The Driver

by Steve Bartholomew

  Douvet found a match and lit his pipe, blowing smoke at the ceiling for a moment. “I tell you this, so that you will see I am not one of those innocents. If I cannot always forgive criminals, I at least know how to get along with them. And so I got along with Alexander Penworthy.”

  Georg had an urge to scratch something, perhaps his own head. “You are saying he was a criminal?”

  Douvet laughed. “Of the first order. Not that I could prove much. In fact, I doubt that he often broke the law. But his acts toward others was criminal in intent. That is mon opinion. As to my own dealings, you will recall the recent bank panic. Business fell off, debts were called in. I found myself in danger of losing my shop. I sought for a loan against the equity in my mortgage. Sadly, I fell victim to M’sieur Penworthy.

  “He was the only one I could find willing to lend. I did not yet know what he was like. It was not long before he began making unreasonable demands, making threats to foreclose should I be a few days late in payment.”

  Douvet made a vile face and took another drink of wine. “He went so far as to make indecent suggestions about my daughter, claiming he would write off part of the loan should I place her at his disposal. At that point I nearly killed him myself. Then, not long ago, Penworthy came to me with another proposition, one not quite so odious.”

  Georg was fascinated by this story. He leaned forward, the better to hear, watching Douvet’s face. For the moment he forgot that Douvet was probably a murderer. He wanted to hear this tale.

  “M’sieu Penworthy of course knew that I am in the antique business. I have educated myself in the value of various artifacts from over the world. He told me that he had come into possession of a certain item of great value. He wished for me to place a price upon it. He said also he wanted me to keep it for him until he should find a buyer. He hinted that it had come to him through questionable channels.

  “In other words, the man wished for me to act as his fence, to use your American term. A purveyor of stolen goods. I saw that I had little choice. And so a few days later, after dark, he brought the item to me for appraisal. He insisted I compose a letter to certify its suggested value.”

  Douvet paused, as if thinking. Georg prompted him. “What was the item?”

  Douvet shook himself. “It was wrapped in old paper and cloth, with several layers of silk. Not large. It appeared not to have been opened for some time, though I could tell it had been opened and re-sealed. There was a waxen seal with an Oriental sign. I knew better than to ask Penworthy about it. As I unwrapped the package I discovered several notes in Chinese, which I preserved for later translation. The item inside was an ancient dagger, with a silver blade and carved jade handle. Penworthy told me it was called the Dragon’s Tooth.

  “In fact, the same weapon which was later to find its way to Penworthy’s heart.”

  For a moment Georg could think of nothing to say. Douvet himself gazed in silence out the window. Finally Georg said, “That dagger is in the hands of the Police now.”

  “Oui.” Douvet gave him a brief grin. “It is ironic, non? The lawful owner, if such could be found, would probably pay thousands for its return. And yet no one will claim it because it is a murder weapon, and because it is stolen goods.”

  At this point it occurred to Georg to wonder why Douvet was being so open about his dealings with Penworthy. If this story got out it could damage his business, or worse. He nearly asked Douvet about it, then the obvious reason occurred to him. Douvet was diverting attention from his crime of murder by confessing to lesser crimes. Georg kept his mouth shut and listened.

  Douvet arose and opened his small window, blowing smoke into the open air. “I was able to have the notes translated. In time I was able to trace the owner to a collector in Hong Kong. It was not reported as stolen from him, which leads me to believe it was sold on the black market. In China it is illegal to sell certain artifacts to foreigners.

  “The notes included in the package claimed that the dagger had once belonged to Ghengis Khan. Supposedly it was a gift from him to a favorite courtesan, who later used it to cut her own throat. After that of course it bore a curse. I could not swear that it actually belonged to the Khan, but I have no doubt it was made during that era.

  “At any rate, Penworthy let me know he wanted it back. He said he had found a buyer for it. He wished for me to meet him on your streetcar. It was a public stage, and yet a difficult place for anyone to follow him without detection. I may have said that Penworthy sometimes had strange requirements.

