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  I stared at the paper until the lines and the letters began to blur and instead of a paper I was seeing a crumpled body at the bottom of a muddy ditch. The body and the ditch and the mud all disappeared when the doorbell rang, all but the face. That stayed with me for a while, long after the doctor came up to look at Ruthie.

  ELEVEN

  By the time I got back to the office it was after five. When I was halfway up the stairs the telephone started ringing. It was still at it when I reached the desk so I picked it up. A voice that had grown up in Brooklyn and was trying to hide it asked me who it was and I told him.

  “My name is Sylvester Sisca, Mr. Tanner,” the voice announced. “I am the executive assistant to Mr. Ferdinand Bollo.”

  “You mean Duckie?”

  “I believe some people call him that.”

  “And some people call him worse. What’s on your mind, Sylvester?” It was snotty, but I felt snotty.

  “We have recently received some information about you, Mr. Tanner, and frankly we’re somewhat disturbed.”

  “Have you tried Bromo?”

  “You’re not funny, Mr. Tanner. But perhaps my sense of humor is inadequate.”

  “I thought I asked you what was on your mind, Sylvester. But perhaps my memory is inadequate.”

  Sylvester cleared his throat. “My mind is on this, Mr. Tanner. We, that is Mr. Bollo and myself, are given to understand that you are planning to, ah, infiltrate, shall we say, a certain mental health clinic in this city for the purpose of uncovering evidence of malfeasance. Moreover, it is our understanding that you are undertaking this little charade under the auspices of an organization called the Institute for Consumer Awareness. I take it our information is correct?”

  “What you should take is something for your delusions.”

  “Denials are useless, Mr. Tanner. But if you prefer, we shall keep it hypothetical. So let’s assume, arguendo of course, that you are about to embark on such a scheme.”

  “And if I am? Arguendo, of course.”

  “If you are, I am calling to advise you, on behalf of Mr. Bollo and his associates, that it would be most unwise for you to pursue that course of action.”

  “How unwise?”

  “Very. Perhaps terminally.”

  “And if I ignore your advice?”

  “We will expose you for what you are—a ruthless undercover agent for Roland Nelson and his Institute, engaged in Gestapo tactics and worse, trammeling the civil rights of the clinic and of the poor, addled patients that it serves.”

  “Eloquent. Yale?”

  “Princeton.”

  “By way of Flatbush.”

  “It still shows, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, but I wouldn’t worry about it. Duckie’s never killed anyone just because of his accent.”

  “Enough, Mr. Tanner. I’m sure you now realize that it would be foolhardy for you to pursue your plan. Your name and face are familiar to all the personnel at the Langdale clinics. You have no chance of success. None.”

  “What’s Duckie’s interest in the clinic?”

  “Let’s just say Mr. Bollo has recently developed a concern for the mental health of all the citizens of San Francisco.”

  “That’s nice,” I said. “It would be even nicer if he’d develop some concern for their physical health, too, and give up busting heads all over town.”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Tanner.”

  “Just a minute,” I said quickly. “Does a guy named Al Rodman still work for Duckie?”

  “I believe so. What concern is it of yours?”

  “Is Rodman the one that told you about the Institute and the clinics?”

  “Mr. Rodman does not report to me.”

  “How about Harry Spring? Does he have anything to do with this?”

  “With what?” Sylvester asked sweetly.

  “With the threats you’ve made about me and the Langdale clinics.”

  “Threats? Neither Mr. Bollo nor myself would dream of threatening a person such as yourself, Mr. Tanner. On the contrary. I merely called to give you some helpful advice.”

  “Come on, Sisca. Was Harry on your telephone list? Did you warn him off Rodman?”

  “I’m not familiar with the name.”

  “You’d better not be, Sylvester, or you’ll be getting some threats from me, and they won’t be by phone.”

  “Have a nice day, Mr. Tanner.” Sylvester hung up before I could tell him just how nice my day had been.

  Someone had blown my cover, which meant Jacqueline Nelson’s suspicions would have to go unresolved until I could come up with another excuse for hanging around Roland Nelson and the Institute. But that was the way it was going to have to be, anyway. My first order of business was Harry Spring’s death. Everything else, including Jacqueline Nelson, would have to wait.

  Or almost everything.

  I picked up the phone and telephoned the Institute and asked to speak to Ms. Brooke’s secretary. When she got on the line I told her I was calling from Watson Brothers, the accountants, and that I was having difficulty reading a travel voucher that had been given to me to post.

  “What’s the trouble?” the girl asked.

  “The figures have been smudged. Frankly, it looks like coffee was spilled on it. The figures are very difficult to read. Very difficult.” I was trying to sound prissy, and the acid in the girl’s voice told me I was succeeding.

  “Can you confirm for me,” I went on after the girl asked which figures I needed, “that Ms. Brooke was out of town during the week of July three?”

  “Just a moment.”

  I waited.

  “Yes,” the girl said after a minute, “Ms. Brooke was away from the sixth through the end of the week.”

  “I see. Thank you very much.”

  “But just a minute. That was vacation time. You shouldn’t have a voucher for those expenses.”

