Horror on the ruby x, p.19
Horror on the Ruby X, page 19
Ira Spinner eased up slightly and said, “Maybe the tolltaker forgot that she walked back, officer: Maybe he didn’t notice her. She may be in the restaurant under the city end of the bridge right now.”
“No, sir. We checked. Do you know the other girl, sir?”
Liz Brown replied. “The other girl is Sylvia Harwood. We knew that they were going sailing with some boys in Sausalito. We telephoned. Sylvia had already arrived there, alone. They’ll all come back here.”
The lieutenant said, kindly, “Will you identify the Model A, sir? The bag, the scarf, and the clothes in the trunk?”
“Clothes?” Ira Spinner said.
The lieutenant’s eyes were full of pity.
“Perhaps Mrs. Spinner …” he began.
“I’m Mrs. Brown, Katie’s aunt,” Liz said. She went to examine some sports clothes, the bag and the scarf, choked up for the first time, managed to say that they belonged to her niece, and that Katie was carrying the sports things under one arm when she left home because she was going sailing.
“What was she wearing, Mrs. Brown?”
“Black!” Ira roared. Liz shook her head at him, too late. “Like beatnik black, officer.”
Sam Bradish couldn’t let that one pass.
“Good God, Mr. Spinner! Was your daughter one of those bohemian crackpots? Sometimes the North Beach hangouts look like they’re populated exclusively by widows and the bearded disciples of—disciples. I wouldn’t figure a girl like your daughter would run with that bunch. You never can tell. Takes all kinds, I guess.”
Liz Brown speared Sam Bradish with a real straight stare. I had been thinking what a fine pair they made, and both so alone and all. This wasn’t a favorable start. She said, acidly, “Inspector Bradish, my niece wore those black clothes strictly as a joke. Today and today only. She is not a North Beach or any other kind of crackpot.”
Ira Spinner said, “The city ought to build a fence around that North Beach section and burn it down. It’s disgraceful.”
Instantly Inspector Bradish became very, very cool.
“That would be very extreme, sir. Lot of fine people live around there.”
“You just said …”
“North Beach is also the Italian-American section, sir. Many very fine people. Beg pardon, Lieutenant. We’d better be getting back to our job. If we can cooperate further, will do.”
“Sure thing, Inspector. See you. We’ll have to take down your statements, Mr. Spinner, Mrs. Brown.”
Sergeant Cohen went to the city squad car and Sam Bradish drew us aside.
“I ought to have kept my trap shut. Those Beach crackpots give me a slow burn all right but a know-it-all like that Spinner makes me boil. Where’s he been all his life?”
“In Pacific Heights. In the Spinner family mansion,” I said.
“That’s not what I mean. Why doesn’t he know that the North Beach bohemians are a very small minority in that section? It’s those newspaper columnists. If they would stop their everlasting yakking it would end half our troubles in the Beach. The columnists yak. That brings the big crowds there. Crowds mean pickpockets, bag snatchers, dope pushers. Always find them in crowds.”
“You’ve had a murder there this week, Sam,” Pat said.
“You mean that whiskery type that fell off the roof of that so-called party pad? Suicide or murder? Whichever, he was a junky. Took heroin. That case keeps being a headache. We keep getting phony tips. Had another phony about that case this afternoon from the Marina, which is how we happened to be near here when the Highway Patrol reported this suicide. Well, you expect craziness in the junkies and the drunks, but when a girl like this one, this Spinner, dresses up in that silly black …”
“All bright kids are full of curiosity, Sam,” I said. “I’d do the same thing if I was that age.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Sam said, indignantly. He flung an angry hand at the foggy bridge and said, “Take a case like this …” He broke off. “Huh-uh. You take it, Pat. It’s up your alley. The Golden Gate Bridge is outside the city limits, thank God. It’s a state police problem, not ours. And yours if you want it, I suppose. Rich people, aren’t they, Pat?”
He got into the police car without waiting for an answer.
I said, “Sam’s getting crankier all the time, Pat. He ought to get married.”
