When I got there, I was pretty well winded, so I took a few minutes to linger at the edge of the great man’s private jungle. Peering through the greenery around me, I could see the harbor below and, far away now, the mainland. It was a spectacular sight in the morning light, and for the first time it occurred to me that California—despite all the literal and figurative roadblocks she’d set up for me—was quite the thing of beauty. I saw now that Carmelita had been only half right when, as Gemma, she’d told me that Los Angeles was like a fake jewel—sparkly and attractive at first glance but chipped and faded on closer inspection. That was true; I’d seen it. But the city was more than a chipped gem. It was a magnet, too, one that drew all the suffering and disconnected people spread out all across the rest of the land to the east, Annabelle and myself included. I decided I’d rather think of it that way than as the fading beauty Carmelita had described.
When I felt more like myself again, I walked the last few feet to the front door of the mansion, rang the bell, and waited. I tensed when the door opened after a few seconds, dreading the possibility of facing Edward Ross again. To my relief, a woman in a maid’s uniform asked if she could help me.
“I need to speak to Mr. Beadle,” I said.
She gave a polite smile and said, “I’m sorry, but Mr. Beadle isn’t receiving visitors this morning.”
This meant he was home, a good sign.
“Can you let him know that Jed Strait is here to see him?”
She started shaking her head in the negative, her patronizing smile suggesting that I clearly didn’t understand that there were no exceptions to the rule: Mr. Beadle wasn’t receiving visitors. The end.
I didn’t let the head shaking get any momentum. “I promise you, he’ll see me. And he’ll be irritated if I have to come back this afternoon and let him know we could have talked now instead.”
The maid sighed. “Wait here,” she said.
I did, and it didn’t bother me that she closed the door on me while she went to rouse her employer. I probably didn’t look like much with my borrowed clothes and unshaven face.
It took a few minutes, but when the door opened again, it wasn’t the maid standing before me but Beadle himself. He wore a red silk robe tied at the waist with a black sash. The glasses had been changed, the leader of the Crossovers opting now for little wire-framed specs that barely covered his eyes and didn’t do much to keep them under control. His left eye seemed to focus on me most of the time while the right went off on its merry way, ever the rebel.
“Mr. Strait,” the ex-actor said. “Please, come in.”
“I’d rather get things established before I come in, sir,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow at this. “Established?” he echoed.
“Yes. You made me an offer yesterday afternoon—five thousand dollars in exchange for the story of what happened when I went to the other side.”
“Indeed. The offer still stands.”
“I’d like to propose a change.”
Silence met this and finally a nod. “Go ahead.”
“I’ve had two visions now.”
Genuine surprise registered on his face as he said, “Two?”
“Yes, sir.”
He took a moment and then said, “I suppose that means you’re asking me for ten thousand?” He looked skeptical, like a man used to dealing with charlatans.
“That would be logical, but no. I’m not a greedy man, Mr. Beadle. I want what I need and no more.”
“And what is it you need?”
“The original five thousand ought to do it.”
He raised an eyebrow at this.
Then I added, “And the device your friend Dr. Schwartz stole from my luggage and used to beat me to the mainland yesterday morning.”
He pondered this for a moment, his expression sly. “I think that’s something you’ll need to take up with Elsa.”
“Deal’s off, then,” I said.
He smiled at this, his eyes revealing a bit of disappointment but not defeat. “You know…” he said. “It does seem only fair that you have your device returned to you, but you may recall that your Miss Blaylock also absconded with something belonging to my friends and me. Elsa tells me you’re intimately aware of the device she calls the Exetron. It’s a good thing she has more than one unit.”
I had considered the possibility that Beadle would try to bargain for the little metal box. Much as I hated to give it up before Guillermo had had a chance to get at the nuts and bolts of it, I knew it was more important to him that he get his flight pack back. Besides, he still had today to work on the Exetron, and my guess was that he wasn’t wasting any time.
“Well,” I said. “I haven’t got it with me, as you can see.”
“And I haven’t got your apparatus either.”
I doubted that but didn’t challenge him on it.
“What do you say I arrange a swap tomorrow?” I asked. “Could we still do business today?”
“In a hurry?”
“I have some loose ends I need to tie up. And a bit of a cash flow problem that’s preventing said knots from being fastened.”
He nodded and smiled. “It’s a deal, Mr. Strait,” he said, and we shook on it.
Then he stood aside to let me into the mansion. I crossed the threshold and he closed the door behind me. It felt strange to be back inside the place where Annabelle and I had had our last real connection, but I needed to push those thoughts aside and focus. Those knots I’d mentioned weren’t going to tie themselves.
Beadle led the way toward an office, its ornately carved sliding doors half open and a massive rococo desk visible beyond them. Once we were in the office, he slid the doors closed and offered me a seat in front of the desk while he went around it and began pulling equipment out of a drawer. I recognized a microphone attached to a little box, but I couldn’t make sense of the rest of it. I assumed it was some kind of recording device.
As he fiddled with his gadgets, I said, “If you don’t mind my asking, how is that driver of yours? Edward?”
Beadle focused his one obedient eye on me for a moment, a curious expression on his face. “Do you know each other?” he asked.