  “As for myself, I was only too happy to be rid of the thing. Penworthy would stop hounding me for payments on the loan for awhile. Business was improving, and I hoped to be able to pay him off.” He gave a massive shrug.

  “Now I may not have to pay. His estate will be tied up in probate, perhaps for years. I hear his father is making a claim. That small-time crook that Alexander hired as secretary will make a mess of it as executor. I do not care. I am done with the thing. I wish not to hear of Mr. Penworthy again.”

  Douvet smiled at Georg, who said nothing. Douvet knocked out his pipe. “Are you sure you won’t sample this plum wine before you go?”

  13

  Dragon’s Tooth

  On Saturday Georg had Greek write a note to Genevieve and send it over. He would visit her the next day. Hang something red in the window if you think it isn’t safe. By this time the manhunt had probably died down. The Workingman’s Party was lying low, though no one doubted they might return given the chance. If the Police had staked out Sutliff Printers, chances were good they were getting bored with the duty.

  Nothing red was in the window. Georg rapped on the door around noon. Genevieve opened almost at once. After a quick glance up and down the street, she let him in.

  “You’re taking a chance coming here.”

  “You are worth it.”

  She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him. “Come upstairs with me.”

  She had prepared a lunch of soup and bread. He was hungry for food and for her. He ate quickly and mostly in silence. When he was done he said, “I think I have found the man who killed Penworthy. I just don’t know why.”

  She listened while he described his conversation with Douvet. He said, “This man was there. He had the opportunity. He even admitted having the murder weapon. I’m nearly sure it was him.”

  She sat back and watched him. “Why would he tell you all this if he was guilty? I have met this man, by the way. We are merchants in similar trades. He brought up his step daughter Rocelyn surrounded by Little France. She seldom went outside. You know there is a French enclave in San Francisco, just as there is a Little China, Little Germany, Little Italy and so on. Usually they get along well, but they each have their own languages. That’s why Rocelyn speaks with an accent though she grew up here. Douvet guards what family he has. He’s an honorable man.”

  Georg nodded, taking that in. “Perhaps he had a good reason for committing murder.”

  “Perhaps someone did. But I don’t think Douvet could have done it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Did you notice his hands? They are large and clumsy. You may not know it, but killing a man with a knife is not an easy task. Usually the blade misses a vital spot, there is a great deal of blood and the man may take hours to die. Penworthy was stabbed with surgical precision. One thrust and his heart stopped. I don’t think Douvet had the skill.” She shrugged. “Of course it’s always possible. Maybe he was lucky.”

  He said, “Did you see Douvet on my streetcar?”

  “I did. We nodded politely to each other, though I’m not sure he remembered me. I think he did sit near Penworthy. I can’t say when he left.”

  Georg thought about it. “The knife is a unique and valuable weapon. Why didn’t the killer take it with him?”

  “Because when a blade is inserted into a human body the muscles automatically clamp. Usually it requires great effort to pull it out again. We saw this in the war, when soldie
rs sometimes came in with a knife or bayonet still in them.”

  Georg nodded, staring at the table top. “I begin to see. The killing was not planned in advance. Otherwise the killer would have chosen a less valuable weapon. Penworthy arranged for Douvet to pass the weapon to him on my streetcar, a public place where he felt safe. Then Douvet or someone else took the opportunity of the riot to stab him. He used the Chinese knife because it was there. He had not planned the murder and brought no other weapon.”

  Genevieve gave a half smile. “Unless that knife held some special meaning to the killer. Of course we may never know.”

  He took a deep breath. “I think we will. I think I’m getting closer. But enough of that. It’s a beautiful day. We should go walking.”

  She glanced out the window. “You are right, but we must not. They are still looking for you. I have other ideas.” She raised an eyebrow.

