City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) (29 page)

Her voice was cautious. “I asked you a question.”

Eyebrows raised, he looked down at her, lips amused. “So you did. Call me Scott.”

She glanced at her watch, running out of patience.

“OK—Scott. Now explain to me who the fuck you are and why the fuck you interfered with me back there and, incidentally, how the fuck you know who I am.”

Another survey of the room. Two young women in bookish clothes had wandered in from the Contemporary gallery, chattering about a landscape by Rivera.

“Keep your voice down. It’s obvious I’m here to look out for you. You walk in now and you’ll queer the racket.”

She stared at him. “I’m supposed to work alone.”

“Yeah, well … let’s say your friend James was worried and sent me out to make sure you don’t screw up. Good thing, too, or you’d barge in and they’d cheese it all.”

Her eyes narrowed as she took in the wrinkled clothes, the wide-brimmed fedora casting a shadow over the top of his face, the infuriating tone of condescension.

“I don’t need a nursemaid, especially one who thinks he’s Melvin Purvis. Dust.”

Scott tried to grab her elbow and she took a step forward, shaking it off hard. He backed away, palms up and facing her.

“OK, OK, look, I’m here to help, not to hinder. We don’t have much time, so listen up. Go to Jasper’s car and follow him from there. We think he’s getting ready to travel, catch a rattler somewhere … probably spooked by that murder last night at Finocchio’s. Friend of yours, wasn’t he?”

Miranda’s brow wrinkled, her hand still inside her purse. “Why don’t you tell me?”

He laughed, shook his head. “James warned me you’d be a tough nut. Look, sister, believe me or don’t believe me. I’m doing my job, same as you. We’ve got this spot staked already. Go careful and stick to Jasper like a barnacle. Grab yourself a ticket and get on that train. That’s what we need—the goods on him personally. Oh, and by the way … officially speaking, you didn’t see me here tonight.”

She looked at him thoughtfully. “Mind if I phone James?”

He shrugged, brushed off some dust from his lapels. “Go ahead, sister. No skin off my teeth. Like I said, just doing my job. I’ve gotta drift now, and you should, too.”

She nodded.

He looked down at her, another brief smile. “Wait a few minutes before you leave.”

He turned away from the da Vinci, brushed by her arm, voice very low: “I can see why Jimmy cares so much.”

Miranda counted to three and pivoted, catching a glimpse of his blue-clad back turning the corner into room 36 on his way back to the entrance.

She needed a goddamn cigarette.

*   *   *

The Bay air bit through her tweed like shards of ice, salt spray almost solid, fog not much of a shield. Horns lowed mournfully off Point Lobos and the bridge, container ship answering like a stray calf, violet and orange lights from the Elephant Towers bathing the parking lot in a lurid, limited glow.

Miranda crouched low in the Packard and shivered, breathing smoke through the open window and waiting for Jasper.

She’d already looked through his windows for any brochures left on the seat, but the good professor kept his car as clean as his Bunsen burners. No train ticket.

Still, it didn’t mean this Scott character was off track.

She frowned. “Chicago” and “San Francisco” both came up in Jasper and Cheney’s conversation. And the word she thought was “birth” could have been “berth” … a berth for Jasper on the famous—and expensive—streamliner.

It made sense. Almost too much sense. And she didn’t fucking like it.

Noise, four cars over. Crunch of gravel under heavy feet, guttural laugh.

Cheney. And Jasper was beside him.

She quickly rubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray, lowered the hat on her face. Rolled the window down and tried to fade into the rainbow-lit shadows.

“You can let Fritz know he’ll have to wait a little longer—he was at the goddamn nightclub, too, so he should understand—and thank God he was, or the dicks might be telling everybody to stay put. As it is, you’re out in time. Lucky for you the SP’s been so hopped up over accidents or you’d be taking the
Forty-Niner
and not the
City of San Francisco
—but then you always were a lucky sonofabitch.”

The professor’s voice was ruminative. “In some ways, yes. Though our success has not been due to luck, Cheney, but to chemistry. Remember that. Wardon tends to forget it, too. As for Fritz, he has his hands full with Stephanie … waiting for his promised Jan Steen is not uppermost on his mind, which, frankly, is already taxed to the uppermost with all the skullduggery of late. Chicago happens to be convenient right now … Heinsicker thinks I’m too ill to teach, too upset over—over the murder.”