“We spoke briefly. I, uh, accidentally knocked him through that kitchen door yesterday when he got hurt.”
“Ah,” he said, fitting a cord into a jack. “Yes, he did come out of that a little worse for wear. I understand he sustained a mild concussion. He’ll be fine, I’m told. Shall I tell him you asked after him?”
I thought about this for a moment, imagining Edward’s ire at the impertinence of his attacker wishing him well, but then I went ahead anyway and said, “Sure. I’d appreciate that.”
Once he had everything set up, the old actor said, “Would you be interested in lecturing on your experiences so my friends can benefit? I would, of course, compensate you for your time.”
“No, thanks. And I don’t want my name used in any of your propaganda. It’s anonymous all the way.”
He nodded at this, disappointment in his eyes.
It took almost two hours to lay the whole thing out for him, the first vision and then the second, keeping my experience from the Break O’ Dawn to myself. The only parts I held back were the bits about how I’d tried to get information on Annabelle or how I’d written her name as my last action in the other world. Beadle found it fascinating that I’d had to deal with a living version of Miller so soon after ending the life of the Miller in this world. He also wanted to know all the little details—the fashions, the names on the theater marquee, the name of the new president and the political story in the newspaper, even the models of cars that I could remember. The fact that Geneva Masterson appeared to be a murderer in both worlds seemed to faze him not at all; instead, he was more curious about the fact that one of her goons had a British accent.
“Any ideas as to the story behind that?” he asked.
“None,” I replied and continued spilling details.
When we wer
e finished, he gave me a piercing stare; one I assumed was meant to ferret out the truthfulness of what I’d just laid out. I didn’t blink as I stared back. The truth was on my side, and I felt certain that I’d relayed the whole story with enough specific details to make it sound completely believable. Despite my certainty, Beadle leaned forward in his chair and said, “Please forgive me for saying so, Mr. Strait, but if what you’ve told me is true—and I do believe your story to have been absolutely authentic—then you seem able to move between worlds with a facility that I have never been privy to in all my years of investigation.”
I didn’t know how to respond to this. If he was accusing me of having lied, it was about the most polite accusation I’d ever heard. “Thanks,” was all I managed to say.
He smiled at this, probably finding me quaint. “Do you have any explanation? Ever have anything…unusual like this happen to you before? Moments of lost time? Get mistaken for someone else?”
I shook my head. “No. Nothing.” Then I shrugged. “It was that box of Elsa’s that did it, not anything in me.”
“Hmm,” he said, leaning back in his chair again. “I doubt that. I asked Elsa about the connection after the police finished with us yesterday. The Exetron has been used for entertainment purposes only.” He smiled and let that hang in the air for a moment. Then he added, “But, of course, I’m told it might have some application in the persuasive arts.”
“That’s what the Nazis are calling it?”
He shrugged but said nothing else.
After a few more seconds of silence, he opened a desk drawer and took out his checkbook. Then he wrote out a check for $4,500 and gave me the remaining $500 in cash, crisp new hundred-dollar bills with Martha Washington’s face on them. How old George had only landed on the five was beyond me.
You may be wondering how I could take the man’s money after everything that had happened, how I could swing a deal with the devil that way.
And you’d be right to think I shouldn’t have. Sure, the whole scheme of using Annabelle to get information, slipping her into my hotel room and later arranging for her to use the Exetron on me to get Carmelita’s location—all of that might have been Miller’s doing, but he’d worked at Beadle’s command. The old man might not have known the details, might even have asked to be spared them for his own sake, but he’d known the gist regardless; he’d known that people were being used to serve his ends, and he’d done nothing to discourage it. He’d no doubt set up rewards of some kind for those ends being met, irrespective of the means used. So, all of it really had been his fault—probably starting with whatever pressure Annabelle had received to sever ties with her grandmother and me.
And this meant I shouldn’t have cut a deal with him, shouldn’t have given him details of the other world—the thing he wanted more than anything else. I shouldn’t have taken his money or sat in his chair. And I certainly shouldn’t have taken his hand when he offered it at the end of our transaction.
But I did all those things. And I felt lousy about doing them. Even so, I’d known before heading back to Catalina that I was going to have to face a choice: sell out to Beadle and live with a guilty conscience or keep everything to myself and slink out of the city with nothing more than my nightmares to count on. At least this way, compromised though my morals were, I figured I might be able to make a few positive marks in the karma column by putting my filthy lucre to good use.
When the transaction was complete and my wallet was fat, I gave the old man what I hoped was a friendly grin as I said, “Do you mind if I ask you a question now that I’m done?”
“Not at all.” The retired actor looked exceedingly pleased at the information I’d given him, and maybe it had softened him up a bit.
“The box—the Exetron—did you or Schwartz have anything to do with it being in Masterson’s possession when he took Miss Blaylock to Las Vegas?” I asked, opting to stick with Carmelita’s alter ego. There was always a chance Beadle’s people would come after her again, and I didn’t want him knowing her true identity if it could be helped.
