Читать книгу The Comic Book Killer - Richard A. Lupoff - Страница 10

CHAPTER FIVE

What now? It was obvious that the Berkeley Police Department was not going to help. They had their priorities, they responded to their town’s political agenda and their own bureaucratic interests. Damn O’Hara! He looked and sounded like a good old-fashioned Irish cop but when push came to shove he was just another worthless Berkeley hack. And damn Officer Plum! Damn her and her—Lindsey clenched his teeth and hissed an exhalation.

He climbed into his Hyundai and sat with his pocket organizer open, trying to decide what to do. He flipped to his notes on the Comic Cavalcade claim, read the address for Ridge Technology Systems and then unfolded a map. The RTS offices were in the Rockridge section that straddled the Berkeley-Oakland city line.

* * * *

Ridge Technology turned out to be standard California yuppie operation. Natural-stained redwood paneling, thick carpeting, bent-chrome-and-cushion furniture, framed prints of nature scenes on the walls. A receptionist dressed in up-to-the-minute casual chic smiled helpfully when he walked in.

“I’m looking for George Dunn,” Lindsey told her.

“Is Mr. Dunn expecting you, sir?” At least she seemed to be well trained.

“No.” Let her stew on that.

“Would you care to tell me the purpose of your visit, Mister...”

Lindsey didn’t bite. “I’ll take that up with Mr. Dunn.”

With a frown the receptionist picked up a telephone handset, punched a button, murmured briefly. Lindsey could see her appraising him all the while. Business suit, briefcase, neatly groomed. Probably safe but it doesn’t hurt to be careful.

“Mr. Dunn is very busy but he says he’ll take your call.” She pointed. “Please use the visitor’s telephone.”

Lindsey followed her gesture. He sat down on a chrome-and-cushion settee and picked up the phone.

“George Dunn here. Can I help you?”

Lindsey gave his name and affiliation. “Perhaps you were aware of the burglary at Comic Cavalcade in Berkeley. Terry Patterson gave me you name, Mr. Dunn. I think you’d better speak to me. In your own interest, Mr. Dunn.” In your own interest had at least a sixty-seven percent effectiveness rating.

Dunn’s voice had been a pleasant, youthful baritone. Suddenly it escalated an octave. “Burglary?”

“You didn’t know?”

“Uh, I’ll be right out.”

Before Lindsey could replace the telephone and pick up his briefcase, a door swung open and a thirtyish male hustled through. He wore a button-down shirt and immaculate jeans. Beneath razor-cut hair his face showed stress.

“I didn’t know anything about any burglary. Patterson said he was just about finished assembling the collection. Are the comic books safe? When did all this happen? You’d better come with me.”

He grabbed Lindsey by the elbow and steered him past the receptionist, through the doorway and down a short corridor. He started to push open another door when Lindsey heard the receptionist scurrying after them. “Wait a minute,” she gasped.

Lindsey turned around. The receptionist handed him a plastic badge with a monogrammed RTS on it and a superimposed word, guest. “Please be sure to return this to me on your way out.”

Lindsey clipped the badge to his lapel.

Dunn led him into an office containing two desks. One was Dunn’s. At the other a woman was working at a computer terminal. She looked up at Lindsey and Dunn as they entered. She was wearing a shirt like George Dunn’s; Lindsey expected she was probably wearing jeans like Dunn’s as well. But where Dunn wore his shirt open by two buttons, the woman’s was open three. Did she buy all her shirts a size too small, or had this one simply shrunk to fit?

George Dunn said, “Lindsey, this is Selena Mabry. She’s Marty Saxon’s technical aide. I’m his admin aide. We share this office. Marty’s through there.” He pointed at a door to an inner office. He also sent a high sign to Selena.

She logged off her computer and stood up. “I’m heading for that meeting at the Marriott. Marty doesn’t want to go so I’m the official RTS rep. I hate meetings. I don’t see why we can’t just teleconference. Some of those old geezers don’t think it’s real if they can’t spill their martinis down your cleavage.”

She headed out the door. She was wearing jeans like Dunn’s, a size too small and shrink-to-fit.

Dunn indicated a visitor’s chair beside his desk, sat down at the desk himself. He hit a couple of buttons on a keypad. “Hope you don’t mind my recording this. Easier than making notes. More accurate too.”

