Читать книгу The Sepia Siren Killer - Richard A. Lupoff - Страница 8

CHAPTER TWO

You wouldn’t call it a great party. Ms. Wilbur wore a dress to the office for the first time in Hobart Lindsey’s recollection, a floral print that looked like an Impressionist version of the Amazon rain forest. A couple of women from the costume jewelry distributor across the hall had chipped in to buy her a corsage. At best, the corsage disappeared into the print of Ms. Wilbur’s dress.

In fact, the party had a distinctly floral theme. Harden at Regional had sent a small display and Ms. Johanssen at National had sent a slightly larger one. The morning’s Oakland Tribune was spread on a desk to protect valuable company property from any water that dripped from the flowers. Both displays bore friendly, handwritten messages congratulating Ms. Wilbur on her retirement and wishing her great happiness in the future. And Elmer Mueller, the Walnut Creek branch manager, had sprung for sandwiches and punch.

It was all according to the International Surety Operations Manual. Lindsey ought to know that. He’d worked for International Surety for his entire professional life, and the OpsMan was the loyal employee’s Bible. Lindsey had sat in the very chair Elmer Mueller now occupied before he’d strayed from the true path of the OpsMan. In the course of so doing, he had trod on a few sensitive toes and got himself kicked upstairs to the Special Projects Unit/Detached Service. If SPUDS was the graveyard of International Surety careers, then Desmond Richelieu, its chief, was the company’s in-house undertaker. Desmond Richelieu sat in his tower office in Denver and sent out the word. Demote. Suspend. Terminate.

It was not a good thing to be invited to a meeting with Desmond Richelieu, yet Lindsey had survived several such. Maybe Richelieu considered him too small a gadfly to bother swatting. Or maybe he liked having somebody around who could break the rules when he felt that a higher good was involved. It was a funny way to do business, and no one had ever accused Richelieu of having a sense of humor.

Somehow, Lindsey had hung onto his job.

Conversation was desultory, drifting from talk of marriages good and bad to children and grandchildren to recipes and television shows. It was woman talk. Lindsey let his eye drift to the Oakland Tribune peeking out from under the flowers. The local news section was visible; it featured a photograph of a blocky, modernistic building and a headline about the fire at the Pacific Film Archive.

Lindsey slid the page out from under the flowers and read the story. Most of it he knew. Less than twenty-four hours had passed, and the fire was jostling a dozen other stories for space. Another day and it would disappear. It would be replaced by a scandal on the Oakland School Board or a drug bust in Richmond or a real estate scam in Alamo.

But in Berkeley, the Anti-Imperialist Front for the Liberation of People’s Park had issued a manifesto claiming responsibility for the fire and threatening “More Deaths, More Destructin Until Justis Is Serve.” The Central Coordinator of the Front, one Dylan “Che” Guevara, had appeared at police headquarters to demand that the Pacific Film Archive and its host institution, the University Art Museum, be converted into rent-free permanent residences for the poor, to be financed and maintained by the city.

Lindsey wondered if Guevara was the wild-eyed orator of the previous afternoon. But Guevara denied that the Front was responsible for the fire. “We can spell better than that,” he said.

Anthony Roland, manager of research projects for the Archive, condemned the attack as cowardly. “Besides,” Roland was quoted as saying, “the Archive has nothing to do with People’s Park. I was gassed in ’68 and I’m all for the park. Why would they attack us?” The body of the dead researcher, Annabella Buonaventura, would be returned to her family in Milan, Italy, for burial. Condolences would be forwarded to the parents via the Italian consulate in San Francisco.

So Roland had calmed down enough to talk to a reporter. That was something.

Lindsey ran his eye over a few other stories. The most interesting from an insurance viewpoint was the latest in a series of industrial burglaries. The favorite target nowadays was computer components. Somebody had hit a warehouse in Fremont and driven away with a load of top-of-the-line processor chips worth half a million dollars. The loot was literally worth more than its weight in gold. There was no end to human ingenuity when it came to finding ways to make a crooked buck.