  The girl was sharp. I asked her to hold on while I double-checked. “I’m very sorry,” I said. “I was reading from some notes I had made, rather than the voucher itself, and I see now that it was Mr. Freedman’s voucher, not Ms. Brooke’s, that was unclear. Excuse me, please. I’m new here, and, well …”

  “What did you say your name was?” the girl interrupted, but I put down the receiver before she could finish her question.

  So. Sara Brooke was on vacation during the week Roland Nelson disappeared. Some of the squares in the puzzle were beginning to be filled in. But this crossword was going to have to stay incomplete while I chased the man who killed Harry Spring.

  There were at least four people I wanted to talk to about the events of the day and three of them worked at the Institute for Consumer Awareness, so I grabbed my coat and took a walk.

  Andrea Milton was still on duty behind the reception desk, and the tiny children were waiting for another snow storm. I gave one to them, then told Andrea Milton that I was expected and hurried by before she had a chance to object.

  I was in luck for a change. Roland Nelson was in his office talking to Bill Freedman, and Jacqueline Nelson was there, too. I tapped on the door and when he saw who it was Nelson waved me in.

  “Tanner!” Nelson exclaimed. “I’ve been trying to reach you all afternoon.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve had a call. From someone named Sylvester something or other.”

  “Sisca.”

  “Yes. That’s it. How did you know?” Nelson’s bushy brows lifted with surprise.

  “He called me, too. He’s a Princeton man.”

  “I see nothing funny about this.”

  “I don’t either,” I said.

  “I assume you agree that you can’t go through with the mental health project.”

  “I guess not.”

  “You’re to do absolutely nothing along that line. Absolutely nothing, is that understood?” Freedman interjected wildly. The curls in his hair seemed wound even tighter today, as if someone had doubled the voltage.

  “Yes, Bwana,” I sneer
ed.

  “Bill’s a little overwrought,” Nelson said. “It’s just that we’re not used to this kind of thing. Is Bollo actually a gangster?”

  “Does Carter have teeth?”

  “Will he carry out his threats?”

  “You can bet on it.”

  “Well, this confirms that the Langdale clinics are nothing more than fronts for organized crime, just as we suspected. I’m still determined to expose them, Bill,” Nelson went on bravely. “But we must be careful. Can you help, Tanner?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Let’s let it sit for a while. I’m tied up on something else now anyway.”

  Mrs. Nelson threw me a questioning glance.

  “A friend of mine has been killed,” I said. “I’m going to try to clear that up before I do anything else on this or any other case I have.”

  I looked at Mrs. Nelson when I said it. She got the message but she didn’t look happy about it.

  “There’s one thing we don’t understand, Tanner,” Bill Freedman said heavily. “How did this Bollo character find out about our plan to investigate the clinics?”

  I had an idea, and his initials were Al Rodman. I figured Claire Nelson innocently told Rodman what I was supposed to be doing and Rodman passed it on to his boss. But there was no sense mentioning it until I knew more about Mr. Rodman.

  “I don’t know how he found out,” I said. “But you don’t stay out of jail as long as Duckie has without a lot of sources of information. It wouldn’t surprise me if he finds out about this meeting right here within twenty-four hours.”

  “Ridiculous,” Freedman sputtered.

  “Maybe,” I said. “For your sakes I hope so. Especially if you still plan to go after Duckie’s little con.”

  “We won’t be stopped,” Freedman declared loudly. “The Institute hasn’t backed away from a fight yet. If we can bring down Starr Aviation and Astor Drugs we can handle a relic from a late show gangster flick.”

  “That sounds good, Freedman,” I said. “But you’d better learn what kind of fight you’re in before you climb into the ring.”

  “We’re not afraid,” Freedman muttered. Then everyone got quiet.

  Men like Freedman seldom encounter the Duckie Bollos of the world. They don’t have them in the prep schools or the Ivy League colleges or the big-time law schools. Duckie starts out on the city playgrounds—he’s the kid who shoves or punches or cuts some other boy just for the look on his face. After the school years you can find Duckie wherever men make their living with their backs instead of their brains—the docks, the loading sheds, the construction sites. Duckie’s still fighting because what he likes best is hurting other people, or maybe getting hurt himself. His trademark is the unprovoked assault, the irrational act of violence that makes reasonable men sweat in the night and lay awake till morning basted in the juice of their own fear. And if Duckie’s strong enough and smart enough he takes over the illegal enterprises that feed the appetites of the working class and becomes just what Duckie Bollo was today—a vicious criminal whose crimes had become big enough to make him respectable. Freedman was frightened. I just hoped he was frightened enough.

  I was through with the elder Nelsons but I needed a lot of information from Claire, and the best way to get it might be through Sara Brooke. Mrs. Nelson told me I could find Sara in the third office down and I did. By the time she finished what she was doing and we exchanged pleasantries it was getting dark and the office was almost deserted. I offered to buy her a sand dab at Sam’s Grill and she accepted.

  It wasn’t far away. The bar was crowded, as usual, too crowded to talk, but the din didn’t obscure the view, and Sara Brooke looked awfully good. She would have looked even better if I could get the picture of Roland Nelson going into her apartment out of my mind.