Lindsey said, “Uh, I guess not.”

Dunn said, “Now, tell me about this burglary.”

Lindsey said, “It happened last night. Someone broke into Comic Cavalcade and stole a bunch of comic books. Thirty five comic books, according to Terry Patterson.”

“Our collection,” Dunn said.

“That’s what he says. I hope you’ll explain that to me. Did you own the comic books?”

Dunn shook his head. “Not yet, thank heaven! We made a contract and we had to put down a deposit—it was our lawyer’s idea, not Patterson’s. If he doesn’t deliver, we get the deposit back.”

Lindsey jotted a note in his pocket organizer. He resisted the temptation to ask Dunn if he objected.

Dunn resumed. “Look, Mr. Lindsey, excuse me if I’m a little slow, but I don’t see why you came to RTS. You’re the insurance carrier for Comic Cavalcade, right? They suffered the loss, you have to pay. Are the Berkeley cops in the act?”

“Officially, yes,” Lindsey said. “But they don’t seem to be doing much about it. Too busy with muggers.”

Dunn spread his hands. “Whatever. But it looks like it’s your problem. Yours and Terry’s. RTS will just have to get back its deposit and look for another supplier.” He rubbed his eyes. “Probably have to rerun the computer selection. Patterson said he’d completed the order?”

Lindsey nodded. He extracted Terry Patterson’s list from his pocket organizer and laid it before Dunn.

Dunn read it and nodded, shoving the paper back to Lindsey. “I don’t know it by heart, but I’ve handled the list enough times to recognize it. That’s our order.” He frowned. “I think he even stuck in an extra book or two, but this is certainly our list. Now the scarcity factors will all change, the values will jump. Circuitron will probably change the whole list around. What a nuisance! Selena will blow her program when she hears about this.”

Lindsey glanced at the computer on Selena Mabry’s desk. The logo plate on the processor said Circuitron 95 XT.

“But I still want to know what you need from RTS,” Dunn said.

“If I can track down those comic books I stand to save my company a great deal of money. If I know who wanted them, and why, then there’s a good chance I can find them, isn’t there?”

Dunn let his breath out slowly. The expression on his face changed. “You think we stole them? Somebody from RTS?”

“No. I don’t know who stole them.”

“But RTS is a good suspect, eh? Somebody in-house, or somebody we hired? You think maybe Marty Saxon has them stashed in the president’s office?”

“I don’t think so,” Lindsey said. “But it’s possible.”

Dunn shook his head, grinning. “You don’t understand a thing, Mr. Lindsey. If you had any inkling of what this is about, you’d know that we didn’t steal those comic books. If somebody walked in and offered them to us for nothing, we wouldn’t want them. We have to buy them. If we don’t pay for them we don’t have any use for them. You think Marty wants to sit in his office and read comic books? This is a tax situation. We have to convert surplus cash into hard assets or we get taxed on it.”

Lindsey nodded. That much jibed with the things Terry Patterson and Marvia Plum had told him. He looked at Selena Mabry’s darkened computer, then back at George Dunn. “Tell me a little more about how you selected the comics for your list.”

“Selena’s the techie,” Dunn said. “She knows a lot more about it than I do. For that matter, so does Marty.”

“Try,” Lindsey said.

“Well, we started with some standard investment portfolio software. It wasn’t hard to change the parameters from earnings-to-cost ratio, long-term value accrual, product line performance projections and so on, to characteristics of comic books. Things like scarcity, age, condition, theme category, artists and writers. In fact, we came up with a piece of plug-in software that we’ve been marketing to collectibles dealers and collectors for the past few months. Very profitably, I might add.”

“I suppose you can account for your whereabouts last night?” Lindsey said.

Dunn stood up. “Come on, fella. If you’re here about the insurance we’re glad to help out. If you’re trying to weasel out of paying the claim by saying we stole the comics Patterson was assembling for us, you’d better haul back to the cops and get them to do it for you. Don’t come around here making wild accusations.” He glared at Lindsey, who stood up and slipped his pocket organizer inside his jacket.

“Don’t forget to give back your guest badge on the way out,” Dunn told him.

