The Complete Bragg Thriller Box Set

by Jack Lynch

  “You ought to see the hambones who’ve had these things in their possession all these years,” I said quietly.

  Mr. Minzer looked up and blinked. “Hambones?”

  “Rough-edged people.”

  “You know where there are more pieces?”

  “I’m supposed to know approximately where all of them are.”

  Minzer wagged his head slowly. “It is bad news, Peter. It is trouble. Better for you—and for me too—that we should forget about this thing. Get rid of it and go off and get drunk someplace. It is too much trouble for mortals to cope with.”

  “This mortal promised a couple of people he’d try. And like I said, there are dead men because of it. Recently dead men.”

  “That does not exactly make me smack my forehead in wonder, Peter.”

  “How much would you say this one is worth, Mr. Minzer?”

  “This little gold and silver and gem-encrusted fellow, all by himself, without any help from his friends?”

  “That’s it.”

  He reached for a pad and pencil on a shelf behind him. He weighed the pawn on a small scale, did some mental calculations and wrote something I couldn’t decipher. Then he used his probe and counted the various sets of stones, jotting figures from time to time. He put it back on the pedestal and added the figures. When he was finished with that he stared at the figure for a moment, then made his fists into a platform and rested his chin on them. He continued staring at the pawn for the better part of a minute.

  “I would say,” he began quietly, “with some confidence, that all by himself, alone, this little fellow in a very short time would bring offers for—say, thirty thousand dollars.”

  “Thirty thousand? For that one little dude?”

  “Maybe more. But certainly no less. Look here at something, Peter.” He used his probe to scale the area around the warrior’s elbow and shoulder on the right side where it held the sword. He used a dropper to lubricate the two joints, then gently put pressure behind the elbow with one finger. The little figure moved. The arm extended, and the sword rose toward the sky.

  “They have moving parts, even. Easily thirty thousand for this little dude, Peter.”

  “And with eight pawns to a side, sixteen in all, the set’s pawns together would be worth in the neighborhood of…”

  “One half million dollars. Easily.”

  “And the others?”

  “I have not seen the others.”

  “But this is a pretty good indication.”

  “True. The rooks, probably twice the value of these. Knights the same. Bishops would be worth more, perhaps one hundred thousand. The kings and queens easily one half million dollars each, or two million for the four of them. These are conservative estimates.”

  “Can I borrow your pad a minute?”

  “Be my guest,” he said, his eyes returning to the little figure.

  I did some figuring of my own. “That means their individual value, even if they were scattered across the globe, would come to something more than three million dollars.”

  “Yes.”

  “And if they were restored as a complete set. What might somebody be willing to pay for that?”

  The old man shrugged. “Six? Seven? Maybe ten million dollars.”

  I went back and found something to lean against again. The wind had come up and was beginning to beat more rain against the front windows of the shop. The burner beside Mr. Minzer hissed. The old man’s eyes remained locked on the single pawn. From where I stood the little blue flame seemed to cast shadows across the pawn’s face in such a way that it transformed its warrior appearance from something noble to a more evil cast. Maybe it was just my imagination after what Minzer had told me about the set’s origins, its purpose for being. The acquisition and trade in human beings. Or maybe I just had to get out of there and clear my head.

  I went back to the bench and waited. In a minute Mr. Minzer sighed and handed me the paper it had been wrapped in, then gave me the piece itself.

  “I hope you can think of some slick place to hide this, Peter. You have more there in the box, do you?”

  “Not many. You won’t go blabbing about this to people, will you, Mr. Minzer?” I asked, rewrapping the figure and putting him back into the carton with his buddies.

  “If I wanted you to die shortly, Peter, I would blab about such things. You shouldn’t ask.”

  “Thanks.” I went to the front of the shop and Mr. Minzer followed to unlock the door.

  Another thought crossed my mind. “Mr. Minzer, say I possessed the complete set. And I wanted to sell at a fair price. Not a greedy price, just a fair one. How would I go about it?”