With a sigh, Lindsey slid the page back under the floral arrangement.

One of Ms. Wilbur’s friends from the jewelry distributor had brought a portable stereo and the music, something by Barry Manilow out of Neil Diamond, very nearly drowned out the timid tapping at the door.

You could only tell there was a visitor at all because International Surety had rented space in a building nearly due for demolition. They don’t build them that way any more, but each office suite still had a stained-wood door with a frosted glass upper panel and the tenant’s name stenciled on it in gold. It wouldn’t be surprising to open a door like that and see Edward Arnold seated behind a mammoth desk, tough-as-nails Barbara Stanwyck perched on a swivel chair just out of the portly Arnold’s reach, taking dictation and wisecracking every couple of lines.

A visitor’s silhouette was visible against the frosted panel. Ms. Wilbur had been chatting with her female friends while Lindsey and Elmer Mueller, cordial enemies, maintained a stony silence. Mueller had the habit of popping mentholated cough drops into his mouth and crunching them between his teeth. He exuded the minty odor of menthol. Ms. Wilbur started to break away from her friends but Lindsey moved first, relieved to have an excuse to escape from the loathsome Mueller.

For an instant Lindsey thought the visitor was a child delivering an envelope. His mind flashed to Whitey Benedict, a 1940s actor who’d made a career of delivering telegrams, flowers, and department store packages in scores of black-and-white movies.

Then Lindsey realized that the visitor was a wizened little man. He might once have stood five-six but now he couldn’t be more than four feet, ten or eleven inches tall. He wore a threadbare black suit, a frayed white dress shirt and a narrow black necktie. He held a business size envelope in front of him, flat side upward, thin end extended toward Lindsey.

He said, “I want the Global National Guarantee Life Company.”

Lindsey said, “I’m sorry. This is International Surety.”

The little man said, “I can read. I’ve been at the library for weeks. Ever since it happened.”

Lindsey said, “I’m sorry, sir.” He peered down into the man’s face. There was something in his eyes that held Lindsey’s attention. They were almost as dark as his black, wrinkled skin, except for the milky pools of half-formed cataracts. Lindsey said, “Can you see?”

The man said, “Well enough.”

Lindsey studied the man’s face. He said, “Please, come in. Maybe we can help you. This is the International Surety Corporation. I’ve never heard of Global—what was it again?”

“Global National Guarantee Life Company.”

The little man held the envelope so Lindsey could see the return address. There was a corporate logo that looked like a remnant of the Warren Harding era. In typography equally ancient, and in ink that might once have been a vivid green but was now a faded yellowish olive, the name of the company was spelled out.

Lindsey tried to take the envelope but the little man clutched his end. Lindsey tilted his head and looked at the two-cent postage stamp and the faded cancellation mark. The letter had been mailed in Los Angeles, California, on January 31, 1931.

Lindsey detected the odor of menthol announcing the approach of Elmer Mueller.

Mueller said, “What’s this all about?”

The little man started to ask his question again, but Mueller cut him off. “No personal visitors at this office. We process claims here. You got personal business, take it up with your insurance agent.”

The little man said, “But, I couldn’t find—”

Mueller grabbed the envelope. It came loose from the little man’s fingers and the little man pawed futilely, trying to get it back. Lindsey thought he was going to burst into tears. He whirled angrily. Mueller was turning the envelope over, eyeing it with casual curiosity. The little man made a sound that was half a whimper and half a moan.

Lindsey felt his face growing hot. He took Mueller’s wrist in his fingers and dug into the veins. With his other hand he lifted the envelope and returned it to the little man. He said, “You’d better keep this in your pocket, sir.”

He put his arm around the little man’s shoulders and guided him into the office. The little man felt as light and as dry as an empty corn husk. Lindsey expected him to crackle as he walked. He guided him to a leather couch that had stood against the office wall for longer than Lindsey could remember. He asked the man if he’d like a drink or a snack and the little man said, “Thank you, sir, I would.”

