City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) (4 page)

He angled his head back to look at her, hand on the doorknob. Blue eyes warm, voice almost tender.

“I hope you do, ducks. I hope you do.”

*   *   *

Miranda flung herself in the desk chair, pulling out a new Big Chief pad from the bottom drawer. Flipped the cover, scent of the blue-lined paper and ink from the Esterbrook reminding her of grade school, wooden desks and ink wells and stern-faced women with jam on their aprons, scratching out arithmetic on a grimy chalkboard.

School was a refuge, a place of safety most of the time, even down on Harrison and 8th, and she’d learned to fight down there, to protect her own. No mother to help her, no big-hatted, big-bustled ladies on Pacific Avenue to feed her mutton and beer.

No one to watch over her.

She looked down at the ruled paper. Wrote:
Berkeley, Old Man, Chemistry Department.

Frowned, tapping the end of the fountain pen on her lips. Glanced at the brown envelope next to her.

She’d put off a visit to her father, and she needed to question him, about all he knew, if he knew anything, and all he’d done, if he’d done anything other than drive her mother away.

Away from her.

And now there was a possible spy in the hallowed halls, University of Cal-i-for-ni-a, the Golden State, hard to get in, but once you were in you were made. Hymn to learning for the right or at least the rich, where tenure and a paper in the
Classical Review
could buy a case of the finest gin, but no family, no, only a mistake, an error in computation, one last animal response to the smell of death on April 18th, nineteen hundred and aught six.

Miranda closed her eyes, took a breath. Mrs. Hart first, finish the job, collect her fee, and get the jade out of the office. She pushed the tablet and envelope aside and reached for the phone.

Tired operator, middle-aged monotone. “Who’re you dialing?”

“Mrs. William Hart the Third, please, in Burlingame.”

The woman on the other end woke up, electricity in the wire and now in her voice. Something to tell the girls on break, hey Marge, guess who got a call today on my exchange?

“Hold the line, please.”

Five rings.

The butler.

“Mrs. Hart, please. Miranda Corbie.”

Three beats.

The maid.

“Yes, Miranda Corbie. A confidential matter.”

Four and a half minutes.

The bitch.

“I’d like to return something to you, Mrs. Hart.”

Flicker in the voice, drifting like an iceberg. “I’ll send someone.”

Miranda pressed her back against the leather, a smile at the corner of her lips.

“Will you send him with eight hundred fifty-six dollars and seventy-five cents?”

“You said five—”

“I said five hundred dollars, a quick job and no publicity, plus expenses. You owe me the balance of two hundred dollars for my fee. Expenses totaled six hundred six dollars and seventy-five cents, three hundred of which I had to outlay today to one particular gentleman—to ensure the no publicity clause, Mrs. Hart.”

Sigh on the other end, chill winter wind in her ear. She moved the phone to her shoulder, opened the desk drawer, and rummaged for the remnants of the Pep-O-Mints.

Last two. She popped them in her mouth, waiting for the woman with seven million dollars to make up her mind.

“Very well, Miss Corbie. I shan’t be able to get away this evening, but—”

“Uh-uh. You wanted speed and results and you paid for it. We make the exchange tonight. I don’t want a green rope around my neck. You can meet me here or I’ll meet you there.”

Panic thawed a few icicles before they froze over again. “I’ll meet you there. At your—office.” She managed to make the word sound like “bordello”

Miranda shook her head, smiled dangerously. “If you can manage to get away this evening, come by at eleven. Just a little interlude in between dropping the rest of your mad money on roulette. Oh, and bring cash, Mrs. Hart. Checks bounce.”

She let the phone fall abruptly on the cradle, the loud clang startling two pigeons cooing on the sill.

*   *   *

Miranda looked down at the thin sheets of government-issued paper,
SECRET
stamped in red ink across every page.

Dr. Huntington Jasper.

Chemist, professor, and possible Nazi spy. A tall, thin man of fifty-three with a perpetual stoop and a severely burned left hand from one too many late-night sessions with the Bunsen burner. A man with no wife and no children, whose only loves seemed to be research on poison gas and mortuary compounds and buying modern art.

A man who visited the Nazi consulate twelve times last year.

