was different between the surroundings of my childhood and that of my pals and what I found here and at the house on Lafayette Square. This, I decided, was what new money looked like. My father had tried to explain this to me when I was a child, but it hadn’t made sense to me then. It didn’t now either, but I figured I had a hint.
The Aubusson rug under the Regency sideboard and next to Dempsey’s modern glass-and-chromium desk? I could not think of the circumstance that would have brought them together. They shrieked that they belonged apart. I knew that for the cost of the rug, Marjorie, Marcus, and I—and perhaps Dex as well—could eat for a year. And the cost of the breakfront? That would buy a new house.
And that was the point. It had to be. Not how one item complemented the other or completed the look. But that this piece was expensive, and that? So much more.
There was a davenport-type contraption in a corner under one of the windows. Though it was nothing so mundane as a davenport, I felt sure. A recamier, I decided, or perhaps a chaise. It had beautifully carved legs that came to the floor, with the paw of a griffin clutching a ball. The settee itself was the color of wine, and the fabric was fine, but not so fine that it didn’t look inviting.
I allowed myself to sink onto this piece of furniture, though I kept one eye on the door. I was ready to jump to my feet and hide at the slightest sound. But I needed a few moments just to gather myself and to work through my thoughts. Here I was, after all. Yet I knew I’d not thought it through fully, and if I hadn’t known it fifteen minutes ago, I knew it now. It wasn’t as though I’d had a plot or a plan going in. Just to come here initially. Test the water, test the air. Beyond that… and now here I was.
Back at Dex’s office, I’d just felt that something was missing. I still did. Something about the picture Dex and I had put together was incomplete. More and more I felt that the only part of the picture available to us that we hadn’t examined was right here in the Banks-Huntley Building, in the office where Harrison Dempsey had spent most of his time.
There was a hammered gold clock on the breakfront. When it read five thirty and no one had come into the room, I got off the recamier and quietly started to work. I only hoped that I’d recognize what I was looking for when I found it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
HARRISON DEMPSEY’S OFFICE was a wonder. Or it would have been on a day when I could just indulge myself and enjoy it, the way you enjoy a walk through a museum or even a zoo. The office was filled with many fine things. Objets d’art and beautiful books, the latter probably chosen more for their bindings than for what was between two covers.
A quick look through the desk revealed nothing out of the ordinary, nor did it do much to illuminate the nature of Dempsey’s business, at least not to me. The center top drawer was locked, and I resolved to keep a lookout for the key, though I doubted I’d come across it. The top right-hand drawer held a bottle of good scotch and four clean glasses. I wondered if that were the universal booze drawer, because that’s where Dex kept his office stash as well.
The two bottom desk drawers held files. At a glance, they all seemed to be plans of one ki
nd or another: a house at Lake Tahoe, an office building in Long Beach, and some sort of gambling palace in the desert. Whether these were plans for clients or for Dempsey himself, I couldn’t tell. In any case, nothing about any of these files struck me as off or wrong. I realized that didn’t rule them out. On the other hand, since I had no means of either duplicating or removing possibly incriminating files, I really had no choice but to move on.
A file marked Personal at first didn’t reveal much of interest to me. The receipt for the green Packard, a bill for a new hat from a haberdashery in San Francisco. One thing stuck out though. Something that hit me like a jolt of recognition. It was a bill from a dressmaker addressed to “Mr. Harrison Dempsey, the Banks-Huntley Building, 630-634 S. Spring Street, Los Angeles.” The bill was for a “gold lame dress in the style of Mainbocher” that had been “made to order for Mrs. Jergens” some two months earlier. I could almost feel the room spinning as I read this because it so altered my view of everything I’d learned so far.
Try as I might, I could think of no good reason that Dempsey—husband of Lila, lover of Rita, indebted to Lucid Wilson—would have for buying a dress for Brucie, the wife of the right-hand man of Lucid’s archrival. I didn’t know what it meant, but a part of me just wanted to stop now. Just stop and cry. Instead I filed the information mentally and pressed on. I wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible, and even though I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for, it hadn’t been this.
The breakfront revealed a similarly eclectic assortment of things. More glass, more booze—neither of which was surprising in that particular piece of furniture—and still more benign-looking files. And though these seemed to do with finance, since none was marked “Large Amount of Money Owed to Lucid Wilson,” I had no choice but to keep going.
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