Lindsey watched the little man out of the corner of his eye while he gathered a sandwich and a cup of punch for him. If Mueller moved on him again, Lindsey was prepared to drop the paper plate and set himself between the two. But Mueller only glowered.

The little man took the paper plate gratefully, and set it down on the broad leather arm of the couch. He lifted the sandwich and painstakingly tore a corner from it. He put it in his mouth and chewed slowly. When he swallowed, the Adam’s apple bobbed in his thin neck. Lindsey wondered if he had any teeth. He took a sip of the punch.

He looked at Lindsey and said, “I trust there is no intoxicant in this?”

Lindsey smiled. “No, sir.” He pulled over a computer chair and faced the old man. “Now, sir, what was this about Global National, uh—”

“Guarantee Life.”

“Right.”

“And the library.”

The old man said, “I tried to locate the company through the pages of the telephone directory, but they were not listed. I called directory assistance but they were unable to assist me.”

His voice was dry, too, and fragile. He spoke as if he had just enough strength to move the air over his vocal cords.

He said, “And then I thought I might learn something from the library. A very helpful young lady assisted me. And here I am.”

Lindsey said, “You might have tried the State Insurance Commissioner in Sacramento.”

Elmer Mueller’s rough voice said, “Maybe he still ought to.” He put his hand on Lindsey’s shoulder. Waves of menthol smeared themselves onto Lindsey. Normally Lindsey worked in his shirtsleeves, but in honor of Ms. Wilbur’s retirement party he’d kept his tan jacket on in the office.

He said, “Leave the man alone, Elmer.”

Mueller said, “He knows we don’t take visitors here. You know it too. What, since you’re a big shot out of Denver, you too good to follow the rules like the rest of us?”

“Elmer, I’m just trying to help this man.” He dropped his voice, hoping that the little man wouldn’t be hurt. “For heaven’s sake, Elmer, look at him. He must be ninety years old. What do you want to do?”

Mueller said, “I’ll tell you what I want to do. I want to call Security and have the geezer gently but firmly removed from the premises. What if he dies in our office?”

A woman’s hand separated Lindsey and Mueller. “Break it up, boys.” Ms. Wilbur squatted in front of the old man. “Are you all right, sir? What’s your name?”

The old man peered at Ms. Wilbur. Lindsey wondered what the world looked like through those ancient eyes. Did the old man see everything through layers of gauze? Did everyone acquire the soft focus of an aging romantic star photographed through a smear of petroleum jelly?

“My name is Edward Joseph MacReedy.” He turned from Ms. Wilbur to address Lindsey again. “The librarian suggested contacting the Insurance Commissioner but there was no record in Sacramento of the Global National Guarantee Life Company.”

Ms. Wilbur said, “I remember them.”

For once Lindsey and Mueller harmonized. “You do?”

Ms. Wilbur blushed. “Not personally.”

They waited.

“You wouldn’t recall old Mr. Woodstreet.”

Lindsey and Mueller looked at each other. It happened again. “No.”

Ms. Wilbur smiled. “He was here when I started. He retired—oh, it must be thirty years ago. And he was an old man. Dead now, I’m sure. He was the unofficial office historian. He here forever. Used to talk about the old days. I mean the old days for him. The 1920s, ’30s. He used to talk about Woodrow Wilson, Aimee Semple MacPherson, Red Grange. Used to talk about how President Harding died in the Palace Hotel in San Francisco, thought he was murdered.”

Mueller said, “Spare me, please. What’s that got to do with this one?” He gestured toward the old man.

“Mr. Woodstreet used to talk about the Depression, about the companies that went belly up. It’s funny, I can remember him sitting on that same couch where Mr. MacReedy is sitting, talking about Herbert Hoover and Upton Sinclair and the Depression. International Surety wasn’t International Surety then.”

Mueller said, “Don’t tell me this company was Global, whatever, National Guarantee Life.”