* * * *

Two up, two down, Lindsey muttered to himself. He stopped at a café near the Rockridge BART station and the freeway overpass. He ordered a coffee and Danish. Maybe he’d have to ask Harden for help after all. But, damn it, the idea just rankled too much. Besides, he’d been too many years with the company doing a routine job and pulling a petty salary to let this chance slip away. It was his first shot at making a hero of himself, of saving the company big bucks and getting a bonus or a promotion out of it.

He walked back to his Hyundai, shoved the overtime parking ticket into his briefcase with a snarl, and headed back toward Telegraph Avenue and Comic Cavalcade.

Patterson said he was about to eat his lunch. Brown-bag fashion. Lindsey suggested they find a restaurant together so they could talk without interruption.

Patterson didn’t even make a show of resistance. He ordered an expensive sandwich and a Moretti beer instead of the burger and pop that Lindsey had expected to pay for. Bart checked in with his own stomach and ordered a bottle of mineral water. While the waitress was filling their orders, Patterson asked Lindsey when he could expect his check from International Surety.

Lindsey said, “Don’t get eager, Patterson. I told you once, it’s going to take a while.”

“But—but the consignors—”

“Do they know about the burglary?” Lindsey suspected that they didn’t, since even George Dunn, the customer’s contact man, hadn’t known until he’d been told.

Patterson shook his head. “Th-They still think their comics are safe. I-I suppose they’ll have to know eventually. I was hoping we could either get the comics back or the money in time to pay them. Nobody’s inquired yet, but sooner or later they will. Probably sooner. What should I tell them?”

Lindsey said, “Before you tell anybody anything, get up a list of the owners and give it to me. It’s not impossible that one of them stole his own merchandise back. I’ve seen it happen, believe me. That way he’ll have both the comic book and the money. Plus all the other comics!”

“Oh, no,” said Patterson. His sandwich arrived and he began to devour it, washing down the mouthfuls with beer and talking around the whole soggy mess. “Not the consignors. They’re all serious collectors. They’re all, uh, honest people. I mean, they can get pretty competitive with each other and they can drive hard bargains when they’re trying to set up a deal. But nobody would do a thing like—like what happened!”

“That’s what you think, kid,” Lindsey said. He was trying out his Humphrey Bogart voice. “Get me the list.”

That fast, Terry Patterson had finished his sandwich and was washing down the last of it with the dregs of his Moretti beer.

“Is—is it okay if I have another?” he asked.

Before Lindsey could say no, he’d signaled the waiter. Instead of canceling the order, he sipped his mineral water and studied Patterson.

“Listen, you said you had an idea for getting the comics back. Spill it.”

“Well, maybe it isn’t so much of an idea. I just th-thought that whoever took them might try to sell them again.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.”

“So, ah, most of the comic store owners know each other...”

“Uh-huh,” Lindsey encouraged him.

“Well, you see, I thought that I might ask some of the other dealers to keep an eye out, and if anybody brings in the stolen comics they could get in touch with us right away, or maybe call the police. You think that’s a good idea?”

Lindsey told him that was a very good idea. He also asked him who his chief competitor was.

“Oh, Jack wouldn’t have burgled my store. He’s not that kind of man.”

“Leave that to me,” Bart told him. “Just who is he, and where’s his operation?

“Uh, Jack Glessner. He owns Cape ’n’ Dagger. It’s a comics and mystery bookstore. He’s on Diamond Street in the city, and he has branches in Los Angeles, Sacramento, Modesto, and Santa Barbara. Are you going to call him?”

“I’m going to visit him.”

“Uh, don’t tell him I gave you his name, okay? I mean, uh, we’re not enemies or anything like that. It’s just that, uh, I used to work for him before I opened my own store and he’s kind of, uh, annoyed about that.”

Lindsey said, “Okay, kid. I’ll tell him I got his name out of the Yellow Pages.”

* * * *

Mother was a lot better that night, in fact she cooked supper for them, just like the old days. While they ate, Bart asked her about Father.

“We hardly knew each other,” she said. “Don’t you remember him, Hobo?”

Lindsey thought, my own mother, calling me by the name I hate. Well, there was no point in trying to change her. He was grateful for the times when she was coherent at all.

“He died before I was born, Mother. You remember that.”

She looked vague. “Died?”

