An Equal Opportunity Death (17 page)

“And you bought them right after China was reopened?”

“As I said, I knew what I was doing. Many men pay too much or sell too cheaply, and then they are put out. That is their own fault. I know my field.”

“I understand a Professor Everson wanted to buy them from you.”

He closed the portfolio. “Could we get on with this, Miss, er, Dubrow?”

He seemed so annoyed now that I wondered if he was beginning to doubt that I was really a writer. “Certainly,” I said. “I will remember what you’ve told me so far. It all seems very clear, but perhaps it would be best if I did take some notes now.” I took a pad from my purse. “What are the joys and the sorrows of being a collector?”

“You mean, how did I feel when these plates were stolen?”

I nodded, delighted with his choice of response.

“As even you might expect, I was worried for their safety and enraged over the theft.”

“You didn’t feel any danger in taking them to your Russian River home?”

“Surely …” He shrugged. “As I told the sheriff and the state police, a colleague of Professor Everson’s called, a man named Smithson. Or so he said. He said he worked for a collector in London and would be interested in seeing the plates. He mentioned that as a Londoner he was always delighted to get out of the city. So I suggested he come to my weekend house. It had a display case. That was one of the reasons I bought that particular house: there was a display case already installed. I bought the house from a friend who kept Egyptian work.”

“And this Smithson?”

“I was to meet him at the Santa Rosa Airport Saturday morning, at seven. He said he was flying in from Portland.” He paused. “Surely we can skip this.”

I hesitated to push him. Still I said, “I do need to know.”

Again he shrugged. “As you say. I guess I have no choice. I drove to Henderson Friday night and brought the devotional plates into the house. When I went to the airport Saturday morning, I left the crates stacked right beside the devotional plates,” he said in disgust. “Of course, there was no Smithson on the flight. By the time I checked with the airline and found that Smithson had not merely missed the flight, but had never had a seat on it, over an hour had elapsed. I called the number Smithson had given me. There was no Smithson there. Everson never heard of him. And when I got back to the house the plates were gone. Is that sufficient?”

“Originally, had Smithson written you or called?”

“He called. Do we really need—”

“Did he have an English accent?”

“No. He said he was raised in Canada.”

“So, you assume Smithson was connected with the theft,” I said.

Walucyk nodded in disgust.

“What about local connections in the Russian River area. Who are you familiar with there?”

Walucyk seemed about to retort, but instead swallowed, and with enforced calm, said, “I have neither the time nor the inclination to consort with the locals.”

“You don’t go to restaurants or bars there?”

“Restaurants, yes. I must eat. But only the Johnson House. Bars hardly.”

The Johnson House was far beyond my means. It was located east of Guerneville. “Are you saying you’ve never been to a bar or restaurant other than the Johnson House?”

“That,” he sighed, “is what I am saying.”

“What about repair work on your home, or plumbing, or carpentry? You must have had some work done.”

“If you’re trying to figure out what I told the sheriff, I’ll tell you. I don’t know anything more than the obvious. I told the sheriff what I knew. The sheriff did nothing for me. My main concern is my devotional plates.”

“So you didn’t have work done on the house?”

“No. Nothing. It was in good shape when I bought it. That was only three years ago. I spend enough money keeping
this
place in repair.”

I made a show of jotting down his comment. “One last thing: have you been contacted by the thieves?”

Walucyk stared at me. “Of course. Twice.”

“And those times were …?”

He gave me the same annoyed and confused look. “I don’t know why … but whatever you say. The first time was a week after the theft.”

“A man called you?”

“Yes,” he said, still looking at me with disgust. “A man.”

“What did he say?”

“Three hundred thousand dollars. He told me to pay it if I planned on seeing the plates again.”

“Did he say what he would do if you didn’t pay?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“And did you agree?”

“As you know,” he said slowly, apparently using considerable control, “I said I’d have to see if I could raise it.”

Involuntarily, I glanced around the room.

“Possessions are not cash,” he snapped. “Raising three hundred thousand dollars takes time.”

“Did you get the money?”

“For all the good …” He compressed his hands into fists.

I waited.