“Not quite.” Ms. Wilbur took Mr. MacReedy’s paper plate and cup from him and set them on a desk. The old man had dozed off and was wheezing gently in his sleep. Ms. Wilbur said, “International Surety used to be just Surety Insurance. They took over half a dozen failing companies back in the Thirties. It was a crazy time in the industry. Big companies gobbled up little companies and then bigger companies gobbled them up.”

Lindsey said, “Times change.”

Ms. Wilbur said, “The old Global National Guarantee got tangled up in two or three mergers and takeovers and finally disappeared into Surety Insurance.”

Mueller grunted. “So you mean, this is our policy?”

Ms. Wilbur said, “I’m not sure. Maybe it’s up to Legal.”

Lindsey said, “You never mentioned this before. How come you remember a piece of trivia like that, Ms. Wilbur?” He never used her first name. Not even when he’d been branch manager here, and her putative boss. She was older than his mother. She could never be other than Ms. Wilbur, or so Lindsey thought.

It must have been the same way with Ms. Wilbur forty years before, in her dealings with Mr. Woodstreet. If she even knew his first name she wouldn’t use it in conversation.

Ms. Wilbur said, “Mr. Woodstreet used to love to talk about Global National. You know the old saw about the biggest name goes with the smallest company, and vice versa? Galactic Colossal Enterprises operates out of a post office box, and F. Smith, Inc., has buildings in thirty countries and half a million employees?”

She patted Mr. MacReedy gently on the knee. “Mr. Woodstreet got a kick out of Global National Guarantee because it was such a tiny company. They used to sell life policies door to door. Send agents around to collect the premiums, fifty cents a week, twenty-five cents a week, even a nickel a week. They worked mostly in Negro neighborhoods. Pardon me, I grew up speaking the English language and I’m accustomed to speaking it the way I learned.”

Mueller put his thumbs in the tops of his trousers. He said, “So you think this fossil has a claim on us? Let’s see what he’s got.” He reached toward MacReedy’s jacket. The old man had put his precious envelope in an inside pocket.

Lindsey put his hand on Mueller’s forearm. “Let—” he said, but before he got any farther Ms. Wilbur had gently opened the old man’s jacket and extracted the envelope. She said, “I’ll take a look at this.”

Mueller said, “No you won’t. You’re retired. You have no job here any more.”

Ms. Wilbur said, “I still work here for another—” She paused and turned to look at the digital clock. “—hour and a half. As long as the great and benevolent corporation is paying my salary, I might as well stay useful.”

She made her way to her desk and clicked away at the computer keyboard. Lindsey and Mueller stood behind her like high school boys shouldering each other in competition for a cheerleader’s attention. Ms. Wilbur turned around, grinning at them. She still held Mr. MacReedy’s envelope, its contents now extracted and carefully unfolded along age-yellowed crease lines. Even after six decades or longer, there was no mistaking the ornate scrollwork and Byzantine language of a life insurance policy.

“There it is, boys. A perfect match.”

Lindsey leaned forward, comparing the glowing letters on the computer screen with the faded writing—not even typing—on the pages. The letters on the screen were green. The ink on the policy had long since turned to brown.

Lindsey said, “Is that right?”

Ms. Wilbur said, “Look. Face amount is the same on the policy and the screen. It’s a joint policy, made out to Edward Joseph MacReedy and Nola Elizabeth Rownes MacReedy. Upon death of either party, the surviving party is to receive full payment of benefits. Of course, look here.” She pointed to the screen. “Policy was all paid off by 1934. It’s a whole life policy. Been drawing compound interest ever since. Look here, the cash surrender value exceeded the face value by ’36. They should have paid it out back then, but this doesn’t show that they did. Shows the policy still in force.”

“Huh. What’s it worth now?” Lindsey asked.

Ms. Wilbur clicked away until the computer screen showed a new figure. “Based on an average annual interest rate of four-point-five per cent, International Surety owes Mr. MacReedy $400.19.”

A cloud of menthol swept over Lindsey and Ms. Wilbur. “For God’s sake, pay the old guy his money and get him out of here. Give him the twenty-five bucks out of petty cash. Or cut him a check for four hundred.”

