Lethal Streets (A Flood and Flood Mystery Book 2) Page 6

  “Exit, boys,” the captain said, and the firemen backed out. Sam went with them, but T.J. stood his ground, along with the captain. “Your house could be on fire, mister,” the captain shouted.

  The swarthy man turned and ran back up the stairs. He disappeared. T.J. ran up several steps himself. Holding his hands alongside his mouth to act as a megaphone, he cried, “Call for Sharon Greeeen-berrrg!” The impromptu imitation of the “Call for Philip Morris” radio commercial sparked an outcry of shouting from the second floor.

  The man appeared at the top of the stairs again and fired both barrels of the shotgun over T.J.’s head. The captain and young Flood beat a hasty retreat outside.

  “Bobby, call the dispatcher,” the captain said. “Tell him to call the police. Tell him we’re being fired upon.”

  “By foreigners,” T.J. prompted.

  “Yeah. Tell him the fire department is being attacked by foreigners on Union Street!”

  ****

  It was over quickly. The Floods had discreetly retreated across the street to stand with Mrs. Parmalee and other neighbors. They watched as four squad cars screamed up Union Street and disgorged uniformed patrolmen with guns drawn. Two of them carried shotguns of their own. One team of cops trotted around to the back while the others burst through the open front door. A single shot was heard. After several minutes, San Francisco’s finest reappeared with two olive-skinned men in handcuffs. Coming up the rear under the watchful eye of their rescuers were ten young women. They all wore school uniforms.

  Sam saw Sharon Greenberg holding hands with a blonde girl a little taller than her. “Sharon!” he cried. Sharon looked quickly across the street, then broke free and ran toward him. A patrolman trotted after her. “Oh, Mr. Flood!” she gasped as Sam embraced her. “I’m so glad somebody found us! It was awful!”

  T.J. glanced across the street at the woman who had to be Tawny. She looked lost and forlorn. “What’s with the schooldays outfits?” he asked Sharon.

  “They dressed us up like this and took pictures with a big camera:” she said. “One picture of each of us separately, then all of us together.” Kinky, T.J. told himself. His father used another word: Depraved.

  “Oh, Mr. Flood, my mother!” Sharon exclaimed. “Can I … can I call her?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Sam said, turning to Mrs. Parmalee. “Madame, may we …?”

  “Certainly,” the widow Parmalee said. “Go right through the front door, my dear. The telephone is in the hall, on a small table. You can’t miss it.”

  The patrolman attempted to follow Sharon. “Who are you, young man?” Mrs. Parmalee demanded, barring his way.

  “I am Officer Beck,” he said.

  “Well, Officer Beck, you wait right here. Let the young lady talk to her mother in private. She doesn’t need a police lummox listening in.” Sharon went through the front door while Officer Beck stood awkwardly at the bottom of the steps.

  When Sharon came out, still sniffling a little, Sam Flood collared her. “Now Sharon, you’ve been a naughty girl. You’ve made your mother and your Uncle Solly and your whole family worry about you.” he said sternly. “You’ll have to go with the police for a while. Tell them everything that happened, understand? They’ll make sure you get home safely.”

  Sharon sniffed and nodded vigorously. Officer Beck led her away.

  “We’d better scram before someone starts asking questions about false alarms,” T.J. said as they watched Sharon and her escort rejoin Tawny and the others.

  “Agreed,” said Sam. They waved a discreet goodbye to Mrs. Parmalee and quietly got into the Essex. “We’ll have to take her to dinner, a sort of thank-you,” he said.

  T.J. released the brake and let the car roll silently backward down the hill. When he judged that the distance was sufficient, he started it up and made a tight U-turn.

  Afternoon shadows were beginning to creep across the downtown canyons as they drove back to Bush Street. T.J. let his father off outside their building before returning the car to the garage.

  “I’ll call Solly Silverman right away,” Sam said as he got out.

  “And I’m going to give Pete McNully a dingle.”

  “Is that wise?” Sam asked, pausing.

  “He gave us a good steer, now we should give him one.”

  “Talk to me first upstairs,” his father said, closing the car door firmly. At the office, Agnes informed them that Mr. Silverman called and would Mr. Sam please call back. “He’s at his shop,” she said.