He did likewise.

Finally, I said, “What do you mean ‘For all the good …’? Hasn’t the thief called back?”

“Oh yes. He called.”

“When?”

“He called this week.”

“This week! When?”

“Monday. At two-seventeen in the afternoon.”

The afternoon Frank was murdered. “What did he say?” The excitement rang clear in my voice.

“Four hundred thousand dollars.”

“What? You mean he raised the price?”

“That’s what I said.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

His hands squeezed tighter.

“Did he say why?”

“He said, Miss, er, Dubrow, that he had changed his mind. I could take it or leave it. I told him he’d never fence the plates. He laughed. He said that wasn’t my affair. I need only concern myself with whether I wanted to see them again or not. But you know all that.”

“No.”

“Let’s not play games.”

I decided to let that one pass. “You talked to the same man both times. Just one man?”

Walucyk hesitated.

“There was more than one man?” I prompted.

“Yes and no. There was a voice in the background the second time.”

“A man?”

“I don’t know. Oh God, I shouldn’t have said anything. It was just a voice. Believe me, I couldn’t identify it. Just sounds.” He looked terrified. “Look, I just want my collection back.”

“But what did the thief say? Was he going to contact you again?”

“By this weekend. He said he’d be in touch.” For the first time he looked directly at me. “I have the money. I told him I didn’t have it. But I do now. All the money. I’ll pay the four hundred thousand. But I can’t get more. I’ve borrowed all I can. This is it.” All Walucyk’s condescension had vanished. He looked like all the ransom victims I’d ever seen on the news. I was glad I wasn’t going to be here when the week ended and Frank didn’t call back.

There was nothing more to say. I closed my pad. “Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Walucyk. You’ve been a great help to me in writing my article. And I hope your plates will be returned to you very soon.”

“Is that all?” He sounded amazed.

“Yes, but thanks again.”

“I will be called …”

“I’m sure—”

“I want the devotional plates. I’ve done what you said.”

Suddenly I realized Walucyk thought I was one of the thieves. He assumed I was the contact he was expecting. No wonder he had been so cooperative, and so bewildered. I opened my mouth to tell him I was innocent, then shut it. Walucyk wouldn’t believe me. Nothing I could say would convince him now.

“Be patient,” I said, and headed for the door. Walucyk followed me. Stopping at the doorway, I said, “Go into the dining room and wait there for five minutes. You understand?”

He nodded.

He opened the front door. I passed through, careful not to touch the brass knob, and ran down the driveway.

I couldn’t spot a head in the living room window as I started the truck. If Walucyk had obeyed me, my truck and my licence plates would be out of his line of sight. If not, I was in a lot of trouble.

I
HAD A LOT
of time to think on the way home. By Route 101 the drive to Henderson takes a little more than two hours. But not knowing whether Walucyk had seen my truck and then notified the highway patrol, I was afraid to cross the Golden Gate Bridge. It would be easy to spot a vehicle there.

I rather doubted if Walucyk had called anyone. He seemed more concerned about recovering his plates than in promoting justice. My guess was that he would spend a few days, a week, maybe even two, hoping to hear from the thieves again.

Of course, Walucyk didn’t know that the main thief was dead. He didn’t know Frank was the thief, so even if he had seen the news coverage of Frank’s murder it would mean nothing to him. Unless he killed Frank.

Suddenly that seemed to be a surprising and rather appealing thought. In the back of my mind, carefully unacknowledged, was the fear that Frank’s killer was one of my friends. I didn’t deal with it because there seemed to be no other alternatives. But Walucyk, that smug little snob who condescended to dine at a restaurant I couldn’t even afford, would be a great find as Frank’s killer. I certainly wouldn’t miss him. It was surprising how much he had irritated me in so short a time.

I laughed out loud. I had thought I was deceiving Walucyk. I had congratulated myself for gaining access to his house and his collections, for saying just the right thing—Miss “On-Spec” Writer. I could have given him any story. He thought I was one of the thieves. It didn’t matter what I’d said.

Deciding against the safest and the longest route home (south to San Jose and looping back on the far side of the bay), I made a compromise and headed east across the Bay Bridge to Oakland, then drove north from there.