She riffled through the typed pages, plucking out one near the bottom. In late ’39, he paid one visit to the Russian consulate. This year, he showed up twice.

She frowned. Didn’t need a degree in chemistry to figure out whom Dr. Jasper was spying for.

She rubbed out the Chesterfield, brow furrowed. Jumped when the phone clanged. “Miranda?”

Half-Irish lilt, buzz and clack of the
San Francisco News
going to press. Rick Sanders, news hawk, member of the New York gang.

Another man she owed something to.

She sat back in the chair, smile on her lips. “I finished the Hart case.”

Low whistle on the other end. She could see him shove his always-battered fedora above his forehead, blue eyes crinkling at the corners.

“That was quick. Where’d you find the jade?”

“Chinatown.”

“Anything printable?”

“She’s paying me for hush-hush, Sanders, not to give you tips.”

“How about me giving you a tip over dinner?”

Goddamn it.

She yanked open the top drawer violently, flinging the accounting books on the desk. Pulled out the Martell’s calendar. June 25th was circled in blue ink. Her eyes jumped to the clock above the safe. Almost five-thirty.

She’d forgotten about Gonzales.

“What’s all that noise? You out of Chesterfields again? I figured we’d go to Number 9, grab a Blue Fog and a shrimp cocktail, maybe hit up the Mark for dancing…”

Miranda shoved the accounting books back in the drawer, shuffled the scattered papers together.

“Sorry, Rick. I’m meeting Inspector Gonzales at the Moderne tonight.”

Pause on the other end,
rat-tat-tat
of typewriters gunning for a deadline. Rick said slowly: “You’re going out with him again?”

Miranda tucked the phone receiver under her chin and held it with her shoulder, banging the papers on the desk to get them stacked and even.

“He’s a friend of mine, Sanders. Like you.”

His voice was heavy. “Not like me, Miranda.”

Reproach, regrets, recriminations. Because he couldn’t not be with her and he couldn’t not want her. He wanted her in New York, wanted her and Johnny laughed at him, laughed at his brother in ink, fourth estate friend closer than a brother, a friend to them both, but always wanting more.

She picked up the pack of Chesterfields on the desk and shook one out on the desktop. Watched the smoke form a hazy question mark above the chairs in front of her desk.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Sanders. I’m meeting Gonzales at the Moderne. You can drop by if you want. Any news for me?”

Click, clack, rat-tat-tat. Click, clack, rat-tat-tat.

His voice was under control again. “No news, but I’ve got an idea. You want me to meet you at the Moderne and fill you in?”

Rick and Bente, her friends, part of who she was, who she was going to be. The only ones who could help her find the woman who called herself Catherine Corbie. The only ones who knew.

She tapped ash into the tray. “Can’t, not over dinner. I never told Gonzales and don’t intend to.”

More
click clacks
in the background and a muffled reply to someone else. “Sorry, Miranda. Just found out I’ve got to cover a new Picasso show opening at Civic Center tonight.”

She sat up. “Picasso? Any chance of meeting me at the Moderne and taking me with you?”

Slow, surprised. “Sure … if you want. Never knew you liked that kind of thing.”

“I’m full of surprises. What time?”

“Show runs from nine to midnight. I can pick you up at the Moderne at eight.”

“I’ll buy you a steak if you want to eat before.”

Pause, confusion, warmth back in his voice.

“Hart the Third must be paying off with some scratch. All right, Miri, as long as I’m not rolling along as a third wheel. I’ll see you at eight.”

“See you, Sanders.”

Miranda dropped the heavy receiver on the cradle. Twisted the cigarette out in the tray.

She slid the papers on Jasper into the brown manila envelope and walked to the safe, combination sticky, creak of the dependable Wells Fargo door solid and reassuring.

Set picked up the Baby Browning, along with the trick cigarette case that had saved her life more than once.

Balanced the small pistol in her palm, checked the magazine. Fit the Browning back in the cigarette case. Dropped it in her jacket pocket.

A thick gust of fog was pulsing down Market Street, brushing against the fourth-floor window, dotting it with streaks and specks, a San Francisco rain.

Miranda threw open the window.

The fog enveloped her, caressed her face, cold embrace but still living, still breathing.

Still her City.

