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I like strong men, when all that strength comes from their core. Good men are plenty, so long as they can pretend, but a strong man is rare.
~Lou Tanner, P.I., Notes for female Pemberton Graduates, 1935
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MY STOMACH WASN’T UP for this — not this early in the morning. The espresso bubbled away in my gut.
His voice brimmed with shame. “I’ve done something inappropriate, something I’m ashamed to ... but, but it produced something I think you should know about.”
Inappropriate? Did he follow Frannie Coventry? Sleep with her? Kill someone? What? My heart started pounding. “Mr. Lockwood, what is it?”
He didn’t answer at first. I heard noises beyond the telephone receiver. He was in a public phone booth. I listened more, while he got his thoughts together. Where was he? A woman’s laugh? A car horn? Plates being dropped onto a busboy’s tray? A restaurant or café? The phone booth’s doors must not close well background clues slipped through as if they were lap-dancing on his thighs.
“I went through Frannie’s room and her things.” He took an audible breath. “I took something.”
Was that all?
Sometimes I forget well-meaning people were mortified by actions I thought of as average. A Shamus goes through people’s belongings all the time. Hell, we may even go through their trash. But, to a nice guy like Lockwood, I suppose such actions were downright deceitful, warranting a parking spot in Hell. Had my eyes rolled any harder backward, my thoughts from yesterday would be legible on my inner skull.
Oh well, my sarcasm wouldn't work with him, but boy, I sure wished a few choice words would fall out of my mouth. I was a professional, after all. “I wouldn’t worry about that, Mr. Lockwood. You’re still acting as a father. And, on a scale including all the other troubles of the world, I wouldn’t rate searching your stepdaughter’s room as high. In fact, I plan on doing the same thing. Can I arrange my search through you?”
There was another long hesitation.
Come on, Lockwood, don’t hold out on me.
“Not today. Let me bring this down to you. I really shouldn’t go back to that place.”
Stalling? Or, was he being practical. “Your former wife lives in the house you still own. I’m sure you being present is not unreasonable.”
After another pause, he said, “yes, but I’d like to not run into her. In the house. I ... she might think I was trying to ... restart ...”
Ah, I understood now. “Then go ahead and come down to my office. Bring whatever it is you found,” heaven only knew what it was, “and I can take a look at it.”
We agreed to one o’clock, he thanked me, and got off the line lickity-split. This was interesting.
I retrieved Uncle Joe’s hat from the desk where I’d dropped it in my rush for the phone. I put the Fedora on the knob atop the hat rack with an almost ritual reverence. From such a prime spot, the sacred Fedora looked at me and me at it. It completed the place. It completed me.
Joe Parnaski wasn’t my real uncle; he was one of those guys who was so close to the family, he became part of it. Roly-poly, always smoking a cigar, big smile for the little girl who had all those pesky questions. Joe was the in-house detective for Dad’s company. I saw him work. He was a walking encyclopedia of laws, bad guys, tricks, and perfect interrogation technique. Yet, he had a heart as big as Wyoming, and knew when to stick to the letter of the law and when to look the other way. No college degree, just life experience. No one pulled a rug over Joe’s eyes — until the time someone plugged him.
I shooed Not My Cat off the chair. He harrumphed over to the window sill and sat in the sunlight, grooming in protest.
Phone calls achieved a few appointments. Family members were more concerned about how Frannie and Irenie were mucking up their social reputations and split between those who wanted to talk about it and those who didn’t. No surprise. Yet, the universal thought was Frannie might be worth saving — Irenie was not.
Frannie? Irenie? Did they use a similar diminutive on purpose? They sounded like sisters in a vaudeville act, not mother and daughter socialites.
The more I thought about it, the more I wondered what the terms of the divorce settlement were. What had either gal received from the dislodged hubby? Well, I expected Lockwood in my office this afternoon, and I would ask. I had other questions for him, too.
The first interview was down town. A cousin once removed from the Lockwood family. According to Lockwood’s list, Frannie had been close to them, for a while. That suggested a falling out and I wanted him to tell me why. I gathered up my things.