Two
The white Porsche shot through the tollgate like a thoroughbred. The tall fair young man with the crew-cut and level blue eyes leaped from behind the wheel. The beautiful girl got out on her side and ran straight to Ira Spinner where she plunked her face on the lapel of his topcoat and made little whimpering sounds. I knew Sylvia Harwood by sight. The society columns called her San Francisco’s most beautiful girl. I wouldn’t dispute that. Her beauty was startling. Ink-black tousled hair. Intense blue eyes slanting a little. Thick black eyelashes and sublimely arched black brows. Her nose and chin were just right and her complexion was a dusty rose from sunshine, not the usual hard tan. She was tall enough, but she gave an impression of smallness. Maybe it was the clinging job, which Ira Spinner certainly didn’t mind. He fished out his breast-pocket handkerchief for Sylvia and patted her hair, but he blazed up again when the tall young man, Tom Fenimore, said, “She wouldn’t do it. Katie wouldn’t jump.”
“You seem to think you know a great deal about my daughter, Fenimore.”
“I know that much, Mr. Spinner.”
Tom’s good-looking mobile face was twisted by inner torment. But Ira Spinner didn’t cow him. The older man’s gaze dropped first.
Lieutenant Morgan was also very susceptible to Sylvia Harwood’s beauty. He hummed and hawed a little before, apologetically, he asked, “You are Sylvia Harwood?” Sylvia bobbed her head against Ira Spinner’s coat. “Take it easy, miss.” Sylvia was already taking it the easiest. “We have to ask a few questions. You may have been the last to see Katharine Spinner alive, miss.”
Sylvia emitted three distressed ohs. Liz Brown said, in my ear, “Sylvia will make it a production with all these men around. She’ll take all day. Just how can you go about finding Katie, Pat?”
Patrick touched Liz’s arm for silence and kept his eyes on Sylvia.
Morgan’s very male voice oozed consideration as he told Sylvia to take her time. She blew her nose a dainty blow in Ira Spinner’s handkerchief, turned three-quarters of her face toward the lieutenant and said in a bell-like voice, for she had everything, “I don’t know anything, officer. Not a thing.”
“You girls were together, but in separate cars.”
“We started out together. We were side by side at the toll-gates. Katie took the outside lane. I took the middle lane. I mean the second lane. I never saw her after that.”
“Why was that?”
“I guess I drove faster. My car is new. I don’t like to poke along. And the fog got thick right away. I didn’t see Katie again.”
“Not even in your rear-view mirror?”
“I have two mirrors, officer. I use the one to the left of the windshield, not the middle one. That shows me any car that might want to pass. Anyhow, I couldn’t’ve seen her in that awful fog.”
“Could you see ahead?”
“A little way. With headlights on.”
“Did you notice a red car following you? Probably in your lane?”
“No,” Sylvia said. She now showed much more interest in the policeman than in Ira Spinner. She stood free of the tall man’s lapels and appeared at once to be taller herself. Five-six or thereabouts. “No. I never saw anybody or anything till after I took the side road towards Sausalito.”
The lieutenant said, with a little slyness, “That’s a right-hand turn, miss. To make it you would have had to move over into the furthest right lane. The one that Miss Spinner was in. Unless you could manage a clear view of that lane you might have had a collision.”
“Probably,” Sylvia said, slightly bored.
“Did anything happen after you turned downhill to Sausalito?”
“Why, no. I just drove on to Tom’s place. Tom Fenimore’s.” Wasn’t her glance at tall blond Tom something special? “You know there’s only two lanes through Sausalito. The one coming back this way was jam-packed with cars, but I made good time going out.”
“You and Miss Spinner were going to the same place?” Sylvia’s nod answered that. “Your place, Mr. Fenimore?” Tom jerked his head. “Were you alone there?”
“No.”
“Who was with you?”
“A friend named Schuyler Mills. We were waiting for the girls when we got the bad news about Katie—Miss Spinner. Mrs. Brown phoned just as Miss Harwood drove up. We drove back here in Sylvia’s—Miss Harwood’s—car. As she said, it was slow driving on the way back here because of traffic in downtown Sausalito.”
“Why didn’t Mills come with you?” the lieutenant asked.
“Was that necessary?” Ira Spinner irritably asked Morgan.
Liz Brown said, “You’d think he’d want to. They’re old friends. Katie and Schuyler, I mean. Their families, ditto.”
