Chapter Twenty-eight

Early the next morning over coffee, Elizabeth was catching up on her reading. She had started to save parts of the Chronicle that she especially enjoyed for later consumptions. Deferred gratification.

That was the case with the gossip-filled columns of Herb Caen, one of her favorites. She knew that last Saturday’s column was going to be the San Francisco journalist’s final one for some time, as he was joining the Army Air Corp. This was at the top of her to-read pile.

There was a cozy feeling with her steaming cup of coffee in front of her, Max still snoring in bed, Philip off early on his own investigation, and the paper neatly folded to Caen’s final column.

Coziness gave way to a sinking feeling in her stomach as she read the article describing the opening of the Yellow Ribbon art gallery in San Francisco last Friday evening and the list of notables in attendance. A name jumped out at her like a red flag. Among those attending was none other than prominent art dealer and resident of Carmel, Carlton Chase.

An alibi for the Carswell murder.

Max was still feeling groggy from being awoken out of a sound sleep by his wife who was pleading, “You’ve got to read this.”

The article she had found was in front of him now at the table and he read it slowly.

“Shit,” he said when he came to the name. “That complicates things.”

“I concur,” Elizabeth said.

They had hardly begun discussing the ramifications of this when the phone rang. Sherry calling to let Max know there were smudges but no latent prints on the brass button.

“Back to the drawing board,” Elizabeth said.

“Not really,” Max said. “Chase has got to be our man for Tadeo and Jimmy, but I’ve been thinking. Maybe Chase isn’t the spy after all. He just wanted the woodblock and then Tadeo recognized him and he feared being exposed for his history with Japanese intelligence when he was about to become Sir Carlton Chase. So he kills Tadeo and then Jimmy to cover his tracks.”

Elizabeth nodded. “And Aleotto was getting too close to somebody else, the real spy who hired Carswell to do the dirty deed and then got rid of Carswell, too.”

Max began to feel the familiar buzz of excitement when a complicated case was finally coming into perspective. “Maybe the spy pushed Carswell off the cliff to make it look like Tadeo’s death. As if all four murders are tied together when in fact, they are separate.”

“That fits,” Elizabeth said.

“So why Carswell?”

“He knew who hired him to—”

“No,” Max said. “I mean, why hire Carswell to begin with? If we figure these are two separate sets of murders, then why the intermediary? Suspect B, the spy, is, we assume, ruthless enough to kill Carswell. So why not take care of Aleotto himself?”

“Maybe our spy isn’t very competent in the arts of homicide,” Elizabeth said. “With Carswell, all it took was a shove over the cliff. But Aleotto was a trained FBI agent. Killing him took a bit of brute force.”

Max nodded. “Physical strength. So maybe our spy is a woman.”

Elizabeth let out a sigh. “Okay, I’m tired of all the speculation. How about a bit of action?”

“What do you suggest?”

“Let’s get a look at that Aston Martin.”

“Right,” he said. “And let’s put a little feather up his nose, see if he sneezes.”

“What have you got in mind?”

Chase arrived early that afternoon following Elizabeth’s call that she had finally finished the commission.

“It looks smashing,” Chase said, admiring the restored Cimabue.

It did, too. She would miss the little painting. It had become a friend over the weeks and months she’d worked on it.

But she needed to stall while Max examined Chase’s car for any signs that it had been used in the killing of Jimmy Suzuki.

“There is one spot I just could not get right,” she lied.

“Where?” He squinted at the painting. “I see only perfection.”

She handed him her magnifying glass attached to a head band.

“Right there.” She pointed at a lower section of the robe. “There’s something not quite right about the folds.”

He put the magnifying glass on. “I’m afraid I don’t see it.”

“Take a closer look.”

Meanwhile, Max was working against the clock to find any indications of Chase’s car being involved in a hit-and-run. There was nothing obvious, and neither did he expect to find a damaged bumper or blood stains. But even under the chassis, there was little to be found. He was sweating, the gravel of the drive digging into his back as he propelled himself underneath the car, pushing off his heels.

He kept one eye on his Bulova even as he scoured the undercarriage with a flashlight for any signs. He felt a tingling in his guts as he continued to find nothing, the minutes ticking away.

Come on, he urged himself. There’s got to be something.

And then he began to fear for his wife. If they were right about Chase, then he had just left Elizabeth with a murderer of at least two people. What a moron I am.

Faster, he told himself. Get it done, one way or another.

For the next ten minutes she brought up one fabricated problem after another; consulted art books and color wheels as Chase continued to shake his head.

Finally, taking off the magnifying glass, he looked at her sternly. “Elizabeth, I do believe you are equivocating. There is nothing wrong with this painting and you know it.”

She felt a sudden panic, and then Chase smiled.

“You’re in love with the painting, aren’t you? Go ahead, admit it. You’re trying to put off the inevitable with all these illusory ‘problems’ about the restoration. Like any lover of art, you do not want to part with the object of your desire.”

She breathed more easily, shrugging at the suggestion. “Guilty as charged,” she admitted.