Not My Cat sniffed at the air, screwed up his nose, and headed back to the warmth of my chair. Before plopping his furry butt down on my seat, he gave me a look challenging me to try to move him. Just try.
I left the fuzzy gangster to contemplate his own godhood and headed off to the rest of my day.
I needed to run my own little errand, too. Heeding both Pemberton’s and Uncle Joe, I actively maintained a few local connections gained from my brief railroad career. No burning bridges if you can help it, right? I had some terrific friends out here.
One of them worked in the Montgomery Station Building. As much as I hate heights, I needed a touch of inspiration and good sense. Marley had those in spades.
As I headed down the street, I caught myself checking to see if anyone was following me. I had to face it; this was my normal operating procedure for life.
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GILBERT HALLIDAY WAS an enterprising man, with inventions galore. His whole office was a chaotic mess with plans, blue prints, napkin sketches, and pencils scattered everywhere.
He stared at my badge, unconvinced, but offered me a seat all the same — after clearing reams of paper off it.
“So, trouble over on Vallejo Street,” he asked without me saying a word.
“I’m interested in Frannie, specifically. The family asked me to do this.”
He scratched his dark head. “Not sure what I can tell you. We haven’t seen Frannie in a year or so.”
I crossed my ankles, ladylike, and set my hands in my lap. I was of the mind that pulling out my notebook and scribbling things down as he pronounced them made him itch, like he was being grilled by a journalist — or the police. I needed him slightly off kilter, since he just might make a critical error in that circumstance. All the while, I smiled and jotted things down. “Is there any reason why Frannie and your daughter ...”
“Margaret”
“... Margaret stopped spending time together?”
I was direct while looking for a response from him. His muscles tightened up protectively. Good daddy.
“It’s important and,” I added with emphasis and eyelash batting, “confidential.”
He stopped to take all that in and maybe to think about how he was answering me. I knew Halliday wasn’t directly related to Lockwood, so it came as no surprise to me he had little in common with him looks-wise. Halliday wasn’t tall, but had strong, masculine features and a thick moustache. His voice was a deep baritone. Dressed in acceptable fashion, I decided he was doing well enough in the world. Now, I just needed him to talk.
His shoulders relaxed when I repeated the word, “confidential.”
“I’m surprised, but not really, that Elliott asked for help. I still can’t decide what motivated him to marry Irenie in the first place. Have you met her?”
I flicked my eyelashes ever so prettily, replying, “not as of yet.”
Well, he had some choice words on that subject. I did not write those down. After a deep breath, he continued, “She got her claws into Elliott Lockwood and held on tight. I won’t describe how, you being a lady," something he’d ignored or forgotten a moment ago, "but I think we can both agree she wanted to marry into money.”
I appeared innocent and confused — on purpose.
He fell for my deception. “Elliott’s done well by himself.”
“He struck me as being so shy, so reserved,” I exaggerated, hoping to trick a tid-bit of information out of Halliday.
“With you? With a woman? That doesn’t surprise me. He’s a romantic kind of fellow. Not a womanizer – just a guy who believes every woman is a lady before she proves otherwise.”
Not a womanizer? Noted. “And?”
“Well, Irenie proved otherwise. So did Frannie. I caught Margaret and Frannie sneaking off to some club in Chinatown, of all places. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t mind it when Frannie was willing to introduce my girl to the folks at the Seal Rock Sports Club. During the day. But one of those nightclubs, with drinking and who knows what at night? I drew the line. Had quite a chat with Irenie, who thought nothing of it, but it upset Elliott.”
“Upset?”
“Oh, sure, Elliott has a business to protect. And, since he was splitting with Irenie, we figured keeping Frannie and Margaret apart was okay. Elliott agreed.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Yeah, you have to be careful with image these days, especially with the industry he’s moving up in. Elliott’s doing some fine work in import/export, and,” he smiled with a tone of conspiracy, “getting involved with some fancy projects, like robotics for the government. He might even have some important friends over at the Pointe. Those soldier-boys need a lot of metal these days.”
