A place of fog and murde.., p.10
A Place of Fog and Murder, page 10
“Not yet. I came here to sharpen my claws on your desk first. That way anyone else I need to contact will think I’m a pussycat. Tell me about Irenie. What should I expect?”
“She’s a real piece of work. Managed to snag some sap who gave her two favorite things in the world – money and status.”
The “sap” was my client, but I kept my expression neutral.
He kept going. “She’d sell her own daughter. May have, though we haven’t caught her doing it yet. I get the idea Frannie has some sense, but she’s made some pretty bad choices, Valentini being one of them.” For half a second, an expression of sadness and resignation controlled his features, then he tightened up. “Truth is, Irenie is more jealous of her own daughter than anyone else, and that says something. Still,” he inhaled, “she protects that girl.”
“Maybe she has a little bit of mothering in her?” The end of my sentence raised — I anticipated what he might say.
“In Irenie? Hell no. She sees Frannie as income, nothing more.”
“Anything else?”
“If she invites you to one of her salons, don’t go.”
“Oh?”
A darling, roly-poly man wandered up. He wasn’t nearly as tall as Somerset, but twice as round, and he had a neat moustache, clean suit, and a warm handshake. “This is the lady dick everyone’s talkin’ about? You didn’t say she was nice looking lady dick. Gee, you’re sweet,” he gave Somerset the stink-eye, I suppose for not making a better introduction. “Detective Bernard Rollins, but you can call me Bennie.”
I took his hand, like one of the boys, and gave him a handshake worth remembering. “Hello Bennie. You can call me Lou.”
“Ain’t that swell? She even sounds like a real Shamus.”
“Probably ‘cause I am a real Shamus. Ain’t that swell?”
Somerset blew his smoke over at Rollins. “What do you want, Bennie?”
“Heard this lady might have some info on Willkie Valentini. Whaddya got, Honey?”
“A missing person case,” Somerset snarled at him before I could reply.
What was between those two men was not a friendship, but then sometimes you don’t get lucky in your partners and colleagues. I didn’t doubt Somerset would go to the moon for Rollins, and vice versa, if for no other reason than they shared dangers and goals. And the blue uniform.
Didn’t mean they were friends. In fact, my woman’s intuition said they didn’t like each other much.
“I’m looking for Frannie Coventry,” I said before Somerset, taking control the conversation away from him. “Rumor has it she’s friends with Valentini.”
“Nobody’s friends with Valentini,” Rollins said. “He just puts up with folks until he decides he doesn’t need them anymore.”
“Frannie?”
“She fit the bill for a moll. He put up with her, I gather. Can’t picture him falling for a broad. Can’t picture him caring enough about anyone else. He’s ugly that way.”
“Violent? That’s what the papers say.”
“The worst kind. Don’t matter if you’re a cop, a priest, or a kid. If you’re in Valentini’s way, you're as good as removed.”
Nice guy Frannie was associating with, but then I understood it as fact before I came in here. Valentini liked to make the papers. “Based on what you two have gathered over the last couple of years — sounds like Valentini got tired of Frannie.”
They looked at each other. Rollins shrugged. “If he has, she’s as good as gone. He doesn’t keep his molls around for more than six months.”
“Sounds about right for the timing. I understand she hooked up with Valentini about six months ago,” I shared. “What else can you tell me?”
“Shut your yap, Bennie. Don’t be such a sap for a girl with a badge. We don’t have time for a lost and found.” Somerset put out his cigarette.
Bennie rolled his eyes and then smiled for me. “Look, I don’t know if you’re on the level or not. But if you are, I hope you find her. Her mother won’t be of any help to you.”
Somerset waved his partner away. “Don’t waste your time. Keep your ears open, for where Valentini’s dumped the body, and keep your mouth shut, so you don't go catching his attention. Leave the rest to us. This is too big for you, sister. It was all too big for Frannie — she shouldn’t have gotten involved with Valentini. And neither should you.” He stood up, still not offering his hand. “Come on, Bennie. We have real work to do.”
Rollins looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry about him. He’s got one song to play in this band.”
