City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) (37 page)

She pointed to a large painting on the wall to Miranda’s right. “He weren’t no more than an imitation lover, Miss … and there’s a lot of them around. Don’t you get so’s you’re soft, remembering the sweet talk. That sweet talk, nine times out of ten, was for other women than you, women he don’t hit or swear at, women he don’t leave in the middle of the night.” She shook her head, starting to move back toward the counter. “Stick to your guns, Miss. You know the real thing when you find it.”

Miranda was staring at the painting above her head, eyes wide.

Know the real fucking thing when you find it …

She finally realized why the painting in Jasper’s compartment looked so familiar.

It was
Mercury Slaying Argus
by Nicolas Bertin … the painting in Dr. Heinsicker’s office.

Thirty-two

“Another original,” Jasper had said, referring to
Time Exposes Beauty,
the painting from Poland she hadn’t unwrapped.

Another original.

She should have realized the import of those words, the way he jumped when she mentioned Mexico, his conversation with Cheney and plaintive desire to get Miguel “out from Wardon’s thumb,” all linked to an order for “another Renoir” …

Another Renoir.

Not an original.

Fuck.

Jasper wasn’t just stealing and smuggling paintings, he was
forging
them, with the help of a formidable background in chemistry and Wardon and Cheney and the mysterious Count Lestang, his “European associate.”

And Miguel …

Who could Miguel be but the artist, the young genius Jasper rhapsodized over as he grew jealous of Wardon’s control?

“He exploits the boy’s innocence,” Jasper had said to Cheney. “I could teach him so much…”

Goddamn it. She had to get back to San Francisco—fast.

Miranda chewed three bites of the hamburger and drained the Coke. Caught Mary’s eye and the blonde ambled over.

“Everything OK, Miss?”

“Yeah, I just remembered I’ve got an appointment … can you wrap up the rest of this with the pie? I’ll try the ice cream another time.”

Mary tilted her head at Miranda. “Sure thing. You sure you don’t wanna eat here? Body can get dyspepsia like that, eatin’ on the run.”

Miranda opened her wallet and flattened a dollar bill on the table. “I’ve gotta go. Keep the change.”

The waitress raised her eyebrows. She picked up the dollar with practiced hands and loaded her left arm with the still-full platter of food.

“Drugstore down the street’s open twenty-four hours if you need it.”

Miranda smiled. “Thanks.”

Mary reluctantly left for the kitchen, and Miranda dug out the SP pamphlet she’d taken from the station. The fastest way home would be the
Overland Route,
one of the SP trains that made the run from St. Louis, Chicago, or Omaha back to San Francisco. By the time one of the smaller locals rolled in, by way of Shasta or Yreka or Klamath, Jasper’s body would be found and the city would be that much harder to break into.

Her finger traced the columns on the page. Already missed the
Overland Limited
and the
Challenger,
and waiting for either one would mean an overnight in Reno and a departure tomorrow night.
Pacific Limited
offered a better shot, departing tomorrow afternoon, and the
Treasure Island Special
didn’t run until the 30th. That left the
City of San Francisco,
which wouldn’t be back for a few days, and …

Yes.

The
Forty-Niner.

Due in from Omaha and Chicago on the 28th, departing Reno at 1:35
A.M.
Now if she could just get a fucking ticket …

Miranda slid out from behind the booth as Mary dropped a large paper bag full of wax paper–wrapped food on the tabletop. Miranda lifted the laundry bag with one hand and the paper bag and her purse with the other. She nodded to the waitress, who was staring at her.

“Thanks for everything.”

She glanced up at the painting on the wall. “That’s a copy of a French picture, by the way—I think it’s called
Happy Lovers.
”

Mary raised her plucked eyebrows again. “You a teacher or something, Miss? Nobody ever come in here and told me that before.”

Miranda headed for the door. “Be seein’ you.”

“Don’t step on no dead snakes.”

Mary started to wipe down the table, every now and then sneaking a glance at the painting on the wall.

*   *   *

The SP ticket agent was no more than thirty, with flaky skin and dandruff on the shoulders of his dark uniform. He yawned.