  He thought a moment. “I have a very old and good friend in Berne. Otto Kessel. He would know.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Minzer. It might help me to know there’s someone out there not connected to the people I’m dealing with.”

  “Yes. Kessel would know.”

  “I’ll send you a check for the help you’ve been.”

  “No, Peter. No checks, not yet, at least. If you complete your transactions—when you have disposed of these little figures so they are out of our lives, then maybe send me what you think is proper. Not before.”

  “All right, Mr. Minzer. Thanks again.”

  He let me out into the mist and gloom. I looked up and down the alley. It was deserted. Up on Grant a few dark figures scurried past the mouth to the alley. I walked back down to the parking garage, but before getting my car I gave the office a call. It was Friday, getaway day. Ceejay was just leaving. She told me Erica Shank had finally phoned in. She gave me a number where I could reach her. I dialed it and Erica answered.

  “Peter, it’s so good to hear from you. How was your trip?”

  “Eventful. Where have you been?”

  “Here. I mean, at a friend’s place. I was too frightened to stay at home. Harry’s death wasn’t an accident.”

  “So I’ve heard. You might have left a number where you could be reached. There’s been a lot going on.”

  “I know. I phoned Mr. Bowman this afternoon. He told me about last night. I’m sorry you were hurt that way.”

  “They got to my dignity more than anything else. That heals quickly enough. I think we should get together for a little talk. Tonight, if possible.”

  “Of course. Mr. Bowman wants us to all meet at the Zane woman’s home in Port Costa.”

  “It’s going to be a bum night to make that drive.”

  “I know, but he said a Mr. Battersea will be there. And I don’t have my car, Peter. I thought maybe you could pick me up.”

  “I guess maybe I could. But what about Catlin? He’s been hanging around your place at the beach.”

  “I know. We talked this afternoon. He told me about your proposal. We discussed it at length. He’s still reluctant to share the proceeds evenly. Personally, I thought your idea to give back the money Polaski took was brilliant. I urged him to reconsider.”

  “Maybe I should send out those two guys from New York to bounce him off the walls a couple of times. He might get the same brilliant idea. All right, Erica, where and when do you want me to pick you up?”

  She gave me the address of an apartment building out on Post Street.

  “Why don’t you get me around seven? And maybe when we’re finished out at Port Costa we could go have a drink somewhere.”

  “Sure, if it works out we have time.”

  “I think we should make time, Peter. I still owe you that other kiss for finding Catlin for me. Seven o’clock, darling.”

  She hung up. I stood there like a dummy for another moment holding the dead receiver to my ear, then hung up. I had to admit she bothered me some. I probably would have been willing to let her bother me a whole lot more if I felt I could completely believe everything she told me. But I was a long way from that yet. Still, I spent a little more time thinking about Erica than most other things while I drove over to Polo’s and had a plate of spaghetti. I had the un
comfortable feeling that an interlude with Erica Shank could too easily go one of two ways, either leaving me feeling like a school kid with his head in the clouds or a thoroughly broken man. Either way it would be memorable.

  I still hadn’t come to any firm conclusion to do with any of that when I drove out Post Street to the address she’d given me. It was just as well. Because when I rode the elevator up and rang at the apartment number she’d given me it wasn’t Erica who opened the door. It was Bryan Gilkerson.

  THIRTEEN

  It was a little hard to tell which of us was the more surprised.

  “Good God, Peter,” he said, opening the door wide and ushering me in. “You’re about the last person I expected to see here right now.”

  “You shouldn’t be. I was talking on the phone with Mrs. Shank earlier. She is here, isn’t she, Bryan?”

  “Yes, of course. I put her up for a few days to keep her out of harm’s way, so to speak. Didn’t know she’d gotten in touch with you. She’s in the powder room. I just got in myself a minute or two ago. Can I fix you a drink?”