Cheney hawked up phlegm and spit on the pavement, while Jasper paused, resuming his lecture with an acid tone. “Your habits are most disgusting. I’m relieved I was able to book the streamliner. I’d almost rather stay and take my chances than travel halfway across the country in a cattle car.”

Cheney shook his head and laughed, irritation and admiration equally mixed. “I don’t know what I dislike about you the most, Jasper—that you’re a fairy or too stubborn for your own good. Clark will contact you at the Drake on Friday evening. That should give you plenty of time to get settled. The bastard’s expecting another Renoir, and he can afford it, so don’t forget to jack up the price. Wardon’s looking for his cut, too, you know.”

Jasper sighed heavily, reaching into his coat pocket for the car keys. “Did I tell you he approached me at the Picasso show? Even mentioned the Kirchner, of all things. I’m wary of Wardon and I don’t like his cheek. Lestang is never here, and frankly I’d rather deal with the Count, even if he has trouble getting back from the Continent. The Renoir, remember, was not my idea—too much, too soon, too untested. If we could just get Miguel out from under Wardon’s thumb—he exploits the poor lad’s ignorance and I could teach him so much…”

Cheney laid a large, hairy hand on Jasper’s sleeve. “People. Keep your voice down.”

Jasper bit his lip and nodded, climbing into the car, while a party of four, two young couples, wove their way through the lot, searching for their cars and laughing. More fairgoers were trickling back from the Gayway, headed into the City for the main act. Jasper turned on the ignition, while Cheney raised his hand in a low-key salute and bent forward to the window, talking to Jasper in words too low to overhear.

The professor nodded again and began to back out. Cheney turned toward the Gayway, walking in a hurry.

Miranda shivered again, fingers clenched hard on the wheel, eyes on the black Buick and the black swirling waters surrounding Treasure Island.

Twenty-six

She followed Jasper home and waited in the car for about twenty minutes and two Chesterfields. Not too much foot traffic, too well-bred a part of town. The lamplight finally blinked off in number 2 and she yawned, hungry for sleep, rolled down the window and lightly patted her cheek to stay awake. Next stop was Market Street and the Ferry Building.

About twelve people were fighting to stay awake in the Southern Pacific waiting room. One man in a rumpled gray suit and dingy mismatched socks had already shoved his fedora over his face and was snoring against the tall, wooden back of his seat, while a middle-aged woman seated kitty-corner peered at him through round glasses, fascinated. A lone janitor in a Southern Pacific uniform halfheartedly ran a push broom over the floor, while strains of Benny Goodman and Mildred Bailey filtered from a jukebox in the mostly empty café, bouncing against the marble columns.

And while I’m waiting here this heart of mine is singing.…

Goddamn music, love, love, love, you made me love you just the fucking way you look tonight, so let’s fall in love, why shouldn’t we fall in love, just come back to me, goddamn it, come back …

Miranda approached the thin, elderly man behind the ticket booth, face buried in the latest issue of
Railroad Magazine.

“Next train to Chicago?”

Count to five while the old man pulled away from the pulp paper and raised bleary blue eyes to hers, rolling around a plug in his cheek. He turned his head slightly and she heard the
wang
of wet tobacco hitting a spittoon.

“Depends, lady. Got the
Overland Limited
goin’ out at eight thirty-five tomorrow morning. She leaves Oakland Pier at nine fifteen, if’n you don’t want to take the ferry, some folks don’t. Cost you sixteen fifty-five for a standard lower berth. Then there’s the
Challenger
if the
Limited
’s too much, she’s got what they’re callin’ economy meals, cost you thirty-five cents for dinner. Ferry to Oakland’s at eight
A.M
. I’ve got maybe two or three reclining-chair cars left—”

“What about the
City of San Francisco
?”

He raised his bushy gray eyebrows, giving her an up-and-down look, voice a slow drawl. “That’s our de-luxe streamliner, lady, and she usually goes out on the 2nd, 8th, 14th, 20th, and 26th of the month.” He raised an arthritic finger to the sepia-toned SP calendar on the side of the booth.

“This here says today’s the 27th.”

“But I heard—”

“I know, I know.” He shook his head. “You heard about the accident in Cheyenne, lady, was in the papers a couple of days ago, and you’re right. Made the
City
late … she didn’t get in till today and she’s goin’ out tomorrow—two days late.” He leaned forward slightly, wet whisper with the odor of tobacco behind it. “They don’t like anybody to know. Brass hats been mighty sensitive since last year.”