Maybe it had been a mistake for Lindsey to raise the subject, but here he was involved with comic books, and Father had been a comics illustrator. Maybe he was just making conversation, but also, maybe, there was something Mother would say that would bring this matter together. Something that would give him a clue that would lead him to the stolen comics.

He reached across the table and put his hand on Mother’s.

She came back into focus and said, “We met at art school. I wasn’t very talented, I just loved to draw and paint. No,” she shook her head, “I didn’t even love to draw and paint. I enjoyed it, that was all. You could tell the ones who really loved art. The really good ones always said that loving it was the most important thing. Even more important than being talented. So I didn’t really love it. Doing it wasn’t that important to me. But I enjoyed the atmosphere. Oh, those were such days, Hobo, you should have seen us.

“We were all so serious! You’d just laugh today, but we were so happy! The boys used to wear berets and little beards, the girls wore baggy sweaters and big skirts and black stockings, and we’d take the Key train across the bridge on Saturdays and drink wine in North Beach and listen to jazz and talk and talk until morning. The city was so wonderful, it was thrilling just to be there, just to be part of everything that was going on.

“They were fighting in Korea, but we didn’t care much about it, we had our own little world. And then—and then—”

She started to cry. Lindsey felt uncomfortable—he never knew what to do when a woman cried. But Mother’s hand was still in his and she clutched him tightly and picked up her paper napkin in her other hand and started to wipe her eyes.

Lindsey prompted, “Was Father drawing comic books then?”

She sniffed and nodded. She let go of his hand and wiped her face with her napkin.

“It was hard for him to get work. Most of the publishers were in New York. They didn’t like out-of-town artists. But he got a little work. He did a few stories and he got to draw one cover. I’ve never seen him so excited as when he got that assignment. You’d think it was for Collier’s or The American Magazine, not some cheap comic book, he was so excited.”

Lindsey knew about that cover. Gangsters at War, number twenty-six, April 1953. A framed copy of it hung in the living room. He had also seen a copy of it in the display case at Comic Cavalcade. He didn’t know what it was doing in the glass case—the drawing was crude, and there were no superheroes in the book or drawings by famous artists.

“Joseph never saw that book. He drew the picture while he was still at school. Then he got drafted. We got married when he came home on leave. It was just before Halloween, I remember all the pumpkins and witches, I always loved Halloween. Then Joseph had to report to his ship, and he was killed three months later, in January. January eighteenth, 1953. Killed when a MiG crashed into his destroyer. They sent me a medal and his insurance money and an American flag. His commanding officer came to see me. And I have you to remember him by, my little Hobo. And another sailor even called me up, all the way from southern California. I tried to talk to him but he was all mixed up and he got me upset so I hung up. You’ll see, Joseph will be proud of you when he gets back. And he’ll have lots of work, they have publishers out here now. Not just the couple they had back then. Lots of them. It’ll be much easier for him. You’ll see, Hobo, you’ll see.”

Sometimes Mother got confused. She was easy enough to handle then, so long as you didn’t quarrel with her. Then she would get angry. If Mrs. Hernández would just remember that, and not disagree when Mother said odd things, she’d get along all right. Lindsey didn’t really want to put her away. She just needed someone to stay with her so she didn’t wander off or get into trouble.

After supper she seemed happy cleaning up and washing the dishes. Lindsey sat down and made two phone calls.

First he tried Cape ’n’ Dagger in San Francisco. He took a chance that there would still be someone there, and he was lucky. “This is Hobart Lindsey, International Surety calling. I’m trying to reach a Mr. Jack Glessner.”

“That’s me.” There was something odd about the voice. Not an accent. More an intonation. As if the man had a limited amount of breath and was rationing the syllables.

“This concerns an insurance claim. I’ll need to discuss it with you, Mr. Glessner.” He expected a quick okay, but he didn’t get it.

“Let me have you number,” Glessner said. “I’ll call you back.”

Lindsey gave him the number.

“Aren’t you working awfully late?” Glessner asked.

“Ah, I brought some work home with me. There’s so much paperwork, you see, and—” He heard the receiver click down.

Lindsey looked in on Mother while he waited for Glessner to call back. He fixed himself a coffee with Bailey’s Irish Cream in it. He sat and thought about Jack Glessner. Why had he been so upset to hear from International Surety?