Still home.

*   *   *

Last bottle of Vol de Nuit.

She’d come by it dearly, bribing the blonde at the City of Paris cosmetic counter with an extra five dollars.

No more French perfume, ladies, at least not free French. Oh, Chanel will design and the houses will stay open, never fear, never let war and occupation stand in the way of fashion, but the Baccarat bottles and je ne sais quoi, the flowers and the fragrance, the spirit and the sensuality, no longer all French, pure French, the embodiment of night flight and freedom.

We just surrendered, Mademoiselle, signed an armistice today in the same train car the Germans did twenty-two years ago … Monsieur Hitler and his droll sense of humor. So much for
liberté, égalité, fraternité.

No more France, no more French perfume.

Miranda dabbed it carefully behind her ears, in the soft curve of her elbow, between her breasts. She closed her eyes, inhaling the oakmoss and narcissus, the deep vanilla creme and the acrid scent of wood bark, straight from the Ardennes.

Vol de Nuit, replacement for Je Reviens and the happy time, the other Miranda, the girl in New York who liked carnations and violets, the scent of freshly cut oranges and coffee, the sound of the Elevated pounding above her tiny apartment, shouts of kids running to buy candy and a
Shadow
magazine at the corner store.

The girl who went to Spain and never came back.

She studied herself in the vanity mirror.

The Helena Rubinstein Town and Country foundation promised that “fresh face” look, but thirty-four was creeping up and she wasn’t going to look twenty-five forever. She lifted a finger to the small scar on her cheek, partially concealed by the makeup.

Especially if she accepted cases like Pandora Blake and Eddie Takahashi.

Miranda twisted the Bakelite knob of the small portable radio, tubes warming up while she rummaged through the jewelry box. KSAN and the sweet, sultry tones of Artie Shaw’s Orchestra, Helen Forrest singing “Day In, Day Out.”

That same old pounding in my heart, whenever I think of you …

She drew the terry cloth robe close and reached for the pack of Chesterfields. Shook out a cigarette, lighting it with a White House matchbook propped near the jewelry box.

She’d pushed tonight out of her mind, bent on the Hart case and finding her mother. Pushed responsibility away, too. She shouldn’t have let him kiss her, touch her, but the Pandora Blake murder had left her weak.

Left her shaking, frightened, and wanting to remember.

Arousal and life and work and death, and sex somewhere in the middle, “the little death” the French called it, and for a time she had died over and over, but not enough to kill her, no, not enough to send her back to Spain. Back to the churches, the vineyards, back to the red dirt where Johnny was.

Little death, but not enough.

Miranda inhaled, blowing smoke past her own reflection.

She’d gone out with him last week, first time since he’d kissed her on his way to Mexico, thank you so fucking much, Inspector Gonzales, leave your goddamn fedora and join the Dies Committee, just when she thought she might start to like him.

She did like him.

She liked the way his body felt against hers, liked the smell of his cigarettes and cologne. Liked his hands on her skin.

Miranda arched her back, rubbing her neck with her left hand. Artie Shaw was through and the KSAN house band was taking requests. She turned the knob again, interrupting the slick-voiced announcer in the middle of an ad for Johnson Floor Wax. Stubbed out the cigarette in the glass ashtray, “1939 World’s Fair” in gold letters wearing out and turning gray.

Sure, she liked Gonzales. But he was too rich and too good-looking, too easy at changing jobs, too easy at life. He’d suffered and she respected him for it. But he’d never been trapped, didn’t realize the danger, didn’t recognize how lucky he really was.

Didn’t understand what it meant to rebuild your life, to make a life.

Didn’t understand her.

She stood up, checked her legs critically. Snapped the garters.

It would be a long night at the Moderne.

Four

Raphael left his post at the Club Moderne doors and took Miranda by the arm, leading her behind the red velveteen rope. Loud murmur from the congregation, a peroxide blonde in a blue fox stole making indignant noises to the fat businessman who owned her. Raphael gave a low whistle between his teeth, high cheekbones burnished in bronze and raised high in a smile.

“
Che bella!
You look like a Botticelli come to life, Signorina Corbie. You working tonight?”

She smiled and shook her head. “Not tonight, Raphael.”