She let out a sigh of relief, opened her purse. “Can I buy a ticket?”

His tongue shoved the tobacco around for a couple of seconds while he took her in again.

“Funny thing, you ain’t been the only one askin’ about the streamliner. Had a fella in earlier who talked his way on board. The
City
does go out tomorrow afternoon at three forty-five … but she’s a diesel streamliner and she’s usually booked in advance, late or not. You could wait till Saturday and take the
Forty-Niner,
it’s almost as pretty, just no special club car and not quite as fast…”

Miranda shook her head emphatically, put on her best mystery woman look, and leaned in close.

“Look, I’ll give
you
the skinny. I’m a private eye, see—trying to track down a scientist. The G-men want to talk to him and they asked me to help. You know how people are in trains … chatty, more easy. Figure his guard’ll be down if I follow him to Chicago. Now—you’ll keep my secret, won’t you? I need to get on his train and in a nearby compartment. I think he’s booked a separate room on the streamliner. You think you could check for me, Pops? It would mean a lot to your country. Might even be a decoration or medal in it for you.”

The old man’s yellow teeth bared in a smile of delight, while he rubbed the tobacco off with his tongue and shot another wad in the spittoon.

“Must be somethin’ new they’re tryin,’ fe-male detectives and all. Never heard o’ nothin’ like it in my day. We had Pinkerton and that was it. Just a minute, young lady, let me get my book.”

He reached under the counter and pulled out a large, thick album. Shoved a pair of pince-nez glasses on his nose and looked up with a shy smile.

“Don’t use ’em when I’m readin’ for pleasure. Now, then …
City of San Francisco.
No duplex, no doubles, no open berth, no roomettes. Fella I told you ’bout—came in couple of hours ago—got the last one. Say…” He leaned forward eagerly, teeth still coated in bits of tobacco. “You think maybe he’s the fella you’re after?”

The old man thought for a moment, then shook his head in disappointment before she could answer. “Never mind, girlie, my imagination’s runnin’ riot. That was a younger fella, no scientist like you’re talking about. Well, then … I’ve got a single seat in coach left and a smaller-type drawing room suite I’m supposed to hold for Southern Pacific families.” He shook his head regretfully. “Not much to choose from, girlie.”

Eyes large, brown and pleading. “Pops—can you look him up for me? He’d take a drawing room—your best compartment. Name of Jasper, Dr. Huntington Jasper.”

“Just a minute.” He ran a gnarled finger over first one page and then another, chewed and spit again. Wiped his lips with a soiled handkerchief beside the ticket book.

“I ain’t supposed to give out this information, young lady, but seein’ as how you’re workin’ with Hoover, I suppose it’s all right. There’s a party named Jasper that took one of our largest compartments. That one’s usually reserved for top SP men travelin’ back and forth … says here Jasper just paid for it today. Didn’t do it through me or else I’d’ve remembered. He’s in the Fisherman’s Wharf car, room G, just one behind the club.”

Miranda bit her lip. “I really need my own room. For privacy.”

He sat back and closed the book, a frown stretching his weathered face.

“I don’t hold with immoral activity, girlie, not even for Uncle Sam.”

She grinned. “Believe me, Pops, neither do I. I’m all business. Wish I could tell you more, but that’s as much of the lay as I can risk.”

She opened her purse and plucked a five-dollar bill from her wallet, sliding it under the glass window. “Consider that some early reward money from the government.”

He melted again, made a harrumphing noise while he opened a smudged can of chewing tobacco and stuck another wad in the side of his cheek. Didn’t touch the money.

“Well … seein’ as how these Nazis seem to be everywhere—Huns never learnt their lesson in ’18, did they? Even on our best train,
City of San Francisco,
we’ve got problems, you remember that accident that killed all those people last year? Nazi sabotage, so the SP men say, and believe you me, if’n it had been the conductor drivin’ too fast that day, he’d be hung out to dry. You think … you think maybe this Jasper fella was in on it?”

His face was pressed against the glass with a pleadingly hopeful look, mouth parted and open, teeth even more yellow. She narrowed her eyes and looked from side to side before whispering: “I can’t say. They don’t tell me everything, you know. But between you, me, and the
City of San Francisco
…” She made a gesture across her throat and threw him a meaningful glance. The old man nearly swallowed his tobacco.