“And nineteen cents,” Ms. Wilbur added.

“Okay,” Mueller grumbled. “And nineteen lousy cents. How the hell they could play around like that beats me.”

Lindsey said, “Money went a lot farther during the Depression. You ought to learn a little history, Elmer.”

“Yeah. And maybe join a sewing circle while I’m at it.”

“Even so, it’s an awfully small policy.” Lindsey studied the papers in Ms. Wilbur’s hand. “I mean, a $25 whole life insurance policy.”

Ms. Wilbur said, “It’s too bad you never knew Mr. Woodstreet. He’d tell you a thing or two. Back in the Depression you could hold a first class funeral for $25. That’s what they took the policies for, you know. People had a hard, sad life. A good send-off to the other side was important. Very important. Some of the policies they issued were for even less than that.”

Mueller said, “Well, we can put it in through KlameNet. If National doesn’t issue a check, what the hell, we can take it out of the coffee money. You’ll chip in, won’t you, Lindsey?”

Lindsey said, “You’re getting too far ahead. There’s something odd about this.”

Mueller rocked back on his heels and exhaled. “Don’t tell me you want to pull this one, put it into SPUDS.”

“I don’t know.”

“Sheesh, I don’t see how this company stays in business. Hire a flake like you, turn you loose on every kind of fruitcake case you want to play with. You’re like a baby. Anything shiny, anything different, it grabs your attention.”

Lindsey said, “Now, Elmer, that isn’t fair. I’ve saved the company a lot of money on those odd cases. Those comic books that were stolen on Telegraph Avenue, and the Duesenberg that was driven away from the Kleiner Mansion at Lake Merrit—I had a lot of help on those cases, but we saved International Surety something like three quarters of a million dollars.”

“Yeah. And that B-17 that disappeared from the airport, I suppose you covered yourself with glory on that one, too.”

Lindsey tried not to blush. “That was a tragic case. And it did cost the company, I’ll admit that. But when there’s a legitimate claim, it’s our duty to pay.”

Mueller exhaled. “Exactly my point.” He patted Lindsey on the shoulder. “Exactly my point. We owe the little man $25. If he didn’t cash in his policy when it matured, that’s his problem. We don’t owe him four hundred. Let’s pay the twenty-five and get on with our business. We have no reason to poke around in some ancient policy.” He reached for his wallet. “Hell, if nobody else will pay, I’ll personally pony up the $25.”

Lindsey heard a dry, rustling sound from behind him. He turned. Mr. MacReedy was struggling to stand up, feeling his pockets frantically. “My papers,” he said, “where are my papers?”

Ms. Wilbur hurried to him and helped him stand. She said, “Here’s everything, Mr. MacReedy. Not to worry. We were just checking our computer records against your policy. Everything seems to be in order.”

Mr. MacReedy said, “I have to have my papers.”

Ms. Wilbur folded the policy and stuffed it back into the old envelope. She helped Mr. MacReedy place the envelope carefully in his inside jacket pocket. Ms. Wilbur said, “Here, wait just a moment.”

She turned back to her desk, opened the drawer and shut it again. She came back with an oversized safety pin and pinned Mr. MacReedy’s jacket pocket closed. Now the envelope was safe.

Elmer Mueller said, “You’re placing your claim, based on that life policy, Mr. MacReedy?”

MacReedy nodded. He appeared to be afraid of Mueller. Lindsey couldn’t blame him.

Mueller said, “We’ll need a death certificate for the insured and a birth certificate or other identification proving that you are the legal beneficiary of the policy.” He turned toward Lindsey and snickered. “For the price of a bottle of scotch.”

MacReedy said, “My wife died three weeks ago last Tuesday. She was buried three days later.”

Ms. Wilbur said, “Who paid for the funeral, Mr. MacReedy? I thought that was what you needed this money for.”

“No, the Center paid for the funeral. We lived at the Paul Robeson Benevolent Retirement Center. We lived there together for the past twenty years, since our last child died. We had grandchildren but they’ve all gone on to lives of their own. They don’t know us any more. They lost track of us. But the Center buries its members.”