Maybe Glessner thought he was investigating a claim against Cape ’n’ Dagger. People are always filing claims against retail shops. They trip on the carpet and twist an ankle and don’t even say anything about it. Then they get home and it swells up and they want to sue the store. Things like that. Maybe Glessner thought it was something like that.

Of course, International Surety wasn’t Cape ’n’ Dagger’s carrier, but half of their accounts came through agencies, and the insureds didn’t know or care who the carrier was, they just dealt with the agent.

But also, maybe, it wasn’t that simple.

What if Glessner, or somebody working for him, was the burglar? Patterson had implied that Glessner bore a grudge against him, Patterson had once worked for Glessner and then quit to open his own shop. Glessner could have pulled the burglary for the double motive of picking up a batch of highly valuable merchandise and ruining his ex-employee, now his rival.

And Glessner could act as his own fence. He had the connections, he had the customers, he even owned stores in other cities. Collectors have been known to buy stolen goods even though they knew they were getting hot merchandise. Some collectors are fanatics.

If Glessner had the stolen comics and somebody from International Surety called him up, he certainly would be spooked. He might be headed for SFO and a quick jet to Mexico right now!

The phone rang.

It was Jack Glessner. “Sorry to hold you up,” he said.

Lindsey grunted something intended to sound like, “That’s okay.”

Glessner said, “What’s the problem, Mr. Lindsey? I thought my insurance was in good shape.”

Lindsey gave him a reassuring Michael Landon-style chuckle. “There’s nothing to worry about, Mr. Glessner. International Surety needs some information and cooperation with a little problem. Could I come and have a chat with you some time soon?” It didn’t hurt to be a bit mysterious himself.

“It’s getting late, Mr. Lindsey, and you’re at an East Bay exchange....”

“Walnut Creek.”

“That’s a long trip. Would tomorrow be okay?”

In fact that was what Lindsey had in mind, and they arranged to meet in the morning.

Then Lindsey made his second call. He looked in the Contra Costa book and found Professor Nathan ben Zinowicz. The book listed a number but no address.

He dialed and waited while the phone rang. Finally someone picked up. A cultured contralto voice said, “Ben Zinowicz, ye-es?”

It didn’t sound anything like the professor. Lindsey couldn’t even tell whether it was a man or a woman.

He said, “Is he there, please?”

“This is Francis speaking. May I be of assistance?”

“The prof told me to call for an appointment. So I’m calling.” Good gosh, he was getting tired of being run around!

“Yes, well perhaps you’ll tell me who you are, and a little bit about your problem.”

“I’d rather talk to the professor, Ms. Francis.”

“Just Francis, please. The professor is traveling right now.”

“When will he be back?”

“Perhaps if you will just tell me about it.”

Lindsey counted ten-nine-eight under his breath, unclenched his teeth and explained the reason for his call. If ben Zinowicz was interested in International Surety’s money he could earn it, and if not, Lindsey was sure that somebody else would be.

Francis said, “Stand by please, Mr. Lindsey.” He put him on hold and the sound of a string quartet playing “Glow little glow-worm glimmer, glimmer” came across the line. From the kitchen Lindsey heard the sounds of Mother putting away the china and glasses.

“I’ve been in communication with Dr. ben Zinowicz,” Francis resumed, “and he will see you tomorrow evening. I believe Dr. ben Zinowicz has already pointed out the importance of punctuality.”

“Yes. Just give me the address and the time. I’ll be there.”

“We are located in Point Richmond. The streets are somewhat difficult after dark. If you will come to the town, I will escort you to the house.”

“Really, just give me the directions. I can find it.” Lindsey was getting annoyed.

“Take Canal Boulevard west from Highway 17. Follow that until you pass the municipal pool and cross the Santa Fe tracks. Turn right on Railroad Avenue. Park halfway up the block and cross the street. You’ll find the Baltic Restaurant. I’ll meet you in the cocktail lounge. Wear a white snap-brim hat and carry your briefcase so I’ll recognize you. Tomorrow, eight-thirty P.M.”

And he hung up.

Lindsey dialed ben Zinowicz’s number again. He got a tape in Francis’s marshmallow voice asking him to leave his name and number. He slammed the telephone down.