He put a consoling hand on her shoulder. “All good things must come to an end, Elizabeth. But never mind, I will soon have another commission for you. A lovely early Filippino Lippi. Might that interest you?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, then, what say we wrap this lovely Cimabue for transport and talk about the future, not the past. What progress have you made with the Takanubo print?”

“Not good news, I’m afraid. The family does not want to sell. They want to keep it as a sort of memorial to the family patriarch.”

“That’s bloody absurd!”

The mask had come off Chase’s face for the first time. Gone was the sophisticated bonhomie, replaced by a red-faced scowl. Elizabeth felt the hair raise on the back of her neck and instinctively balled her fists.

He quickly recovered, smiling broadly once again. “I mean, they will lose the artwork if they are interned. That is, if I am correct in my assumption that the family is Japanese.”

She did not confirm or deny this, saying merely, “They intend to leave the painting in the hands of reliable friends.”

“There’s no convincing them?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“You apprised them of its worth, I assume?”

“Oh, yes. The widow said there are more important things than money.”

“A noble thought.”

He said this with more of an edge of sarcasm than intended. Max was right about that little feather up the nose. Maybe they could get to Chase with this story. Throw him off his game, make him do something stupid.

“Well,” Chase said resignedly, finishing the packing of the Cimabue. “I should be going, then. The check will be in the mail. By the way, these friends the family is leaving the Takanubo with…”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t ask. As a matter of fact, they want Max and myself to safeguard the print.”

Again Chase’s usual mask was replaced with sneering, pinched lips. “I see.” He could not hide the disappointment in his tone.

“I tried my best,” she said, moving back from the man. She felt a real fear now, gripping in her bowels like a claw.

“I am sure you did, Elizabeth. Perhaps they will change their minds eventually.”

“I sincerely doubt it,” she said, trying to hide her true feelings.

“Right. Well then, you’ll be hearing from me as regards the Filippino Lippi restoration.”

She looked at the clock on her work desk. Twelve minutes had passed.

“Too bad you can’t wait a few more minutes,” she urged. “My husband will be home shortly and he’s so anxious to meet you.”

Chase shrugged. “Like the rabbit in Alice, I’m late, late for a very important date.”

They left the studio and she managed to slam its door as loudly as she could as a warning to Max, holding her breath as they approached the front door.

Chase did not wait for her to open it, but did so himself, revealing his Aston Martin in the driveway.

No Max.

She let out a sigh.

“It’s been a pleasure, Elizabeth. Keep an eye out for that check.”

He climbed in the car, started it and put it into gear, spitting pebbles as he stomped on the gas and sped down the drive.

“He seemed in a hurry.”

She swung around. Max was standing in back of her.

“Did you find anything?” she asked.

He shook his head. “If there was damage, he cleaned it well, or he used another vehicle. Which, if you think about it, a fastidious person like Chase probably would. He wouldn’t want to sully his precious Aston Martin. We need to find out if he has a second car. How did our story go?”

“I think you’re on to something. He let his façade down for the first time when I told him they wouldn’t sell. And he seemed none too pleased that we are supposed to be the guardians of the print. Not a bad ploy.”

“Sometimes it’s not about detection. Sometimes you just need to poke at the sleeping bear.”

“What if Chase decides to get in touch with the Suzuki family himself? Shouldn’t we tell them? They might actually want to sell the Takanubo.”

“Look, if Chase really is the killer of both Tadeo and Jimmy, he’s not going to go anywhere near that family. I’ve been giving it some thought. Not to discredit your talents as an art restorer, but he might have hired you for the express purpose of using you as an intermediary in buying the print.”

“Scared that someone in the family might have seen him before, might somehow connect him to Basho?”

“Right. When I last talked with James Suzuki, he recalled that some dealer had gotten in touch with Tadeo to buy the print. James thought it was a joke. He didn’t know the print was valuable until I told him so. He also said Tadeo would never sell the print, that it was a family heirloom. It actually was meant to stay in the family.”

“Chase was working through another intermediary. If we could trace that dealer…”

“Through that intermediary, Chase learned that Tadeo would never sell,” Max said. “So maybe he did kill Tadeo for a couple of reasons. To keep him from divulging Chase’s history with Japanese intelligence, but also to get rid of his obstacle to obtaining the woodblock. If Tadeo were out of the way, then he could deal with some other family member more likely to sell.”

“But why would Chase hire me and not some other restorer?”

“Probably did his homework. Maybe he followed Tadeo, knew of his connection to me… to us. And it just occurred to me. Chase would know Tadeo as Yumamato, not Suzuki. Maybe he didn’t even know the real identity of the person who owned that last print. If he went there and Tadeo saw him...”

“Here’s another thought,” Elizabeth said. “Okay. You poke the sleeping bear. What do you hope he will do?”

“Something stupid. Something that will reveal his guilt.”

“But what if he awakes and starts clawing folks?”

Elizabeth was in the kitchen preparing dinner and humming tunelessly. Such a wonderful way with the palette but absolutely no ear at all for music other than an appreciation. Max found this very endearing. One of the many things he loved about his wife.