  “Thank you, Miss Wilkins. Ring him for me, please.” Esther must have told him about Sharon, he thought. He had just hung up his fedora when his office phone rang. Silverman was bubbling with praise mixed with relief.

  “I … we … can’t thank you too much, Samuel,” Solly said. “Esther called me. You and Thomas did a wonderful job! And it took less than a week! Still, I was beginning to worry a little bit. One hears stories …”

  “Just doing our job, Solomon,” Sam said modestly. “I take it Sharon is still at the Hall of Justice.”

  “Yes, Esther and I will pick her up in a little while. We are so relieved. Thank you again, old friend – and don’t forget to send me your bill.”

  “There’s no hurry,” Sam said. “I’m going down to see Margaret, but we’ll have lunch and settle things in a couple of days.”

  Sam heard T.J. come in and said goodbye. “In here, Thomas,” he called. The younger Flood ambled into Sam’s office and sat down. “Long day,” he said.

  “Indeed,” his father answered. “Thomas, is it really a good idea to inform the press about a private undertaking?

  “It’s not private anymore. It’s public business now – unless the FBI tries to hush it up. And it’s only one reporter. McNully gave us a good steer about Twinkletoes; we should give him one in return.”

  Sam Flood sighed. “I suppose you are right about the boy’s help. He gave us quick access to this Santiago fellow. But keep the agency completely out of it. No mention of Flood and Flood in any press account. You hear?”

  “I hear,” T.J. said drily.

  “Now, I’m going down to see Margaret on Monday. Do you have any plans? Don’t worry about writing up today’s escapade. I’ll take care of that.”

  “I think I’ll sniff around this Baggett business a little bit. That bimbo has to be getting her dope on Baggett from somewhere – and what’s her real connection, anyway? Where’d she come from?”

  “That’s police business, not ours, Thomas. We’re not paid to do that kind of work.”

  “We’re not paid to get threatening letters, either. If I can trace her back, I might come up with a name.”

  “What are you going to do, call Mr. Baggett?” Sam asked. “Intrude upon him, get him upset? You’d be better off finding other ways to occupy your time.”

  “What, like taking a day off to go out of town? Oh, trot off and see your precious wife, I’ll do what I want.”

  Abruptly, his father stood up. “’I’m going home now,” he said. He left without another word.

  T.J. shrugged and returned to his office. He dialed the Examiner’s number and asked for McNully. In the background, he could hear the rattle of a nearby typewriter and the reporter’s name being called. After a moment a voice answered: “McNully here.”

  “Peter, it’s Tommy Flood. Got a pencil handy? I’ve got a big scoop for you.”

  “Hi … uh … Tommy! A scoop, eh? Go ahead, I’m ready.”

  “Our much-maligned police department raided a house on Telegraph Hill this afternoon and rescued ten innocent young ladies who were being held captive.”

  “Whaaat? You’re pulling my leg. Quit fooling around, Tommy.”

  “It’s God’s own truth, Petey m’lad. Now pay attention, here’s the straight goods.” T.J. then gave his young friend a succinct narrative of the day’s events, beginning with the fire alarm and ending with a description of ten young women dressed in school uniforms.

  “Jeepers! Has
the Chronicle got any of this?”

  “Well, if their guy covering the cop shop is on the ball, he’d figure something was going on. But they’re pretty close to their final deadline, aren’t they? They won’t have much, not like your story in tomorrow’s first street edition.”

  “Aw, gee, T.J, this is sensational stuff. Some foreigner actually threatening our firemen! Wow! Mind if I ask a few questions, okay?” He reeled them off; all were well-considered clarifications. Then McNully asked: “Has this got something to do with our talk about Manilatown this morning?”

  “Keep our name out of it, Pete. You can use ‘sources said’ and ‘eyewitnesses’ – you know the drill. And the lieutenant in charge of the police squad was named Burns. I recognized him. Get your city desk to corner him before the Chronicle does. He’ll talk.”

  After McNully rang off, T.J. took a deep breath and stretched. “That’s my good deed for the year,” he said to his empty office. “Now my good deed for the night is a schooner of beer and bratwurst on pumpernickel.”