Elmer Mueller said, “Do you have the death certificate?”

Mr. MacReedy said, “It’s in my room at the Center. We had two rooms but after my wife died I had to give up one of the rooms. It’s a rule.”

Mueller tapped his fingers on a desktop.

Lindsey looked around. Ms. Wilbur’s friends from the costume jewelry firm had made their exit. Ms. Wilbur hovered behind Mueller.

Elmer Mueller said, “You’ll have to file the death certificate and your own ID and then we can pay the claim. Do you understand that?”

Mr. MacReedy nodded. “I do understand.”

Ms. Wilbur said, “How did you come out here, Mr. MacReedy? I know the Robeson Memorial. My house is in north Oakland. It’s no trouble to swing through Berkeley on my way home.”

Mr. MacReedy lifted his head proudly. “I traveled here by the rapid transit train. I used to use the old Key System. You remember the Key System?”

Ms. Wilbur smiled. “I do. Now we have the new system.”

“I use it regularly,” said MacReedy.

“Well, I’m leaving here in just a few minutes.” Ms. Wilbur gathered the two floral displays. “I’ll be happy to give you a ride home, Mr. MacReedy. And I’ll be happy to see these beautiful flowers at the Center. I don’t need them in my house. My husband couldn’t care less.”

MacReedy said, “That’s very kind of you. Very kind. What did you say your name was?”

Ms. Wilbur said, “You may call me Mathilde.”

Mr. MacReedy could walk unassisted but Lindsey used the excuse of helping the old man—h elping Ms. Wilbur help the old man—to the garage. It got him out of Elmer Mueller’s presence. He could hardly believe that Ms. Wilbur was retired. She was his friend, had taught him the ropes of International Surety, had alerted him to more than one case of corporate backstabbing.

Now Mueller would bring in an office manager of his own choosing. Lindsey wasn’t formally assigned to the Walnut Creek office any longer. He just got desk space and computer support there. SPUDS was autonomous within the company and he could rent an office of his own if he chose. It was just him and Ducky Richelieu, he didn’t answer to Mueller or to Harden or even to Ms. Johanssen any more.

Maybe he’d do that. Rent an unobtrusive space somewhere, make it his secret headquarters, keep a set of tights in the closet, rush out to solve cases like a cartoon superhero. Insuranceman. Or maybe Captain Claims. Huh, that had a ring to it. Hobart Lindsey, Captain Claims. He smiled.

But how could he handle it without Ms. Wilbur?

He watched Ms. Wilbur’s Toyota pull out of the garage, Mr. MacReedy’s tiny form silhouetted in the passenger seat. Then he climbed into his Hyundai and followed the Toyota into the street. He stayed with the Toyota as far as the freeway on-ramp, then continued past it and headed home.

Mother had got there ahead of him. She looked tired from her day’s work, too tired even to change from her office clothes. But she had tied her apron over them and was making dinner for herself and him anyway. It was her week to cook and she wasn’t going to let him take over. He put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her cheek.

Mother said, “You have a message on the answering machine. I played it back, I thought it might be for me. But it was for you. A woman named Aurora.”

SPUDS business, thought Lindsey. Aurora Delano had been in his training class in Denver, then been assigned to the New Orleans office. She’d worked with him on a case in Louisiana. If it wasn’t a screamer—he checked the tape, and it wasn’t—he’d call her back in the morning.

After dinner they were just settling into the living room when the phone burbled. The first words Lindsey heard were, “You’d better get over here, Bart.”

He recognized Ms. Wilbur’s voice. He said, “Over where?”

“Over to the Robeson Center. You know it? Near the old Deaf School in Berkeley?”

“I can find it. Is it Mr. MacReedy?”

“You’re so smart.”

Lindsey rubbed his forehead. He started to stand. “Wait a minute. It’s after close-of-business. You’re retired, Ms. Wilbur.”

Ms. Wilbur said, “Bart, get your little hiney over here. I don’t want Mueller to get his hands on this.”