Читать книгу The Classic Car Killer - Richard A. Lupoff - Страница 7

CHAPTER TWO

In the morning Lindsey phoned Oakland Police Headquarters and asked for Officer Gutiérrez. Gutiérrez wasn’t in so Lindsey asked if he could get a copy of the theft report on the Duesenberg. Gutiérrez had said Monday, but it couldn’t hurt to try. The operator said she’d transfer the call, but after a dozen rings Lindsey decided that nobody worked at headquarters on Sunday.

He didn’t like working on weekends himself, but Harden had really come down on him about this claim, and it looked like another of those make-or-break opportunities. International Surety could stall for a while, hoping that the Duesenberg would be recovered. But eventually, if the car didn’t turn up, they’d have to pay. Unless they could find an out, like proving contributory negligence. Leaving a car like this one out-of-doors and unguarded, especially in a city with a crime rate like that of Oakland.…

Any Duesenberg, especially a 1928 Phaeton, must be a prize plum for collectors—and consequently for thieves. And if they’d left the keys in the ignition, the company could make a strong case against the owners.

Whoever had parked the car and left it standing in the driveway.… Lindsey hit himself on the forehead. He realized that he didn’t know who had driven the car last night, who had left it parked in front of the mansion. Ms. Smith had disappeared somewhere in the mansion while he was talking with the van Arndts, and that couple had practically drowned him in their own boozy bonhomie but they hadn’t given him nearly the amount of information he needed.

He was going to recover that Duesenberg, or give it a hell of a shot, anyway. It wasn’t the first time he’d set out to save International Surety a bundle on a theft claim, and if he could recover the Phaeton, he’d add to his record. But it was more than a matter of saving the company dollars, more than a matter of winning another gold pencil from International Surety.

It was his chance to be alive again!

Mother was settled contentedly in front of the TV, and while she remained absorbed in a rerun of The Donna Reed Show, he phoned their neighbor Joanie Schorr and asked her to come over for a few hours.

Leaving his mother in Joanie’s care, Lindsey drove to his office. He called up the New California Smart Set’s policy on the computer and studied it. Who had sold the policy? A broker located in Oakland. East Bay Quality Insurance Limited. Huh. He’d dealt with them before, with a stuffy individual named Elmer Mueller. Not much chance they’d be open on Sunday either, but it was worth a phone call. No luck, but at least they had an answering machine and he left his name and a request to call back.

He hadn’t wanted to deal with the Mr. Coffee at International Surety. That would have got Ms. Wilbur all out of joint when she came in Monday morning. So he had stopped and bought a styrofoam cup of coffee and a roll at a fast food stand on his way in.

He spread the wrapper on his desk, took a bite of the roll and a sip of the coffee. It wasn’t good but it was hot, and that was welcome on a gray winter’s morning.

He slipped his pocket organizer out of his jacket and studied the notes he’d made in Oakland the previous night. Mr. and Mrs. van Arndt looked like a pair of lightweights, although they might still be helpful in tracking the stolen Phaeton. But Joe Roberts was the one he needed to talk to first.

There were half a dozen Joseph Roberts in the Oakland directory. Lindsey started the laborious work of phoning them. Three were at home. None of them had ever heard of the New California Smart Set. Two of the numbers rang until he gave up on them. He got one answering machine, left his name and number and asked that Joseph Roberts to call him back.

There was an M. R. Bernstein, Ph.D., in the book. He dialed the number. A man answered. Lindsey asked if Dr. Bernstein was home. The man asked him to hold.

He took another bite of his roll and sipped coffee.

“Dr. Bernstein here.”

Lindsey swallowed coffee and roll. “Martha Bernstein?”

“Yes.”

He told her who he was, asked if Joseph Roberts was at her house.

She said he was. She said she’d summon him, sounding gleeful at the prospect.

Roberts sounded bleary. Probably he was hung over. If the van Arndts’ description was anywhere near accurate, he had good cause to be.