  Chapter 10

  The summer sun had returned for another day when T.J. made his leisurely way to the office on Monday morning. Keep this up and we may get some shirtsleeve weather, he told himself. Agnes was there when he arrived, of course; she appeared to be doing some filing. T.J. opened up the Chronicle. The morning paper was playing second fiddle to McNully’s scoop, but it did include something new – a quote from an unnamed source at the Hall about ‘major ramifications’ to follow. Like what, an organized kidnapping ring in the city, he asked himself? I already had that figured out.

  Putting the paper down, he poked his head out his office doorway. “When you have a moment, babe, would you look up Mr. Randolph Baggett’s home number for me?” he asked.

  Agnes peeked into his office a minute later. “I have that number,” she said. “Do you want me to call for you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  In another moment, T.J. was talking to Loomis. He identified himself and asked to speak to Baggett. When the old man came on the line, his voice was thin and almost a whisper. “Yes?” he said.

  “Mr. Baggett, this is T.J. Flood. I’m trying to find a way to track down this crazy woman who wants to kill us. I thought looking into your family background might help.”

  “You’re not on retainer,” Baggett said.

  “No, I’m not. This is just background, to figure out why this demented woman is acting this way. Could you tell me about your father?”

  “My father? Why do you want to know about my father?”

  “Because something may have happened back then that might be resurfacing now. Perhaps a confrontation of some sort.”

  Baggett was silent for several seconds. “My father was a lumberman,” he said finally. “He owned a lumber yard in Sacramento, then we moved to Calaveras County in the 1880s. I was 15, I guess. Father started up some sawmills and did very well. We moved to San Francisco a few years after the earthquake.”

  ”Did your father have a personal assistant back then?” T.J. asked.

  After another lengthy silence, Baggett said sharply: “Miss Braun was a valued employee. Are you implying that my father committed adultery?”

  That was exactly what T.J. was implying, but he denied it smoothly. “Of course not. But a woman with a child out of wedlock might tell her daughter fanciful stories about who the father is. The child may have gotten the wrong idea.”

  “Come to think of it,” Baggett said reluctantly, “Miss Braun didn’t come with us when we left Sacramento.”

  Aha, the maiden in the woodpile, T.J. thought. “That was the secretary’s name, Braun?” he asked.

  “Yes, Braun, like the Germans spell it.” After a few more questions, T.J. let Baggett hang up. He sat for a while, deep in thought. Miss Braun, he told himself, an unwed mother trying to survive in the late 19th century. Every man’s hand would be against her – and he meant that literally. No wonder the little girl grew up twisted. No father and almost certainly leading a nomadic, penniless life. He knew what it was like to grow up with only one parent. Not fun, especially when his father cheapened the memory of the mother he never knew by marrying again.

  “Miss Braun,” he repeated aloud and began making notes.

  ****

  Sam Flood glanced into the ward where Margaret was sitting in a wheelchair, then sat down with the head nurse in her cramped office. “Mrs. Flood’s heartbeat seems a little weak,” she said, “although her other vital signs are normal. There has been little change.”

  “Prognosis?”

  “The same as before with senile dementia. Gradual deterioration, physically and mentally. Just fading away. She is not fretful, though, like some of the others.”

  “Would it be a good idea to take her out into the sun? It’s such a nice day.”

  “Definitely. Being outside does seem to cheer our patients up.”

  In the ward, Sam bent over and said hello to his wife. She stared at him blankly. He made sure her shawl was tucked in around her legs and wheeled her out into the nursing home’s small patch of greenery. Walking slowly along the path, Sam prattled on about how pretty the flowers were in the garden, about the pleasant weather, about how nice the nurses were. Margaret didn’t respond. She began to cry silently, tears rolling down her cheeks. Sam wiped them away tenderly and took her back inside. She will be bedridden pretty soon, he told himself. Then she will be gone and I will have lost another one.