“It’s called Getting Even with Willkie Valentini. And he plays it over and over and over.”
“That’s it. Listen, Honey, he does have a point. He’s been after Valentini for eight years now and he’s got nuthin’ to show for it. Slicker than a wet fish. I’m not sure who you should avoid or who you should visit, but whatever you do, don’t land in between Valentini and Milt Somerset. That’s where people die.”
“Even if his partner got in the way?”
“Oh, he’d shoot me first, then take on Valentini, if I got in his way.” Rollins laughed. I didn’t think it was so funny.
“Thank you,” I said, in earnest. “Bennie, here’s my card, in case you have anything for me. A pleasure meeting you.”
“Likewise, Lou. You be careful.”
I headed out of the department, stopping to look back. Rollins was chatting with another officer, I guessed he was explaining who the dame was. Somerset was glaring at me, studying me, over the other cigarette he’d taken. I got the message; he controlled the flow of information out of the Vice Squad. I got it, loud and clear.
Outside I sat down on a bench and took out my notebook. I was too new to the job to trust remembering everything. Word for word, I wrote it down, while it was still fresh in my bean.
So, I thought as I smoked one for the road, chances were good I'd face the infamous Willkie Valentini sooner rather than later.
But first — Irenie Coventry. The Dragon herself.
Chapter ELEVEN
Be prepared for there to be two sets of laws: those for us and those for the rich. And, they are not even close by comparison.
~Lou Tanner, P.I., Notes for female Pemberton Graduates, 1935
EIGHT O’CLOCK, FULLY-loaded Savage .32 in purse, I passed any number of harried and tired servants heading home for the evening. Some people put their staff up on site and others, with smaller homes, not enough room. It was like watching the bruised and damaged from the poorer parts of the world. Come to America, survive underemployed and underpaid. Better than getting killed by that Hitler creep, or Bolsheviks, or any of the jackasses who want to rule the world.
I stopped at the intersection of Jones and Vallejo. Russian Hill. Nice homes up at the top. Further down the slope, past Jones, were nice but affordable houses and apartments. 1021 Vallejo was at the top of Vallejo Street, next to a hillside park with a stone balustrade and enough grass to accommodate expensive breeds. Dogs, I mean. Mr. Lockwood was doing alright for himself.
Two flat disks with spinning brushes whizzed past me, snagging any number of cigar butts and other detritus of the living and sucking them into big canvas bags they dragged behind them. Cleaner ‘Bots. My Dad once told me they were called Bummers because of the collection bags. Not at all what they were called in reality, but to a seven-year-old, such details were fascinating. Top of the line street cleaners, expensive, and they’re never used outside of this neighborhood or any other high-class quarter. Their handler, watcher, and wind-up key man strolled past me, barely taking notice. My tax dollars at work.
They split and went down the perpendicular lanes of the street, built at an angle to keep the street grade navigable while providing access to Jones. I waited, a little amused, when they passed me and then continued climbing to the top. Big townhouses clustered together on both sides of the cul-de-sac. Vallejo Street cut off at the top of the hill, then continued below the steep cliff to Mason Street. Mason? A flash of irony.
From the balustrade, I looked out over the City. Fog was laying off the coast and the area had a spotty set of high clouds above it. Lights glowed orange, yellow, and blue. Flashing neon on lower Broadway and Columbus called attention to all the clip joints and sex shops.
Lockwood was late.
A punctual man and tonight he decided to be late?
At the bottom of the street, before the split road, a large Buick turned off its lights. No one got out. I didn’t like that. I suppose it was a chauffeur napping until he was to drive someone home, but ...
My gut said, “Watch the car.”
The Lockwood House fit the upscale hillside it perched on. Some houses wore a nightgown of darkened wood shingles, bay windows, and interesting decorative gables serving little to no purpose but to show off how much material created them. A couple of the buildings were townhouses in dinner gowns; square and boring, were it not for the exceptional accessories of landscaping, hinting that the most important form of life in residence was plant not human.