  Suddenly he became aware of a deep longing and desire for her. He wanted this woman more than freedom or life. He stretched out a hand. She took it and led him to her bed.

  He left before dawn, after a breakfast of bread and coffee. He tried to say he loved her, but she held a finger over his lips. “Not yet,” she said. “There will be time.”

  He slipped into the silent dark street and walked toward the bay, considering his next move. He wanted this business over with. He wanted an understanding with Genevieve, which could not happen before his legal problem was settled. He needed to find out who killed Alexander Penworthy and why. If Georg still needed a lawyer after that, he had a feeling Alexander’s father might help him. Thaddeus Penworthy had said he need only ask.

  He decided to go see Jason Orley again.

  He found Orley still at Penworthy’s old office in the Barbary Coast. Orley checked him through a small window near the door before letting him in.

  “Is this about money again?”

  “In a way, but I’m not here to demand payment. Relax. Let’s sit down and talk a minute.”

  Orley shrugged and led him back to the office. The place looked to be in total chaos. There were ledgers and books everywhere, including the floor. Georg could make no sense of it. He waved a hand. “Are you getting this straightened out?”

  From somewhere Orley produced a bottle and offered him a shot. Georg shook his head, Orley poured himself one. “Not making much progress, I’m afraid. “I was Penworthy’s bookkeeper, but it turns out he kept another set that he never let me see. I’m not sure how much he had squirreled, but it was more than I thought. I may never find all of it.”

  Georg said, “The folks I represent are understanding. They just want an honest account, the best you can do. They can let you have a month.”

  Orley shrugged again. He said, “You want to look at some of these books yourself?”

  Georg smiled. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be good at it. When I look at numbers it’s all right, but when I see words on a page they tend to jump around. I have trouble telling one word from another. Don’t know why that is.”

  Orley took a slug of neat whiskey. “Then may I ask what brings you here today?”

  “I’m still trying to figure out some things. I’d like to know more about what Penworthy was up to before he was killed. Do you know anything about a special package he was dealing with? Someone else was holding it for him. It contained a rare antique, something too hot to be caught with. He had it when he was killed.”

  Orley looked blank. “No sir, I don’t. The cops didn’t say anything about a package. Why?”

  “I’m not sure why. Just thought I’d ask. Can you tell me anything about what business he was involved in recently?”

  “Probably nothing you don’t already know. In fact you seem to know more than I do. He was about to foreclose on a boot factory over on Howard Street. You want suspects? I could name a dozen.”

  “One other thing. You mentioned once that you thought Penworthy contacted Sutliff Printers once before. Can you tell me more about that?”

  Orley’s expression changed to thoughtful. “Now you mention it, I did run across something. Hold on.” He stood up and rummaged through a shelf till he plucked out a thin ledger book.

  “I happened to see this the other day. The only reason I noticed was you asked about it before.” He started to pass the book to Georg, then remembered and read the page himself.

  “On loan, three thousand four hundred to Mattias Sutliff, Sutliff Printers. March 18, 1877. Mark repaid by service.”

  “What does that mean? Repaid by service?”

  Orley shut the book. “I’m not sure, but I think it means Alexander called in the loan. Instead of money, Mr. Sutliff did him some kind of favor. Sorry, that’s all I know.”

  “A favor worth three thousand four hundred. Thank you, Mr. Orley. I leave you to your work.” He rose and walked out without waiting for Orley to get up.

  He had a lot to think about. He had to think about a dragon’s tooth.

  That was Sunday afternoon. In the evening he returned to Greek’s place and had supper with him and the sailors who were staying there. He enjoyed the meal. When the sailors heard he had served aboard Suzannah they ceased their joking and became quiet and respectful. The meal was a good beef stew. A lot of the other crimp houses served rum with supper, but Greek gave them water.

  Later Georg had coffee with Greek while he enjoyed his port and pipe. Greek’s conversation was polite, but Georg could tell he was dying to know what he’d been up to. He said, “I was thinking it’s odd.”