“Sky was wearing only a T-shirt and shorts,” Tom said. “He went to his place to put on some warm clothes. He’ll be along.”
Liz Brown asked, “And how did he get to his place on Telegraph Hill without coming across this bridge?
“He wasn’t going to his apartment on Telegraph Hill. He has a summer place in Belvedere, Mrs. Brown.”
Liz said, “Belvedere? Living it up, yes? And how does he manage it?”
“For God’s sake, Liz!” Ira Spinner put in. “What has how Schuyler lives got to do with what happened to Katharine? Do keep quiet until the officer asks his questions. Can’t you see how hard all this is on a young girl like Sylvia? I beg your pardon, Lieutenant. My sister seems overwrought.”
“From this moment on I shall endeavor not to be overwrought, Lieutenant,” Liz Brown said, oversweetly. “Please proceed.”
Liz Brown was somewhat overwhelming to the policeman. He pulled himself together obviously before he could think of a next question.
“How was Miss Spinner dressed, Miss Harwood?” he asked then.
“Oh. She was dressed all in black.”
“For sailing, miss?”
“She was going to change on Tom Fenimore’s boat, officer.”
“Change on a sailboat? Does it have a cabin, Mr. Fenimore?”
Ira Spinner interrupted. “What a day to go sailing! Fog thick as cotton and you take two helpless girls out in a sailboat on the treacherous Bay. That’s a crime in itself, Mr. Fenimore.”
Tom said, “There was a fog in the upper Bay, Mr. Spinner. The weather was very fine. Perfect.”
“You expected my daughter to change her clothes in an open sailboat?”
“No, sir. I live on a barge. My sailboat is a sloop. The barge has a living room, bedroom, kitchen and bath. Katie would change there, of course.”
“Barge? You appear to be very aquatic, Mr. Fenimore. I thought you came from Iowa. That’s all dry land, isn’t it?”
Ira Spinner had it in for Tom Fenimore, for some reason.
“Perhaps that’s why I like the water, sir,” Tom said quietly.
“Please let the young lady finish,” Morgan said. “Miss Spinner’s Model A has had a collision, Miss Harwood. Not a very serious one, but that left fender has collided with something, apparently a red car.” He pointed at the dents. “You say you didn’t see a red car near you either before or after you left the bridge?”
“Why, no. But there are hundreds of red cars.”
“This red car would have probably been close behind you on the approach to the bridge. On the city side. There’s been no fog to speak of on that approach. Hasn’t been all afternoon.”
“Well, if there had been a red car close behind us on the bridge approach I would have noticed it, officer. I would remember it, too. I don’t.”
“Did you make a stop anywhere between Miss Spinner’s house and the bridge?” No, Sylvia said. “Was there any reason why you used both cars, miss?” Yes. On returning from Sausalito they would take different routes to their homes in different sections of the city. Besides, Sylvia didn’t like riding in that old Ford. It frightened her, she said, even though Katie Spinner had spent a young fortune to fix it up.
Sylvia was now openly nervous. Ira Spinner took note and told the lieutenant to stop heckling the child. Morgan acquiesced, and then said, “You mentioned a Schuyler Mills. You said he has a place in Belvedere. I picked him up a few weeks back for speeding. He was driving a red Thunderbird.”
Tom Fenimore said, “He had no car at all today, Lieutenant. I brought him from Tiburon to Sausalito in my sloop. And he couldn’t’ve been following the girls on the bridge—if that’s what you mean—because at that time he was with me. On my boat.”
“Sailboat or barge?” Ira Spinner asked, nastily.
“Barge,” Tom said.
“Who all knew you girls were going to Sausalito just when you did, miss?” the lieutenant asked.
“Katie’s family. Mine. And Tom and Sky.” By “Sky” did she refer to Schuyler Mills? She did. Ira Spinner cut in again. Everybody called Schuyler Sky, he said. The lieutenant said, “A snatch could be made in a fog like that, Mr. Spinner. It would take expert timing but it could be done. I’ve never seen lighter outgoing traffic or thicker fog on the bridge. A car could have cut in on the Ford. The collision need not have been very serious—you didn’t hear a crash, miss?” Sylvia hadn’t. “The bridge is more than a mile long. The bridge proper. The Model A was stopped almost exactly midway. You know how drivers are on the bridge. They don’t stop for anything. It’s not allowed, except in an emergency. Anybody coming on a stalled car or seeing an accident can pause long enough to get a little information, but he usually doesn’t. If he does he has to drive on and report whatever there is to the police at the tollgates or by phone from the Marin side. We’ll go along on the kidnapping theory, Mr. Spinner. It’s a thin hope, but it’s hope. We’ll call in the FBI—that is, if she doesn’t show up….”