  ****

  After lunch, T.J. crossed Market and headed for the Palace Hotel. Clear up a couple of loose ends about the SOMIA luncheon, he told himself, before going to the office and calling Derby and Kneith. It was time to sniff around a certain Mr. Loomis. The hotel dick at the Palace was named Grieve – a former vice detective who took the soft way out. Grieve was tall and lean. T.J. found him leaning inconspicuously against a pillar.

  “Lock up the women and hide the silverware,” he said when he saw Flood approaching. They shook hands and exchanged views about the weather and the pennant races.

  “Remember that improvement association gabfest last week,” T.J. asked, getting down to business.

  “Sure do,” Grieve said. “There was a harness bull cluttering up the lobby. Spotted you, too.”

  “Notice a woman … tallish, thin maybe, grey hair, wearing a grey cloak of some sort?”

  Grieve thought for a moment. “Yeah, I think maybe I do. I remember the cloak – a rather strange get-up for this time of the year. Don’t know about the hair; she was wearing a big floppy hat pulled down over her face. She was just hanging around. I was about to chase her for loitering when she vamoosed.”

  “That sounds like my dame. Ever see her again, or the day before maybe?”

  “Nope. She was a one-shot,”

  “Thanks, buddy,” T.J. said. “Now, where would I find Indigo Cody?”

  “Miss Cody? Catering. Second floor. Wouldn’t mind interviewing her myself,” Grieve said, winking.

  “And you an old married man. Tut-tut.”

  On the second floor, T.J. quietly opened an office door marked ‘Catering’ and looked inside. Indigo Cody was seated at a desk, reading a brochure.

  “Stickemup!” T.J. growled.

  Startled, Indigo looked up sharply. When she saw T.J., however, she relaxed. “Ah, the intrepid gumshoe,” she smiled. “Mr. Flood, isn’t it?”

  T.J. let the door close behind him with a soft click. “That’s me, and I’m here to grill you mercilessly,” he said.

  “Oooh, oooh.”

  “When someone books a shindig in this joint, how do they do it? What’s the drill?”

  “Well, by telephone or by post, usually. Sometimes they make a booking in person. Your improvement association is a repeat customer, so they usually book on the phone.”

  “So there’s not a central booking agency who would do this, an outfit, say, who’s sort of a middle-man?”

  “I’m sorry, there isn’t,” Indigo said. “It’s all pretty well
on a one-on-one basis. Disappointed?”

  “Well, gee, yeah. I thought I might have uncovered a clue.” Actually, it was such a remote chance that it was the longest of long shots – the crazy lady having access to a list of functions in the city. What he really wanted, he had to admit to himself, was to see Indigo Cody again. And now, face-to-face with her, he was feeling tongue-tied and shy, as if he were 17 again. He knew the conversation was dying a slow death. “Well, thank you, Miss Cody” he finished weakly. “Do you have a … um … card I could have if I have any follow-up questions?”

  Indigo quickly handed him her card. “That’s it?” she asked. “That wasn’t merciless at all.”

  “Yeah, well, I’d do some more grilling, but I have to go and put some fresh gum on my shoes.”

  Indigo Cody laughed. “Don’t be a stranger,” she said.

  Leaving the hotel, T.J. was surprised to learn that the sun had taken a powder. The air was cooler and the afternoon was almost gloomy. He looked at the sky and saw fluffy white clouds drifting over downtown. He crossed over Market again and paused at the news shack on the corner to see whether the Examiner’s final edition had arrived. It might have something more than what the Chronicle had to offer about the big raid. Abruptly, the clouds parted and a shaft of sunlight bathed the intersection. An almost-painful glint of reflected light struck T.J.’s eyes. It came from the pavement in front of the Wells Fargo Bank, across Montgomery. T.J. had seen that before when he was a sheriff’s deputy in Southern California – bright sunlight bouncing off the polished breech of a rifle.

  Long gun! He dropped into a crouch and fumbled for his Detective Special. Something thrummed above his head and slammed into the news shack. A quick backward glance at an arrow quivering among the stacked magazines, and then T.J. took off across the intersection at full throttle. He saw a grey cape billowing up Post Street from where it connected with Montgomery and Market. Pedestrians kept getting in the way and he felt he was losing ground when there was the sharp screech of brakes from up ahead. She’s been hit by a car, he thought.