“’Scuse me, Miss. We got three open sections, one compartment and one double bedroom left … the double bedroom occupant leaves the train here, so you’d be clear to ’Frisco.”

“I’ll take the double. What section of the train?”

“Observation car, Miss, the California Republic. First-class accommodations. That’ll be six dollars and thirty cents.”

Miranda dug out her wallet and handed him a ten.

“My luggage is in storage here … a friend of mine drove it out.”

He yawned again, belatedly raising a fist to his mouth. “Sure thing, Miss. We can load it for you once the
Forty-Niner
rolls in. What’s the name?”

She hesitated for a split second, visions of Reno police appearing at her elbows. Jail was jail and iron bars were iron bars, but fuck … she’d rather take her chances with Brady and O’Meara than spend time in a Nevada cooler.

Her voice was clear, calm, and low. “Marion Gouchard.”

The agent scratched his freckled cheek absentmindedly.

“Don’t remember that name, and I would’ve, on account of it soundin’ French an’ all. When did he bring ’em in? I’ve only been on duty about half an hour.”

She waved a hand vaguely. “Oh, around half past ten. Can you check?”

“Sure thing,” he said automatically and stood up, the black leather stool emitting a hiss from escaping air. “Be right back.”

Miranda looked around the waiting room. Three women, middle-aged widow or divorcée in black, rhinestones glittering at her wrist, younger woman in drab brown with two small children, boy and a girl, and a secretarial type in glasses and a glare. They sat on the benches, the young mother hushing the children and trying to get them to fall asleep on the seat next to her.

Standing, not sitting, were six male passengers, half of them low-level gamblers with just enough change to limp back to San Francisco. Two grifters leaned close in muted conversation, long, slicked-back hair tucked under black fedoras, bright display handkerchiefs flashing from pin-striped suits. A balding salesman, hair threaded over the top of his skull, propped himself against the depot wall, body limp and exhausted, leather display case cracked at the corners.

No killers in the crowd, not even in a game of craps. Jasper’s murderer was either still on the
City of San Francisco
or spending the night in a Reno pleasure house, waiting until morning to make his next move. She’d make hers first.

The SP agent reentered the booth with a cough. She turned around, flashed him a big smile.

“You found them?”

He nodded. “Sure did, Miss Gouchard. Looks like quite a bit of luggage to take to San Francisco … you planning another trip?”

Tom O’Day had come through for her. No luggage left at Ogden, no trace of Miranda Corbie.

She plastered the smile. “I’m thinking of staying awhile, then perhaps taking the
Daylight
to Los Angeles. I’ve heard it’s a lovely ride.”

He yawned again, gold gleaming from the back of his throat. “That it is, Miss, that it is. Some say it’s the most beautiful in the whole country. Here’s your ticket—double bedroom D in the buffet observation car California Republic.” He glanced at his watch. “Train should be here in about twenty minutes. I’ll call the porter once she pulls in.”

She gathered the ends of her coat together, tried to make it nonchalant. “Any news from the line? I don’t mind telling you I’ve been a bit nervous since the accident on the
City of San Francisco
last year.”

He shook his head. “No, ma’am, you don’t have a thing to worry about. Telegraph’s been quiet all night. You know, train travel is the safest there is, why, more people are killed and hurt in auto-mo-biles every day than in a train…”

She let him go on until he ran out of steam, smiled again, and sat down at one of the row end seats facing the platform.

No news. No murder on the
City of San Francisco,
no death and certainly no murder, or he wouldn’t be yawning and there’d be a fat SP rail dick wandering the yard outside.

So far, the only people who knew about Jasper were her, the killer, and the O’Days.

Miranda bit her lip, stomach growling. She lifted out the foil-wrapped hamburger from the bag and ate it methodically, the two children staring at her until their mother reprimanded them. Finished the meal with a handful of fries, stood up, stretched, and threw the apple pie in the trash can.

So much for where the elite meet to eat …

She was taking a chance, using the Marion Gouchard alias, since Jasper had deciphered the cover—but that didn’t mean the killer had. Besides, it was the first name that came to her and she’d had a fucking concussion.

Miranda shivered, trying to squeeze more warmth out of the coat. Checked the room again. All concerned were unconcerned with her, except for the two kids.