“The Pointe?” I couldn’t bring myself to say, the Militia. I grasped my fingers so tight I thought I heard my knuckles crack.
“I could be wrong. Elliott plays that card close to his vest, if you take my meaning. His company is a supplier of base materials, so he supports all sorts of industries. He doesn’t know where most of his product ends up. He runs a clean shop. No funny business. Still, he can’t afford a wild girl ruining his reputation.”
“Oh, yes, I understand.” I relaxed again and gave him one of my best persuasive grins.
His phone rang. He held up a polite finger ordering me to wait, chatted as low as possible, then set the receiver down. “This is for my partner. Can you wait a moment?”
“But, of course.”
He nodded with appreciation and went into the other room, demanding where Ralph was.
I hopped up and took a look at the papers on his desk. Some were strange versions of automatons sketched out. Big ‘Tons. Bigger than anything I thought existed. Bigger than anything should exist. And guns, if that was what you called them when they were that size. An army of iron? Armed? The shiver down my back showed through my clothes. It couldn’t be. It was my imagination, right?
The shuffling at the door told me Halliday was back, and he would find me seated and waiting like a nice, privacy-respecting girl.
“Is there anything else I can do for you? I need to wrestle with a vendor. Ralph may be out of the office. I hope I was able to help.”
Holding out my hand I said, “yes, Mr. Halliday. You were very helpful. May I ask one quick question?”
“Shoot.”
“How is Margaret doing? She lost what sounds like a friend.”
“Doing well, I think. She’s out east now, at boarding school.”
“Thank you.”
“No, thank you, Miss Tanner. If you can, help Elliott out of whatever mess he’s in this time.”
Well, that statement was the most telling thing he’d said. I forced my gaze to stay off the desk. I didn’t want to make Halliday suspicious of my actions. Or maybe, I didn’t want to remind myself of what I saw.
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I STOOD AND STARED up at the Montgomery Street Station. With two major railroad lines, four trolley lines, cabs, and ‘Crawlers all meeting up, the place had to look good. Damn good. And it did. Gorgeous architecture with plenty of flourishes and parallel lines, and glass. The trains from around the country came in via the elevated tracks, entering the building around the fourth floor. More local trains came in via tunnels underneath the station. The public transit used street level accommodations. Above all that were offices. None of it struck me as terrifying except the sheer height of the whole structure, made necessary by the Zeppelin Service. To bring those big monsters and passengers into the City, they either had to land or they had to disembark the people while airborne. There was no place big enough. All of downtown was multi-story buildings, so, they built the Station up and up, and up, until the rooftops of its neighbors didn’t impede the air service. Fifty-two stories up.
My first thought, when I saw photographs of its construction was it was the last place I wanted to be in during a quake. The last place period.
A small bi-plane buzzed the building, dragging a sign behind it. After a moment, the message was legible, Support Local Unions. I figured we, down with the muck of the common street, were not the intended readers. The message was for all the companies and corporations with the pricey square footage in one of the best-known pieces of real estate in the country.
With all the reluctance expected from an acrophobic, I willed myself into the tower and gritted my teeth as the elevator bumped and groaned its way up — and up — and up.
At last, I escaped with my life and relative sanity into a comfortable, warm office which occupied the entire floor. To my relief, Marley’s office wasn’t in love with the view. There were only a couple of windows, and I sure didn’t need to go look out either of them.
Marley O’Brien was a Swedish-Irish bombshell, with a sharp wit, life experience, brains, and guts. Naturally, that meant she could only get work as a secretary. Not to snub secretaries, professional was as professional does, whether a secretary, president, school teacher, or detective. But with her brains, Marley would make a great teacher or cop. For the moment, though, she worked in one of those pretty offices full of light when the bosses don’t close their doors and leave the common staff in darkness. At least Marley had a window at the end of the row of offices providing some natural illumination.
Her floor was above all the other buildings on Montgomery, Market, and Bush Streets, and about five stories below the Aero-docks for the Station. I was happy to sit as far from the window as possible. Only Marley achieved the miracle of getting me up into a skyscraper.