Then came his house. Soft turquoise green with cream accent. An evening gown of flowing curves, simplicity in design, and the ability to effortlessly hug the hill without tumbling one hundred feet below to Mason Street. The perfect ultra-modern design. One of the few things I learned in finishing school that was of any use to me now, was a laundry list of residential design styles, what was chic and what wasn’t, and who to blame. Expensive. Impractical. A show piece. I guessed it was about five years old at most, built right at the start of the Depression. Lockwood took the same economic punches we all had, yet he coughed up the coin to build the thing with his import/export company. He was one hell of a businessman, it would seem. Sculptured hedges and trees matched the modern esthetic. A bracelet of cement surrounded the whole garden, stating without exception that trespassers were unwelcome.
I thought I heard a tune with Billie Holiday’s silky voice sliding into the depth of the music. The smell of cooking meat and still-damp mud sent a photograph racing through my brain. Not one of unbridled wealth but of an upstate New York family picnicking at the park. A sharp pang gripped my stomach and I pushed the mental picture to the back of my head. Not now.
The view was breathtaking, and I couldn’t help imagining it in daylight. For now, the City, facing east to Yerba Buena and Treasure Island Naval Air Station, was a blaze of blinking lights, vehicle headlamps, and streetlights. A couple of searchlights burst out into the sky, south of the view. The Pointe.
Out in the Bay, a lighthouse sent its beam of light rotating around its tower. Alcatraz Island Prison.
Such a waste of land.
Around 8:20 pm, footsteps arrived behind me, casual but quick. I wasn’t surprised they belonged to Mr. Lockwood.
“Good evening,” I said hopefully.
“I sure hope so. Sorry I’m late.” He looked a little disheveled, and it looked good on him. He explained, before I asked, he parked his car elsewhere and walked up the hill to me. He didn’t want his car seen. By Irenie, I suspected. Ah heck, I knew.
“Shall we go in,” I asked. He hesitated. “You do have a key, don’t you? I charge extra for breaking and entering.”
“Yes, of course.” That smile he’d held back before, arrived just in time. “I have bad memories every time I come here. And, I’d prefer not to run into Irenie.”
“Well, Mr. Lockwood ...”
“Elliott. If we’re facing the dragon together, we might as well be on a first name basis.”
“Okay, Elliott. It’s Lou, by the way. Listen if we run into Irenie, I can handle it. I can say I’m writer for a magazine. I’m confident I’m prepared for her, just in case.”
His expression said he believed otherwise, but I was ready. Up the wandering stone path, we wound our way to the gracious front door, made from the corpse of a gigantic oak tree. A sweet-faced woman met us. The housekeeper? Of course. She looked at Lockwood as if he was the best thing she’d seen in years. Like family coming to Thanksgiving dinner.
Lockwood introduced us and the look of satisfied conspiracy on the woman’s face was a good sign.
I should have been, but I wasn’t prepared for the Lockwood house’s interior. Clearly someone spent a fortune paying for affection from a gold-digging wife. As if he heard my thoughts, Lockwood removed his hat and offered me a mild, embarrassed grin.
It was money spent on luxury, selfishness, and failure to recognize the crumbling world around it.
The walls were a base of smooth, eggshell white, with soft gold filigree stenciled in diamond shaped patterns from floor to ceiling. Modern crown molding and chair rails in sets of simple threes, painted silver, accentuating the shape of the room. A single mirror took stage on the left, hung above a narrow table of light marble and light wood. A “V” shaped vase held fresh flowers and blocked access to the mirror. Clearly no one was expected to do something crass, such as check the tilt of their hat. It was an old trick to use a mirror in narrow areas to broaden the room’s appearance. It wasn’t needed but who as I to critique?
Centered in the middle of a white rug was another table, with palm fronds carved into its legs. More flowers. It was an expensive place to dump your hat and gloves.
Beyond the wide entry was a living room with a view to kill for. Sweeping down from upstairs with a gentle curve was a staircase sporting a fancy iron banister painted in white to match the walls.
Everything was new. Sleek, expensive, modern. All for show.
Pointing and almost rushing me, Lockwood led me up to Frannie’s room.