Lindsey said, “I represent the International Surety Corporation, and I’m processing the insurance claim on the Duesenberg Phaeton that was stolen last night. I’d like to come out there and have a chat with you, Mr. Roberts.”

Roberts didn’t reply for a while, but Lindsey waited patiently. Finally, “I don’t know—Mr.—what did you say your name was?”

“Lindsey. Hobart Lindsey. International Surety.”

“Yeah. Got it.”

“Well, may I?”

“May you what?”

“Come and see you about the theft of the Duesenberg.”

Another lengthy pause. Lindsey could hear an off-phone conversation, but he couldn’t make out what was said. Then he heard Roberts clear his throat. “Ah, I don’t think that would be such a good idea, Mr. Lindsey.”

“You want to collect on this claim, don’t you?”

“It’s not my claim. It wasn’t my car.”

“You’re a member of the New California Smart Set, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s your car. It’s registered in the name of the society.”

“Then I guess it is mine. Look, I don’t know who took the damned car. I told that cop everything I saw. I think. Actually I don’t remember too much about last night. I got kind of stinkeroonie. If you know what I mean.”

“Yes.”

Another silence.

Then, “So why don’t you just get the police report?”

“I intend to, Mr. Roberts. But I’d still like to talk with you. You might have seen something, maybe something useful.”

“Wait a minute. You’re not a cop, are you?”

“I’m an insurance adjuster.”

“Then do your job. Get out of my face. I’m hung over, pal, my head feels like a hot air balloon. Bug off.”

Lindsey heard the phone slam down.

Roberts was probably right. It was unlikely he had seen anything useful, or if he had, it would be in the police report, and Lindsey should have that in another twenty-four hours. But Lindsey hadn’t been kidding about some little detail. People sometimes saw more than they realized. The first report of an incident was usually the most complete and accurate; the human memory started losing track of information within minutes of the event. But there was an odd, opposite effect, as well. People spotted details and tucked them away in some obscure memory bank. And they re-emerged to astonish everyone, anywhere from days to decades later.

Lindsey wanted to question Roberts, as well as all the other members of the society, for another reason. Most car thefts were stranger crimes. The criminal and victim didn’t know each other. The car thief might be anyone from a thrill-seeking delinquent hitting a target of opportunity with nothing more in mind than a joy ride, to an operative of a thoroughly professional ring, stealing cars to order for chop shops or for customers who wouldn’t mind buying merchandise of dubious origin for the sake of a bargain price.

But not all such thefts were committed by strangers. Not all. And the theft of the Duesenberg might be an inside job. Some member of the Smart Set who coveted the club’s collective property for his personal use. Or who thought he might be able to sell the Dusie for a sweet price.

Or maybe the theft had been engineered for the specific purpose of collecting on the insurance claim. What would happen to the $425,000 if and when International Surety paid off? Would the club use it to buy another classic car? Or would it go into the general fund? Or would an officer of the club find a way to convert the payment for his personal use?

Lindsey jotted a note to pursue that line. Was there a member of the club in financial hot water? The New California Smart Set had all the earmarks of a cozy bunch of millionaires, but there might be a scattering of ordinary citizens in the club as well.

For instance: was Dr. Bernstein independently wealthy, or did she have to work for a living? The van Arndts had said that she was on the faculty at the University of California. If she was sitting on a nice fat trust fund, she might be teaching just because she liked it. But if that was not the case, if she had to live on a professor’s salary, well, Lindsey knew that academics nowadays earned a living wage, but they were hardly up there with movie stars or professional athletes. Dr. Bernstein might be happy to get her mitts on almost half a million simoleons. Who wouldn’t?

And Lindsey didn’t know what Joe Roberts did for a living. And as for the van Arndts, they might reek of dollars, but there was many an old fortune that had shrunk with the years. They might be keeping up a facade of wealth and leisure and behind it be teetering on the edge of bankruptcy.