My friend had long legs, long hair, and a long memory, not to mention a brain that was a walking encyclopedia, and she knew where to glean any information she didn’t already know. She stood about an inch shorter than me, which was still saying something, as I was not what you’d call a shrimp.
She had a number of things I did not. For one, she was the average man’s dream of womanhood. Her smile had the power to stop a runaway cable car mid-hill. Men tripped over each other to open the door for her. If she told me two swells were planning on a duel over her and she had no interest in either, I wouldn’t be surprised. Knowing her, she told them as much, and still, I bet they threatened to blow each other’s brains out for a chance at a date.
She was light where I was dark, not in personality, but in appearance. She tended toward fashionable hair styles and swinging skirts, fashionable pastels, and adorableness. Me, I was dark haired, tidy, and preferred woolens. Getting us into the same room together created a vision of opposites some men only dreamed of.
Such problems were not those I spent much worry over. I was not at all bad looking. Anyone who can be identified with Myra Loy was high in the looks department. But Marely, she redefined “knockout.”
I waited for her by her desk; a lone edifice planted right outside the boss’s office. Singular, trapped, empty of anything speaking to her character. Plans, tacked to the board next to her, said someone in her company wanted old pneumatic tubes taken out and new two-way radios put in. The newest in technology.
The door opened, and Marley was on her way out when a masculine voice called out to her. “Thanks. Now, Honey, don’t forget we need the report by five, tonight.”
Another voice called out, “Thanks, Sugar.”
“Of course, Mr. Franklin.”
The two faceless voices then returned to low laughter and plain man-talk. Closing the office door, she shut out their chatter.
“So, ‘Sugar,’ want to hear about my brand-new case?”
Her pale, round nose crinkled. The sweet little freckles bounced. She whispered, taking care of her words, “I hate it when he calls me that. Mr. Franklin just eggs them on, the clients, I mean. Then they start calling me Sugar, Honey, or worse.”
Or worse? I’d ask later. “So, you’ve said more than once. Do any of them actually know your name?”
“Nope,” she said dropping into her chair. “Not even the color of my eyes. Entire discussions are held at this level,” she said, indicating brassiere level with her hand. She might be exaggerating but I understood how she felt. Dressed as a true professional, and not showing a great deal of skin, Marley wasn’t showing anything to encourage anyone.
“They don’t know you.”
“I prefer it that way, Slim. I don’t want to know them, and I don’t want them to know me.”
I pulled out my cigarette case and offered her one.
“Later,” she said. “I need to get this report ready by five.” With a flourish, she signed and dated a short stack of papers sitting in the middle of her desk, indicating her involvement in preparing, producing, and verifying the accuracy of the document. “Done,” she announced after about six seconds.
“It was ready to go long before you talked to him,” I said rather matter-of-factly.
“Of course. But, Mr. Franklin needs to be seen being a boss. It’s important to him. He says it makes it easier to negotiate with a client if they know he’s in control,” she added, mocking and quiet. She placed the document in a file envelope, looped the string around the tab to keep it shut, and dropped it into Franklin’s in box. Stepping around to the front of her desk, she took the cigarette I offered. “What brings you downtown ...”
A rumble shook the whole building and the only way we were having this conversation was by shouting. Instead, we both folded our arms and waited.
The big airship blotted out what little light made it to Marley’s pathetic desk. The roar of its engines and the huge vibrations lasted for another minute before the damn death-trap floated away from the Station.
Marley rolled her eyes and rubbed her temples. “All day long. In and out. They just keep coming and going. I need aspirin powder. Or a drink.”
“It’s not noon yet.”
“It is somewhere.” She started to rub the back of her neck, under her strawberry-red mane all coiled up neat and tidy. “So, what did Mason give you this time? Case of the missing Mint?”
“Nah, I checked, it’s still over on Fifth Street where it was last seen. Mason can take a long dive off a short pier. Tell you about it later? In the meantime, I have a real client.”
“Keep that thought. We need outta' of here.”
“We do?”
“Yeah,” she said with some trepidation. “We do.”