If I didn’t know better, I'd assume the occupant was a twelve-year old girl hoping to reach puberty with some grace, straight teeth, and clear skin. Everything was white, fluffy, and accented with grey and pink. Toys waited in a corner, not discarded but not a primary focus either. Her vanity table was tidy, with lipsticks, nail enamel, and powder. If I'd found photos clipped from the magazines of Gary Cooper or William Powell, hell, Andy Rooney, I wouldn’t be surprised.
Pointing to where he planned to return the cheque, Lockwood looked around, uncomfortable and ready to flee. Finally, he slipped the check between two magazines, making sure an edge poked out. Balling-up his fists and releasing them, a relaxation technique I use too, Lockwood walked back to the door to peek out.
“Would you like to wait in the hall? I won’t steal anything. Scout’s honor.”
Nodding, he abandoned the room with a bit too much speed.
In her drawers were some decidedly un-childlike pieces of underwear. Silk and lace and plenty of see-through-in-all-the-right-places gowns. Impractical garter belts. In the bottom drawer of a rather large chest waited too much leather. A pair of kid gloves, I wouldn't question, but this stuff was the sort of leathery accoutrements that would make any man fearful — unless he was hoping to be a little terrified. Some men liked that sort of thing, or so I’ve heard.
The locked drawers in her vanity piece were a challenge — for a moment. Chapter 29: Lock Picking. I was grateful for the lessons in the chapter. I got the drawers open fast. Some letters and picture postcards were inside. Half empty perfume bottles. A small but thick photo album, hidden under sections of newspaper.
I took out the album and started to look through.
I caught myself holding my breath with each turn of the page. The subject of the photos was Frannie. None were pornographic in that you couldn’t see any naughty bits. But I couldn’t think of a different word for them.
Frannie, underage without a doubt, had been posed in sexual, provocative ways. If nudity was at issue, she’d covered her exposures with fabric. I was sitting on the very bed where some of the shots had been taken, props, girlish toys, and all. I felt a little unclean. This whole space had one purpose: turn on adult men with inappropriate, and illegal, interests in sexual innocence. Not to mention sexual innocents.
Sure, I was learning all about this stuff, about the trade in pornographic photos, but something about the child glaring into the camera lens made me very uncomfortable. I couldn’t tell if she was posing against her will or enjoying the hell out of herself.
Later in the album, Frannie’s role in the indecent story changed. Now she was the aggressor: leather, chains, implements of torture, boots, and body parts barely hidden. Black lace. Sometimes the victim in control. Sometimes Frannie the Sadist. Out of habit, I kept my face expressionless, but inside, I felt shocked. Sure, I was aware of these things, but I hadn’t seen them as graphically presented before. I had to keep it all inside — a detective needed to be beyond shock.
Despite the nature of what I was seeing, Frannie’s photographic evolution, moving from helpless little girl to assertive dominator, struck me the hardest. Who was the photographer and who were they taken for? Who guided her on this journey of hers?
Was Elliott aware? Had he looked in here and seen what his stepdaughter was wearing when polite society wasn’t looking? I checked her armoire. No demure dresses and school-girl socks inside. Only slinky negligees and evening gowns.
Somerset and Rollins were right. This gal was in over her head.
I sat down on the bed and gave it a bounce. The sounds of paper. I searched under and through her mattresses and snagged the brass ring. Letters. Lots of letters. The handwriting was atrocious. I wanted to read them, but the door downstairs slammed.
A woman began shouting.
Irenie.
Oh brother.
We’d been caught.
Chapter TWELVE
You’re going to meet a Dragon Lady now and then. Beware the fire breathing. Always bring your badge to protect you from the flames.
~Lou Tanner, P.I., Notes for female Pemberton Graduates, 1935
IRENIE.
She’d come home early.
Stuffing the letters into my purse, and the album into my bag, I hustled downstairs. I couldn’t leave my client to face Irenie alone. From the top of the stairs, I announced, “Thank you, Mr. Lockwood, you are a life saver. That’s a lovely water closet, by the way, and ...”