Wait a minute! Van Arndt had said that the club was forced to take in members it didn’t really want, because the Kleiner Mansion was a public facility. Ollie had spoken of moving the society to a clubhouse of its own, so it could become the kind of snooty, exclusive outfit he apparently preferred. They could buy a very nice clubhouse for just under half a million smackers!

What to do? Wait for the police report? That wasn’t the way Hobart Lindsey conducted himself!

Joseph Roberts’ voice on the phone from Dr. Bernstein’s house had sounded husky and his pronunciation had been slurred, but it sounded a lot like the voice on the message tape at one of the Joseph Roberts’ homes. Lindsey found a map of Oakland, searched for Roberts’ street in the index, and found it near the Oakland Estuary. He made up his mind.

He dialed home. Joanie Schorr assured him that Mother was all right and that she was willing to stay for the rest of the day. She handed the receiver to Mother and Lindsey assured her that he had not deserted her.

She sounded calm.

He drove to Oakland—twice in two days, now!—and found the Embarcadero. Roberts’ address was in a block of modernistic condos opposite a railroad track and an industrial slum. But the condos themselves looked expensive, and with the estuary on the other side, it seemed a safe bet that the occupants wiped the sight of the factories and warehouses from their minds when they got home at night.

He parked and found Roberts’ apartment, and settled in to wait for the man to come home. Of course Roberts might be staying at Dr. Bernstein’s house for the rest of the day, but Lindsey didn’t want to tackle him there. Better to beard the lion in his den.

Roberts had a reserved parking spot with his name on a little wooden marker. It was one of a long row. It reminded Lindsey of a simple cross marking a grave in a national cemetery. Mother loved to page through copies of Life and Look magazines from the 1940s and ’50s and ’60s, and Lindsey had seen enough photos of Arlington and other burying grounds of the nation’s war dead to have the images burned into his mind.

The bright gray afternoon was deepening into the charcoal sky of dusk and Lindsey had turned on the Hyundai’s engine and heater to fight off the chill that crept palpably out of the estuary.

A silver-gray Porsche pulled into Roberts’ parking space. From the driver’s seat of the Hyundai, Lindsey could see the driver clutching the wheel. Roberts was returning alone. Dr. Bernstein must have dropped him off at his car. Roberts must have parked it in a guarded structure. No way that Porsche would have survived unscathed overnight in downtown Oakland!

Lindsey jotted down the Porsche’s license: JAZZ BBZ.

Roberts climbed out of the car, armed its alarm system, and headed for his apartment. Something else for Lindsey to check on—had the Duesenberg been equipped with an alarm? Had the thief known enough to disable it? Was there more evidence here of contributory negligence, or of an inside job?

He watched Roberts walk with his head down and his shoulders up, hands shoved in the pockets of an expensively cut overcoat. It was cold!

Lindsey followed Roberts to his front door and tapped him on the shoulder as he extended his key.

Roberts turned. He had a round face and thick, longish hair. At least, where it protruded from beneath his gray felt cap. His eyes looked red and he had clearly not shaved that day.

“Joseph Roberts?”

The man grunted.

“I’m Hobart Lindsey. International Surety Corporation. We chatted earlier today.”

Roberts drew back as if Lindsey’s touch was painful to him. “I thought I told you I didn’t want to talk to you.”

“You said not to come to Dr. Bernstein’s house. I didn’t. Thought you’d be more comfortable talking in your own home.”

Roberts stood there looking at Lindsey with distaste. The silence stretched out. Lindsey could hear the gentle lapping sound of the water in the estuary. It must be pleasant for the occupants of the condos. He managed to outwait Roberts.

“You guys work on Sundays?” Roberts turned and inserted his key in the lock.

“There’s a lot of money at stake, Mr. Roberts. I’ll only take a few minutes. Please.”

Roberts shoved the door open and gestured Lindsey inside.