  “No, thanks.” It was an awkward moment. Bryan’s apartment was barely large enough for one person to stay in comfortably, let alone two. My place in Sausalito looked like a blimp hanger by comparison. Bryan’s place was basically just one large room with a small kitchenette off that and a very small bedroom and bath. There was an open suitcase over on a sofa with women’s garments in it.

  “I know how it must look, Peter, but the poor woman had no place to go, really. It turns out she doesn’t have any close friends of her own. Just people Harry knew. I took your suggestion after I saw her leaving your office and drove out to the beach to see if I could pry loose a few more pieces of the story. While we were talking, the coroner’s office phoned and told her the real cause of Harry’s death. She very nearly went to pieces. She was scared half out of her wits, and wanted to run off somewhere. So I offered her refuge. Not altogether proper, perhaps, but it was all I could think of on short notice.”

  “Forget it, Bryan. She’s just a client. She could have done worse.”

  “Thank you, old man.”

  Erica came out of the bathroom just then wearing a strawberry-colored skirt and a thin brassiere. She stopped abruptly.

  “My, it looks as if everybody arrived while I was dressing. Excuse me, please, gentlemen.” She smiled at the two of us and went into the bedroom. She returned a moment later buttoning a white blouse.

  “I thought I could pull it off without you two meeting,” she said in a way you couldn’t tell whether or not she were joking. “Bryan’s been just a dear, Peter. Took me in during a period of very real stress.”

  “Everybody here is an adult,” I said. “I don’t see that it should overly concern any of us. Have you been getting the story you wanted, Bryan?”

  “No. Mrs. Shank is an absolute clam about things. I take it now the two of you are hot on the trail of some new facet of things.”

  “If we can hold the ends together we might have it wrapped up in another day or so. Let’s get going, Erica.”

  “Of course,” she said, crossing to close the suitcase on the sofa. “Will you carry this for me, Peter?” she turned to Gilkerson. “It’s time I either made other arrangements or went home, Bryan. Thank you for being such a dear.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek, then joined me without looking back.

  We left the little apartment while Gilkerson stood in the doorway with a rare look of discomfort on his face.

  We didn’t speak on the way down to the car or on the drive across the Bay Bridge. We were on Highway 80, headed north toward Sacramento, when she turned in the seat beside me.

  “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “Not at all.”

  She took a cigarette from her purse, used the car lighter and blew out a quick puff of smoke. “It could have been you, you know,” she told me, staring out of the windshield.

  “No, it couldn’t. Not like that.”

  She was quiet for several more moments, then turned back. “You can’t know what it was like, Peter. You just can’t.”

  “Sure I can. You lost your brother and your husband the same day.” I looked over at her. That had caught her off guard. Her mouth was partly open but she didn’t speak.

  “That’s right, Erica, I learned Buddy Polaski was your brother. I don’t know why you and Harry thought it should be such a big secret, but I can understand how you felt when you learned they’d both been murdered. You were scared. I can understand that. You needed comfort. I can understand that even.”

  “Then why are you so suddenly cold?”

  “Because of where you went. Bryan Gilkerson, for God’s sake. I mean, among men he’s a fine companion and a good newspaperman. But around women…”

  “What about around women?”

  “He isn’t very selective.”

  “And I suppose you are.”

  “As a matter of fact, I am. But we’re not talking about me.”

  “And why not? If we’re talking about my personal life we sure as hell ought to be able to talk about yours. I’ve had the feeling the two of us might have gotten together long ago if it weren’t for a timid streak on your part.”

  “Sorry to have disappointed you. But you were a married woman. That sort of thing can get generally clumsy. I’ve seen it happen too many times.”

  “Well I’m no longer a married woman.”

  “You’re right, of course. We shouldn’t even be talking like this. Let’s get back to a working relationship and forget the rest.”