Beadle remained silent for a moment, clearly measuring his response. I suppose he was sizing up what he could and couldn’t say from a legal standpoint. Finally, he sighed and said, “Poor Lance asked if he could borrow the device before he left on his trip. He didn’t say what he wanted it for.”
“And Miss Blaylock? Did you know he was taking her with him?”
“No,” Uncle Cosmo said with a quick shake of his head. “I never heard of the young woman until I learned the police were looking for her in connection with Lance’s death, nor did I ever see her until Detective Miller arrived at Lance’s wake with her in tow.”
“But you did tell Miller to grab her up.”
Now Beadle gave me his best benevolent smile. “What happened at the wake is well-documented, isn’t it Mr. Strait? That’s probably sufficient. The things that happened before…should perhaps best be forgotten.”
“Fair enough,” I said.
“May I ask why you were interested, though?”
I shrugged, supposing it wouldn’t hurt anything to share my speculations. “I just wasn’t sure why Miss Blaylock grabbed up the Exetron when she left Masterson’s car on the street. She must have figured it was something special, or else she would have left it behind. And the only way for her to have known that would have been if Masterson had shown her how it worked—before Geneva caught them at whatever game they were playing. I expect he used it to try and control her. Sort of a tool for seduction. I’m assuming that his normal efforts had all been for naught.”
Beadle shook his head at the foolishness of it all.
“I trust the young woman is none the worse for wear?” he asked.
“No thanks to Miller,” I said. I wanted to add “and you” but I kept that to myself. There was no point in turning things nasty now that it had all been wrapped up—and since I hadn’t yet had an opportunity to cash the man’s check.
“Well…I’m relieved the whole affair is at its end. We’ll have to see what becomes of Geneva.”
“Yes, we will,” I said. The time would come, I knew, when “the whole affair” would be played out in front of a jury, and I expected both Beadle and myself would be present. It would be interesting to see how—or if—Carmelita was going to be kept out of it.
“Was there anything else you wanted to know?” Beadle asked.
“I don’t think so.”
He knitted his fingers together and gave me a benevolent smile. “May I ask your plans now that everything is finished?”
“Well…the first thing I’m going to do is arrange for Annabelle’s body to be shipped home and for her to get a proper burial.” The words stuck in my throat as I said them, and I was glad to see they’d made Beadle uncomfortable as well, a darkness passing over his expression like breakfast had just turned sour in his gut. Rather than give him the opportunity to say anything about Annabelle or what had happened to her, I changed the subject.
“After that, I’m thinking of setting up my own private detective agency,” I said, spilling the information without considering whether or not I should tell him. It was the first time I’d said it out loud to anyone, having kept it from Guillermo; the idea had been percolating in the back of my mind ever since I’d come back from my last trip to the other world. Solving the Masterson murder in two different worlds had left me with a feeling of satisfaction. It wasn’t quite as pleasing as letting an A minor chord ring out on a perfectly tuned guitar, but it was damn close. And it had a much better chance of leading to something that would put food on the table on a regular basis. The other Jed Strait seemed to be making that gig work for him—why couldn’t I?
“You may be a natural at that.”
“I might. All I’ll need is a license and an office, which your generous payment is going to help me with. And I think I’ve already got an assistant lined up to help with the leg work.” I didn’t bother telling him it was Carmelita who I had in mind
, and of course I didn’t know if she’d even be interested. Still, it would likely satisfy her needs, and if her becoming my employee helped convince O’Neal to let her go, I figured Carmelita would probably agree to it.
“I’m glad to see that we have benefited mutually from the arrangement,” Beadle said.
More than ready to leave now, I asked, “Do you know if there’s any way I could use a bit of this cash to get a ride back to the mainland? I don’t want to have to wait for the tourist boat to come back if I can help it.”
“Don’t be absurd,” he said. “I’ll have my private yacht run you over right away.”
Beadle had a fancy telephone on his desk. He used it now to call the boat’s captain and arrange my passage back to San Pedro.
When he hung up, I pointed at the phone. “Would it be possible for me to use that?” I asked. “I’d like to arrange a ride for when I get back to the mainland.”
“Of course,” Beadle said. He slid the phone across the desk in my direction. “It’s not a regular phone line out here on the island. Just dial zero to get an operator, and they’ll put you through.”
“Thanks.”
I stood, reached for the receiver, and dialed as he had said. When the operator came on the line, I asked to be connected to Big City, Little Cab. After a few seconds, I heard a click and then ringing, followed by a gruff male voice that simply said, “Dispatch.”
“Hello,” I said, wondering if this was the same person Margaret West had called Mutt. “I’m going to need a cab to meet me at the dock in San Pedro in…”
I looked questioningly at Beadle. He caught my meaning and said, “An hour…hour and twenty.”
Nodding my thanks, I said, “Let’s call it an hour and a half.”
“Name?”
“Jed Strait.”
“You got it.”
“Say,” I added quickly before the dispatcher could hang up. “Is it possible to request a specific driver?”
“Sure, if they’re available.”
“There’s a driver named Margaret West. I know she was working yesterday. Is there any chance she’s on duty today?”
The Blacktop Blues: A Dieselpunk Adventure (The Crossover Case Files Book 1) Page 27