“No! I want no publicity, hear?”
“We can’t keep a thing like this quiet, sir. The reporters have it already. You’d better go home now, Mr. Spinner. You can all go.” He took addresses and telephone numbers and then said, “Don’t go anywhere we can’t reach you, any of you. Another thing, when there’s a snatch, a kidnapping, there are usually messages, phone calls—very often phony crank calls, but we have to follow them up. Please report anything like that to us at once. I’ll ask the Hall of Justice—San Francisco police headquarters—to send …”
“No! No. No. No,” Ira insisted. “Keep the police out of this!”
The lieutenant did not remind Ira Spinner that the police were already on the case. He asked Sylvia Harwood if she had accompanied Katie Spinner to the Art Fair in North Beach. Sylvia dropped her thick black lashes and said she never went to North Beach. Had Miss Spinner gone there alone? Sylvia had no idea. Ira Spinner spoke up and said his daughter had gone alone.
Liz Brown moved near us and said she wasn’t sure but thought that Katie had planned to meet a friend at the Art Fair. She had mentioned a model called Celeste who worked at Morison’s, where Katie herself had had a job. Liz had only the impression that Katie was meeting the model. Celeste what? Liz only knew her as Celeste. I was acquainted with her, too. Tall, stunning blonde, with very blonde hair, almost white, and Slavic cheekbones. Was Celeste her real Christian name? Liz didn’t know. Liz had persuaded Ira to go with her to the Fair. When at the Fair Liz had spied Katie briefly from the street, in a café on the corner of Green Street and Grant Avenue. Katie had been alone at a small table with a cup of tea or coffee. Had anyone spoken to her? Yes, just as Ira saw his daughter, a very big man with a long auburn beard and a black or navy beret and a light-colored jacket had stopped beside her table. He had said something and Katie had shaken her head. Almost at once Katie had got up and left the café and went away in her Ford, which had been parked on Green Street. Had Katie seen Liz and her father? Liz thought not.
Then Liz said, “I’ll drive home with Ira. My car’s there. I’ll come to your house as soon as I can get away, Pat, if that’s convenient.”
“Of course. Katie will have an address book, Liz. Or a telephone list of some kind of her own. She may have Celeste’s address and phone number.”
“I’ll find whatever there is and call you right away.”
There went the Art Fair for us, but we couldn’t’ve cared less.
Pat also wanted to talk to Tom Fenimore and Sylvia Harwood but the lieutenant was keeping them, so Liz said she would fetch Tom with her when she came to our house. That meant a delay, but anything might happen, and Katie might call in to say she was safe.
Ira Spinner was still haranguing the officer. Liz managed to annex him and they were walking toward the black sedan as we also took off.
We felt terribly depressed. Except the dog. He was thoroughly chilled and he wriggled with delight and stretched himself so close to me that I was practically sitting on him. I assured him it wouldn’t be long now, but instead of driving straight on, Patrick circled under the tollgate plaza, turned the wheel over to me, and said we’d drive back across the bridge.
As soon as we were swallowed up in fog Pat got out of the car. I was to drive slow. Creep. When I was across I was to pull out in the first fog-free space off the road and wait.
I crept. The wind roared. The fog seeped into my bones. Why hadn’t Patrick put the top up, for goodness sake? Now and then a car overtook me and passed. Patrick walked on the pedestrian walk and searched both walk and the outside lane with his flashlight. Halfway over he got a break. The clouds broke open. The sun came through. I could see him in the mirror. He picked up nothing. Again I went slowly ahead in the fog. Patrick caught up before I was fully across the bridge and took the wheel. At the fork north of the bridge where cars can turn left and tunnel under the highway and head back to San Francisco, I said, my teeth chattering, “I hope that foggy ordeal amounted to something?”