“Thanks.” Lindsey preceded Roberts into the apartment, waited while he pulled the door shut. He stood uncomfortably while Roberts deliberately hung his overcoat and cap on a brass tree. Roberts’ luxuriant hair was thinning on top, and had worn through to his scalp in a silver-dollar sized spot in the back. In front, it was receding from a widow’s peak.

Making no attempt to take Lindsey’s coat or offer him a seat, Roberts headed for the end of the room. There was a small bar there, apparently built in by the thoughtful designers of the condo. He proceeded to make himself an oversized martini. He turned around and lifted the glass to his lips, his eyes on Lindsey.

Lindsey noticed that Roberts’ hand shook slightly as he raised the glass. Behind him on the bar stood the bottles he’d used. Gilbey’s gin. Frankenstein vermouth. Frankenstein? Must be some kind of joke. Sure, and Dracula wine—red, of course. Any day now. Nothing was impossible. Lindsey had waited long enough for Roberts to react. He lowered himself to the white-pebbled sofa and laid his pocket organizer on a blondwood coffee table. “Now, Mr. Roberts—it’s Joseph Roberts, is that correct?”

Roberts nodded minimally.

“The van Arndts tell me that you actually witnessed the theft of the Duesenberg.”

“Sort of.” Roberts pursed his mouth in obvious annoyance.

“What does that mean?”

“For one, it means that I was pretty blotto at the time and I wasn’t seeing much of anything.” Roberts lowered himself into a chair near the coffee table, set at 45 degrees from Lindsey’s position.

“For two, then?”

“For two, as much as I can remember. I went out for some fresh air. I’d been drinking a lot, and I was afraid I was going to black out. I think I’d made a little pass at Jayjay and she got pretty mad at me. Stupid hag, I was doing her a favor. I went outside, I figured fresh air would do me some good.” He covered his mouth with one hand, almost in time to conceal a belch.

Lindsey said, “Who’s Jayjay?”

“Jeanette James Smith. You know, the gal who runs the mansion for the City of Oakland.”

“Sorry I interrupted. You got outside.…” Lindsey nodded his head encouragingly, offering Roberts his most ingratiating smile.

Roberts resisted for a while, then said, “Look, here’s what I saw. I was standing on the edge of the lawn, looking toward the lake. You know, they fixed up the old necklace of lights surrounding the lake, and I was looking at the lights, at the reflections. They settled my stomach. I guess I had too much to drink and not enough to eat. You know buffet food. Looks great, tastes like watered cardboard. I was afraid I was going to barf if I didn’t black out. Maybe both.”

“Ah, but then—?”

“Well, I heard the car door slam and I heard the motor start up. But that was behind me, you see.”

“Yes. Did Duesenbergs have self-starters? Or did somebody have to crank it?”

“Good question. Yeah, it has a self-starter. I was checking on that a few weeks ago. They came in on the 1911 Caddie. Sure, all the Dusies had ’em.”

“Did you see how many people were in the car?”

“Not really.”

“How many door slams did you hear?”

Roberts pressed his glass to his forehead, his eyes squeezed shut. He didn’t say anything.

“Mr. Roberts?”

“Sorry. Look, you want a drink, Lindsey? One of these? Or a whiskey? A beer? Cup of coffee? I can put on the Melitta.”

“Oh, coffee, please. But—the number of slams.”

Roberts stood up. He rubbed his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Yeah. I was trying to remember. I assumed there was just one.”

“But…?”

Roberts frowned. “Now that I think about it, there might have been two.”

Lindsey’s eyebrows rose. “Might have been two?”

“Is it important?”

“I think so. Look, Mr. Roberts—”

“Joe.”

“If there was only one slam, there was probably only one thief. If there were two slams, there were probably two thieves. Maybe more. The Duesenberg is a convertible?”

“Four door convertible.”

“Top would have been in place.”

“On a cold, wet night? Sure.”