“You said you wanted to see this again,” he said to Philip, seated at the table. He placed the brass button by his plate. “I made a trip into town this afternoon to get it back from Sherry. There are no prints.”

Philip still wore the troubled look he’d had last night and this morning, only now it seemed intensified. “Thanks,” he said without enthusiasm.

“You going to tell me what this is about?” Max kept his voice low, not wanting to make Elizabeth worry.

Philip stared at the button as if it held a dark secret. He said nothing.

Max did not press it, just waited.

Finally Philip said, “I think I might have found my spy.”

Max felt a rush of excitement. “That’s great news. So why the long face?”

Philip looked up at his father, his eyes reflective with moisture. “I think it’s Suzy.”

“Suzy at the answering service? You’re crazy. She’s a fine young woman, works hard. We’ve had nothing but good experiences with her.”

Philip half-nodded, half-tilted his head. “That’s what I thought, too.” He picked up the button, turning it in the palm of his hand. “But this little piece of metal says otherwise.”

Max sat beside his son. “Explain.”

“Yesterday I talked with her on the street outside her office. She’d just gone out to pick up a new typewriter and was wearing a blue carcoat with brass buttons. She’s worn it before, but I only really looked at it for the first time because of your discovery of this button. I’m sure this is identical to those on her coat. We figured this kind of button would be from a man’s blazer. What if it’s not? She said the coat was from her college days. I ran a trace on her. Suzy went to Middleborough College. The college seal is an anchor.”

“And that turns her into a murderous spy in the pay of the Japanese?”

Philip shrugged in response.

“Was her coat missing any buttons?” Max asked.

“I couldn’t tell. I’ll check, though.”

“There’s got to be more here. What aren’t you telling me?”

“That same trace turned up her father, Gabriel Varkon. She said when we first got together that she didn’t ask her father about what research he’s involved in, just like she wouldn’t ask me what I was really doing here. Turns out he’s at Berkeley, a research physicist working on a new secret weapon. Intelligence has got him on a watch list as a communist sympathizer. They’re worried he might pass information to the Soviets.”

“They’re our allies.”

“For now. But Washington wants to be the one who decides what sensitive information we share with the Soviets, not fellow travelers in the scientific community.”

“So how does that make his daughter a spy for the Japanese?”

“Unwittingly.” He turned the button a final time, then set it down. “What I’m going to tell you cannot go outside this room.”

“Agreed.”

“We broke the Japanese cypher code about a year-and-a-half ago. Code Purple it’s called.”

“Well, why in the hell didn’t we know about the Pearl Harbor attack then?”

“We only had a handful of decrypt machines at the time. Pearl didn’t have one. But the important thing is that we’re getting a steady stream of information out of Moscow of all places. A deep cover Japanese spy who has access to classified material has been sending Tokyo information gathered by communist spies and sympathizers in the States.”

“About Fort Ord?”

“No. But we may have missed intercepts. If her father is passing on information to the Soviets, Suzy may have similar sympathies. She was born in Canada. There might be a loyalty issue.”

“Lots of ‘ifs’,” Max said.

“I know. It’s driving me crazy wondering if she got close to me just to protect herself. But think about it. A telephone answering service. Not only a good cover but a convenient way to gather information.”

“That would mean that Suzy hired Carswell to get rid of Aleotto. I’d like to have been a fly on the wall at that meeting. What story did she spin to get Carswell to do her dirty work for her?”

Philip ignored this, concentrating on his own thoughts. “If Aleotto was on to her, wouldn’t he have notified head office? Why isn’t this new FBI agent making any headway?”

“Remember,” Max said, “Aleotto was the one who planted the flashlight by Tadeo’s body, trying to make him look like the spy. We already determined he was a crooked agent. Maybe he was blackmailing her, keeping his little discovery to himself for the time. Or maybe he just wanted all the glory for himself.”

“First it’s Hicks then it’s Chase. Now… Musical chairs,” Philip muttered.

“Are we having parlor games?” Elizabeth said, coming from the kitchen and hearing only the last part of the conversation. She carried a large pot of her famous bean soup. “You boys hungry?”

“Starving,” Max said, hurriedly making room for the pot on the table and feeling like a heel for not including Elizabeth in this secret.

They were reading in bed when suddenly Elizabeth pulled her reading glasses down her nose and looked over the frames at him with that certain look of hers

“I heard what you two boys were talking about before dinner. I assume you were going to tell me about Philip’s suspicion?”

He sighed. “I was,” Max said. “I just didn’t want to…”

“Oh, please, Max. Don’t give me the poor hothouse flower talk.”

“It’s not that. It’s just, well, I’ve had years of experience with violence and duplicity. I sometimes forget that you haven’t. This case is coming together. I feel it rather than see it or understand it. But when the door slams on a case, people can get hurt.”

She snuggled closer to him. “Does that mean you love me?”

“It means I adore you.”

She put her hand on his chest, on the scarred edges of the bullet wound. She opened his pajama top and kissed the scar. An electric jolt went through him. “Careful,” he said.

“Did that hurt?”

“No. Quite the opposite.”

“Well, then, why be careful?” She bent over him once more.