Once on the bridge, I went over what exactly I had learned from Walucyk. He was certainly an obnoxious little man. But could he be a killer? I wasn’t sure. He didn’t strike me as one who would have second thoughts over employing an assassin once he was assured of his own safety. But hiring a third party is always dangerous. Walucyk did not seem like a man who would readily accept danger, certainly not one who would creep unseen into the Place and shoot Frank with his own gun. His Mercedes parked outside Frank’s would have been noticed by more than the old people across the street, and the alternative—Walucyk canoeing to Frank’s trap door—was too ridiculous to consider.

So, onward to the motive.

Suppose Walucyk and Frank were partners.

To steal Walucyk’s own property?

Well, no. But perhaps to simulate a theft and defraud Walucyk’s insurance company. A set of three hundred thousand dollar plates had to be insured. So suppose Walucyk had met Frank in San Francisco and set him up in Henderson with the secret room, and then had Frank steal the plates and hide them there. Then Frank wouldn’t give them back for the price they had agreed upon?

I sighed. There were plenty of holes in that theory. First, there was no reason to think Frank and Walucyk knew each other. San Francisco is a big place. Even an interest in Asian art does not imply knowing every other aficionado in the business. And Frank wasn’t in Walucyk’s league. The set of Chinese plates was merely one of Walucyk’s collections. He probably had over half a million dollars’ worth of art in his living room alone. When Frank lived in the city, he had to sell his ivory just to meet the rent.

Secondly, even if Walucyk had met Frank and planned an insurance fraud, he would have had no way of knowing if there was a bar with a secret room for sale in Henderson.

Lastly, if Walucyk had picked someone to steal his collection, he wouldn’t have chosen a man whose sole vehicle was a red sports car with so little room to carry anything that it would have required two trips to do the job.

No, it was much more reasonable to accept Walucyk for what he was: a rich, obnoxious collector whose Chinese plates had been stolen. Therefore, what he told me was also likely to be true.

Monday afternoon at two-seventeen, two hours after I had stalked out of the place, Frank called Walucyk to raise the ransom price. Someone was with him. Frank would hardly have anyone other than his partner there at that time. And the partner would have had the vehicle to transport the plates.

I drove north now, through Hercules, and Crockett, and across the Carquinez Bridge. As soon as I left the city the San Francisco mist turned to rain and was coming down heavily. I switched the wipers to high.

So in the process of one of their housebreakings Frank and his partner stumbled upon the Chinese plates. Perhaps Frank, familiar with oriental art, recognized the plates. What was it Chris said about Frank? Frank hated to be taken, and once he became interested in something he researched it thoroughly. But that was only after the item caught his attention. So he probably didn’t know anything about the plates before he stole them.

Maybe his partner was the knowledgeable one. Madge, as I thought earlier this morning, might well have studied about Chinese bronze. Skip? Maybe, though he never said anything to suggest it. Paul and Patsy? Rosa, Carlo, Chris? Ned? I couldn’t imagine any of them knowing a Chinese devotional plate from a brass candy dish.

I veered left and headed northwest, back toward the ocean. I was still well east of Henderson, still thirty miles southeast of Santa Rosa.

There was one other possibility, an accomplice who would be familiar with a Chinese ceremonial plate, one who had access to a truck, and whose truck could be seen around town without raising suspicion: the Chinese Laundry.

The Chinese Laundry truck came to Frank’s Place daily. The driver could have carted contraband in or out. He could have stopped anywhere on his route. If the truck had been parked outside Walucyk’s Russian River house, it might not have been noticed. It certainly wasn’t spotted outside Frank’s Place the day he was killed, at least not by the old people across the street.

The Chinese Laundry building was in Santa Rosa. It was four-thirty now, but I didn’t picture the owners of a Chinese laundry knocking off early. I envisioned them standing over their machines, thinking, in Chinese, about the ceremonial plates.

Even if they did not recognize the plates themselves, a Chinese person might be alerted by the insignia. Through benevolent associations or family ties, they would probably be able to discover the origin of the plates and their worth.