Next move.

She could find out who the buyer was, maybe queer the deal for the killer, if he knew about the Chicago sale and was planning to carry it through. Maybe the mark would even call the cops.

She walked purposefully into the phone booth, shutting the wooden door with a clack that woke up the salesman. He’d been dozing against the wall and now moved to a seat.

She hit the switch hook. “Operator? I need long distance, please.”

Bored voice. “Where to?”

“Chicago. Drake Hotel.”

She tapped her fingernails on the wooden shelf, idly leafing through the phone book. Prominent ad for the Bank Club. Thought of Elmer and “cleaning the fish” and she slammed the book shut.

“Ma’am? Please deposit seventy-five cents.”

Miranda plucked out three quarters from her change purse, dropped them in the slot. The phone was about ten years old, worn and repaired, witness to too many late-night calls and early-morning tears. She hoped it would hold on till she was through.

Click. Click. Click …

“Got the Drake Hotel on the line. Go ahead.”

She could barely hear a sleepy male voice with a flat midwestern twang. “Drake Hotel. Hello? Hello? This is the Drake Hotel.”

She raised her voice, spoke loudly and clearly. “This is a message for Mr. Clark, room number five eleven.”

“Drake—what? Oh, oh yes. Thank you. A Mr. Clark, you said?”

“Mr. Clark.”

“Hold one moment.”

More waiting, more fingernail tapping. Easier to send a wire except her location would be in writing, should a cop get wise and trace the information. Goddamn it, waiting was worse than running, waiting for the news, waiting for the papers, waiting for the headline on page four about the private eye and ex-escort wanted for murder on the
City of San Francisco
 …

“Ma’am? Mr. Robert Sterling Clark, did you say? He is checking in tomorrow, room five eleven. What is your message?”

She took a breath. “Renoir is a fake.”

“What? I’m afraid I can’t understand you…”

“Renoir. R-E-N-O-I-R. Is a fake. Stop.”

Pause on the line, while the clerk woke up. “‘Renoir is a fake.’ Very good, ma’am. I’ll make sure Mr. Clark receives the message.”

*   *   *

The all-Pullman
Forty-Niner
pulled in on schedule, solid, heavy dark gray colors matching the smoke pouring from the engines, black and gold stripes on the side an echo of the rush it was named for. Not a diesel, not a streamliner, just a bullet nose to mark it as modern, with powerful mountain engines and the iron heart of the trains that built the West.

Miranda liked it better than the
City of San Francisco.

The porter hustled all her luggage out of the storage area, most of the other Reno passengers carrying small bags or, in the case of the grifters and the gamblers, nothing at all. She tipped him well, a pudgy little man with drooping eyes and deep dimples. He yawned continually.

The cars, like all Southern Pacific passenger trains, bore evocative names. She passed the Joaquin Miller and the Captain John Sutter, the Gold Rush—an open section—Roaring Camp and Bear Flag until, at last, she climbed aboard the California Republic.

Double bedroom D was just in front of the buffet, a quiet room.

She glanced at her watch: 1:47
A.M.

No sleeping tonight—not with a noose around her neck.

She thanked the porter, who bowed and yawned again on his way out, making Miranda yawn. Wished she had some goddamn bourbon or even coffee, but the buffet was closed until morning.

She arched her back and looked around. No Nantes blue and apricot, more of a drab olive green. Miranda sank heavily onto the bed and stared at her suitcase. She wouldn’t be able to take the luggage back to her apartment—best to store it at the depot.

Grinding noise, shrill whistle.

She shook herself awake, lit a Chesterfield. Threw open the blinds and stood and watched as the heavy steel train began to move out of the station.

Yellow and blue, pink and green, neon still glittering in the thin mountain air.

Chance and divorce and luck and money, your fantasies come to life. Sex and sin all legal and licensed, where gangsters sat on council boards and whorehouses ran like factories. Biggest Little City in the World, oasis on a high desert plain, city of possibility, city of escape.

A city where everything and everyone had a price to pay or a price to wear, city of buyers and sellers where nothing came for free.

Miranda shivered.

She was glad to get the hell out of Reno.

*   *   *