  “What’s odd, Georg? Odder than most other things in this peculiar world?”

  “I mean Genevieve. She never speaks of her husband. I don’t know if she grieves. She has no pictures or souvenirs that I’ve seen. I can’t make it out.”

  “Mayhap he was beating her. Likely she’d prefer to forget.”

  “That could be. She did mention he had a problem with drink. It’s just odd. Do you know much about the Merchant’s Association?”

  “I do. I’m a member, though behind in my dues. Most crimp houses don’t bother to join. It’s more for the respectable merchants, not Shanghai artists. Why do you ask?”

  “Genevieve and Douvet are members. I’m wondering if Alexander was. He might have met a lot of upright citizens that way.”

  Greek put away his pipe. “I doubt Alexander was, but Penworthy Senior belongs. I’ve seen him at meetings. Not always, but sometimes.”

  “So.” Georg stared into the fireplace. “I wonder how many members knew Mattias Sutliff?”

  Greek picked up a newspaper and shrugged. He was out of conversation. “I don’t recall meeting the fellow. But you could ask around.”

  On Monday he was up at four, and out half an hour later. He had to walk across town because taking a streetcar would be a risk. He didn’t think most drivers would turn him in, but someone might. Nor did he want to involve others in his problems. It was a long walk from the Coast to Howard Street, but he found the place he was looking for a little after six.

  The place looked prosperous, already warming up for a day’s work, smoke from a chimney, and steam from an engine vent. It was a fair-sized brick building with a large sign on the roof: SCHILLER BOOTS. Clanking and humming sounds came from within.

  The proprietor met him at the door. Georg could see three other men working at benches.

  “May I help you, sir?” The man was mostly muscle, bearing a flowing mustache. Six inches taller than Georg.

  “Mr. Schiller? My name is Georg Vintner.” He saw no reason to conceal his own name. If the man recognized it he gave no sign.

  “Ja, I’m Schiller. I make fine boots. What you need?” His German accent was thick but understandable.

  “I need five minutes of your time, Herr Schiller. May we speak? I’m not selling anything.”

  Schiller glanced over his shoulder as if to make sure his men were still at work. He nodded and led Georg to a back office. When they were both seated Georg said, “Do you know who I am, Herr Schiller? Have y
ou heard my name?”

  Schiller squinted at him. “The name I have heard somewhere. You are who?”

  “I am wanted by the Police for questioning in the murder of Alexander Penworthy.” Georg had decided that coming straight out with the truth might produce better results than lying.

  Schiller spat into a brass cuspidor next to his desk. “That guttersnipe. If you killed him, I commend you. What you want to talk about?”

  “I’m trying to clear my name. Do you have any idea who might have killed him?”

  Schiller merely spread his arms in a who knows gesture. Georg said, “I believe you owed him money, sir.”

  “Where you hear that? Well, it’s true. This last bank panic, my business was about to go under. Penworthy gave me a loan against the property. Then as I was recovering he demanded immediate payment. I had a reason to kill the man, and I might have. But I did not.”

  Georg nodded. This was becoming a familiar theme. “Are you a member of the Merchant’s Association, sir?”

  “Ja, in good standing. A fine group.”

  “Indeed. Do you happen to know M’sieur Douvet?”

  Schiller made a wry face. “Ach, that Frenchman. Ja, sometimes we have drinks. He’s all right for a French. The French, they always talk about going back to France one day. Me, I like it better in America.”

  “Douvet also owed Penworthy. A lot of people did. I don’t know if that’s why he was killed. It don’t make much sense. Even if you murdered the man, it wouldn’t get you out of debt. The estate can still collect.”

  Schiller bit off a plug of tobacco after offering it to Georg. He said nothing. Georg could think of no other questions to ask. He had a feeling Schiller knew something, but he didn’t know what. He said, “Did you by chance know Mr. Mattias Sutliff in the Association?”