“All right. How certain are you that you heard two slams? Not one, not three or four.”

Roberts walked out of the room. Lindsey heard him bustling around in the kitchen. There was a high-pitched whining sound. Unless Roberts was performing some self-administered dentistry, that had to be a coffee grinder. Some rattling, then Roberts came back and settled into his chair. “That’ll take a few minutes. Maybe I should have some with you instead of this ’toonie, but I couldn’t face it.”

“Think hard,” Lindsey persisted. “How many slams?”

“Two.” His martini was down to its last quarter-inch. Roberts disappeared the last of it and set the empty glass on an ebony coaster. “Definitely two. The more I think about it, the more certain I get. Two.”

“Did you tell Gutiérrez that?”

Roberts closed his eyes. “No.”

“You told him you heard just one slam?”

“I think I just told him I heard somebody slam the car door. He didn’t ask me how many slams, and I didn’t really think about it.”

Lindsey jotted a note. He looked up. “Then what?”

“Two slams, starter noise, lights went on, car pulled out of the driveway into Lakeside Drive.”

Lindsey nodded. “What did you do?”

“I just stood there. I was still pretty drunk, I’m afraid. For a couple of seconds I just watched the car pull away. Then it dawned on me, nobody should be driving the car then. Not the Duesenberg. It was supposed to stay there until the party ended, then the chauffeur was supposed to take the officers to their homes. That’s a perk. Then he’d bring the car back to the garage.”

Lindsey was jotting as fast as he could. Roberts said, “The water should be boiling.” He got up and disappeared into the kitchen again. When he came back he said, “Just a couple of minutes now.” Lindsey would have settled for instant, but he wasn’t going to complain.

“Then, Hob—Hobart—what do they call you?”

“Bart.”

“Then I ran into the mansion to tell everybody, and I did black out. They got some coffee into me and I was able to talk to Gutiérrez a little, then Dr. Bernstein took me back to her place and got me to bed on the couch.”

Lindsey frowned. “On the couch?”

Roberts looked sour. “In fact, yes. But what business is it of yours? You’re an insurance adjuster, not the morals squad.”

Lindsey held up his hand. “I’m not judging you. Or her.”

“Besides, Mason would have killed me.”

“Mason.”

“Ed Mason. Used to play line for the Raiders. He and Martha live together. Have for years. Since the Raiders were in Oakland.” The odor of coffee was wafting into the room. “That should be ready now.” Roberts went out to the kitchen and brought back a tray with cups and spoons and something that looked like a lab beaker full of raw petroleum. Steam rose from the beaker.

“Look, Lindsey, Bart, what’s going on here? Why don’t you just pay off the claim?”

Lindsey filled his cup and tasted the coffee. He had to admit that it was better than instant, or even the Mr. Coffee product that he and Ms. Wilbur drank at International Surety. “Right, we could just pay the insurance. We’d wait a while, hope the Oakland police could track the Duesenberg down, then pay up if they couldn’t. But we don’t want to rely on anybody else. If we can find that car, we can save a fat wad of money.”

Roberts ran his hands through his hair. He really did look dreadful. Lindsey had suffered through hangovers himself. Not many, but enough to know how Roberts felt. Roberts managed to look at Lindsey. “Bart, we can talk some more, but not now. I’ve got to get into bed.”

Lindsey drank some more coffee. It really was good; he didn’t want to abandon it. “You have an office? Somewhere you’ll be tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I have a little cubbyhole downtown. In the Clorox Building. I love a clean workplace.”

Lindsey laughed politely. Roberts laughed louder.

Then Roberts said, “Just phone first. And not too early, please! Maybe around 2:00 PM. Or 3:00. One benefit of being your own boss is, you get to set your own hours.”

Lindsey nodded. “Okay.” At the doorway, he said, “When you check your machine, you’ll find a call from me. Ignore.”

Roberts said, “Yeah.” He stood with his martini glass in his hand while Lindsey let himself out.