  “Oh God, Peter.” She stabbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. I glanced quickly at her. There was a tear running down her cheek. Either she was a great actress or I’d badly misjudged things. She didn’t bother fussing with her face, but just sniffed back whatever else was ready to come out of her and grasped my leg with both hands, as if she had to hold onto something.

  “Peter, I’m going to tell you a few things. Not because I particularly want to, and not because you’ll want to hear them. But whatever else you might think of me now, I do like you a great deal, and even if it should mean the quick end to our relationship you’ve got to hear this rather sordid story, and you’ve got to hear it from me. Do you know how many years separated Harry and myself?”

  “Not exactly. I knew they were considerable and used to wonder about it some.”

  “Of course, who wouldn’t? Well, it was a very old story, the mistake I made. I was only a child when my brother Buddy and Harry came back from the war. I didn’t even meet Harry then. I grew up in rather normal circumstances and got married in rather normal circumstances—in poverty, or at least as close to it as I’d ever care to be. I became pregnant and my husband had a fit. It already was about all we could do to scrape by on what we both earned, and a baby meant I would have to quit my job and there would be another mouth to feed as well. As it turned out, lucky for the both of us, I had a miscarriage. And soon after that the marriage went the way of the baby.

  “It was a year later that I met Harry. He and my brother kept in touch over the years following that one wild adventure I understand these people all took part in. Buddy introduced us and despite the difference in our ages, things just sort of took off. I like to think I’m not bad-looking today. Back then I was dazzling, and was working and spending a fair amount of my money on clothes and hair stylists and anything else that could improve upon what I already had. And of course over the short run Harry could be absolutely charming. He’d been around. He was worldly, told fascinating stories and very soon convinced me he’d fallen in love with me. And by then I’d gotten to the age to wonder and worry over what might become of me as I got older and my looks began to fade. Harry had a high-paying job in San Francisco, everybody’s favorite city, I’d been told. Well, it was more than I could resist for long, in my circumstances. So we got married.”

  She leaned back and lit another cigarette. I slowed and took the Carquinez Drive exit at Crockett, swung down u
nder the bridge and past the big sugar mill.

  “Chapter two,” she resumed quietly. “In the next couple of years I grew up. I learned the wrenching burden a girl can assume when she marries up in years for the security it provides. I was bitter at first. Marrying an older man shouldn’t have to be that way, I felt. Still do for that matter. But it sure was that way in Harry’s case. Unfortunately I became rather shackled to him emotionally.”

  I turned for a brief moment to look at her.

  “Not love, more pity. It turned out he bore horrible scars from the war, but he’d buried them all those years—didn’t even know they existed. It turned out that I was the first woman he actually grew close enough to so he could begin to let some of it out. Before then he’d been having too much fun drinking and carousing with the newspaper crowd to reflect on things. He gave that up when he married me, but within a year or two he began to lose his hair and put on weight and fall asleep nights in front of the fireplace or television set. On the good nights, that is. Our sex life had become a joke. Not that I hold that especially against him. I think the war thing played an awfully large role there, as that began to come out. And of course poor Harry was terribly embarrassed and frightened, I think. We tried to right matters in one way and another. I’m not going to dwell on this part of things, but Harry used to ask me to do things around the house wearing some rather skimpy clothing. And he took pictures of me like that. In the long run it was just as well, I suppose. He got so he was content to sit in front of the fire and just look at those photos he took. It seemed to fill whatever sexual needs he had.”

  She filled her lungs with smoke and crushed out the cigarette, not so angrily this time. “And, as I said, I was for better or worse growing closer to Harry by being his in-house therapist. He would wake up nights with these awful nightmares that came out of his war experiences. As a correspondent he was theoretically a noncombatant, but he was right in the middle of an awful lot of fighting and shelling and dying for years on end. He was nearly hysterical one night, clinging at the twisted bedsheets at three in the morning close to screaming. He told me once he hadn’t really understood what it was all about back then. He would tell me about the number of times he’d seen young boys he’d been talking to just moments before…He said it hadn’t bothered him back then.”