  After two drinks we were shown to a large booth that gave an illusion of privacy. “Do you come here often?” Sara asked as we sat down.

  “No,” I said. “I usually eat something out of a can in the privacy of my own three-plex.”

  “I thought all bachelors were gourmets.”

  “And I thought all spinsters were frigid, but people tell me it’s not so.”

  “No personal experience along those lines?” she asked with a smile.

  “Not enough for a definitive conclusion,” I answered. “Actually, I am quite an authority on pork and beans, if the truth were known.”

  “Oh? What’s your recipe?”

  “Well, I feature heat. Applied directly to the can. Saves washing a pan.”

  Sara laughed and so did I, but I felt vaguely as though I was betraying Harry or Ruthie or both of them. I ordered another round of drinks.

  “How about you?” I asked. “You must eat out a lot, courtesy of some discriminating gentleman.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Any favorites?”

  “Restaurants or gentlemen?”

  “Either.”

  “Lots of restaurants; no gentlemen. Present company excepted, of course.”

  Her smile was as bright as a welder’s arc. A waiter shoved his tuxedo between us and asked what we wanted for dinner. She ordered sole, spinach, and wine. I ordered goulash, potatoes, and beer.

  “Well,” she said after the waiter pranced away, “I assume you didn’t extend this invitation just because you like the color of my eyes.”

  “No,” I replied. “Not that there’s anything wrong with them.” I was sounding like a sophomore in the spring again.

  “What secrets are you going to pry out of me?”

  “Probably none. I want to talk about Claire Nelson.”

  “Claire?”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I am. I thought you were after something else.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. What do you want to know about Claire?”

  “I understand you and she are friends.”

  She nodded. “We’re quite close as a matter of fact. And that reminds me. I talked to her this morning and she wants to know if you were able to reach your friend. That detective Claire hired.”

  “So you know about that.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who else knows?”

  “No one, I don’t think. Claire talked it all over with me before she got in touch with Mr. Spring. Frankly I tried to talk her out of doing it, but she was determined. I just hope no one gets hurt.”

  “Someone’s already been hurt.”

  “Who? Has anything happened to Claire?”

  “Shush—Claire’s fine. Do you know what she hired Harry Spring to do?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “I need to know.”

  “Why?”

  “Just because. It’s important.”

  “I can’t tell you. I’m sorry, but I promised Claire I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

  “I think I know some of it already. She was having Harry check up on Al Rodman, wasn’t she?”

  “What makes you think that?” she asked. Her face didn’t tell me anything.

  “Never mind. Am I right?”

  “I can’t say. I can’t tell you anything about it. I won’t break my word.”

  “Call her up,” I said gruffly.

  “Why?”

  “Call her and ask her if it’s all right for you to tell me what she hired Harry to do.”

  “Why should I do that?”

  “Because Claire Nelson could be in a lot of trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Stop acting like a goddamned lawyer and get on the phone,” I snarled.

  Sara bristled. “You can’t talk to me like that. Who do you think you are?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s been a bad day.”

  She looked at me for quite a while. “Apology accepted,” she said finally. “Provisionally. You still haven’t told me why it’s any of your business why Claire hired a private investigator.”

  “It’s my business because Harry Spring was a good friend of mine.�
�

  “That’s nice, but what does it have to do with Claire?” She paused, then said, “You said ‘was.’”

  “Harry’s dead. Murdered.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So’s his wife. So am I.”

  “But I still don’t see what that has to do with Claire. I mean it’s a terrible thing, but Claire’s not involved. How could she be?”

  “I doubt if she’s involved personally,” I said. “But I think Harry was working on her case when he got hit.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because he was killed in a place called Oxtail. It’s in the San Joaquin Valley.”

  “I know where it is.”

  “The connection to Claire is through Al Rodman. That’s where he came from, before he got tied up with the big city hoods.”

  “Hoods?”

  “That’s what I said. Rodman works for Duckie Bollo and Bollo’s been a hood ever since he was toilet trained.”

  “Bollo,” Sara said thoughtfully. “That’s the man who had his assistant call Roland today.”

  “Right.”

  “And you say Al Rodman works for him?”

  “That’s what I say. I also say that Claire Nelson was having Harry Spring check Rodman out for some reason. I want to know the details. Now either you give them to me or I go over to the Nelson place and tell the whole damned house about Harry working for Claire and Rodman working for Bollo and every other thing I can think of. I don’t think Claire wants that.”

  “No. I know she doesn’t.”

  The food arrived. I guess it was good. Sam’s usually is, but I might as well have been eating dried mud. I started to say something else but Sara held up a hand to stop me. “I want to think a minute,” she said.

  We finished the meal in silence. It took her quite a while.

  “I want you to know my position,” I said after the waiter took our plates. “I like Claire. I feel sorry for her, especially since she seems hooked on Rodman. I don’t want to hurt her and I’ll do my best to keep whatever secrets she has. But I’m going to find out who killed Harry Spring, and Claire’s the only lead I’ve got. If Claire or Rodman or Roland Nelson or you or anyone else is involved in Harry’s death, then I’m going to bring it out.”