Case File - a Collection of Nameless Detective Stories (23 page)

"Not at all, Mr. Canale."

We shook hands. He was still standing close to me—one of those people who had a penchant, conscious or unconscious, for intruding on other people's space—and I could see the worry in his eyes; the skin across his cheekbones had a stretched look. I let go of his hand and backed up a step. My space was my own, and I did not want anyone else occupying it. Nor did I want to stand that close to another man's fear.

Canale nodded toward the nearest of two leather visitors' chairs, waited until I had seated myself, and then went around and plunked himself down in his own chair. He leaned forward with his hands flat on the desk blotter and looked at me as if I were a witness on the stand in court.

"There's been another call," he said.

"When?"

"Last night, late. I called Lynn after I spoke to you, and she admitted it."

"Same sort of thing?"

"Yes. She wouldn't go into details."

"How is she?"

"She says she's all right, but I don't believe her. A thing like this . . ." He shook his head. "She's only twenty," he said.

"She's not alone today, is she?"

"No. One of her girlfriends is staying with her at her
apartment."

I was silent a couple of seconds before I said, "Mr. Canale, are you sure you want to go through with this—hiring me? As I told you on the phone, I don't know that there's much I can do in a case like this. The police department and the telephone company investigate hundreds of complaints about obscene calls every year —"

"I know that —"

"— but even with the manpower and facilities at their disposal, they aren't able to catch or even identify more than a handful of the callers. Besides, almost none of these crazies ever molest the women they call up. They're talkers, usually, not doers; according to psychological profiles, most of them are afraid of women. What they do is pick names out of the telephone directory, at random —"

"I know that, too," Canale said; "the police told me the same thing when I contacted them two days ago. But the man who keeps harassing Lynn is not a random caller. I think he knows her, and she knows him. In fact, I'm sure of it." He held up a hand as I started to speak. "I know what I said to you on the phone; I said it was a possibility that ought to be explored, and that was why I wanted to hire a detective. But now I'm convinced that's the case."

"What convinced you?"

"That call to Lynn last night. She had her number changed yesterday afternoon, at my insistence. Her new number is unlisted."

I said slowly, "I see."

"Yes. How could some anonymous crank find out a person's brand-new unlisted telephone number in less than twelve hours?"

"I doubt if one could. Unless he worked for the phone company, or knew someone who did."

"That strikes me as unlikely," Canale said. "No, it's someone Lynn knows well enough to have given her new number to. Or someone who got the number secondhand from one of her friends."

"Do you have any idea who it might be?"

"No.
"

"What does your daughter say?"

"She refuses to believe it's anyone she knows."

"Did she tell you who she'd given the number to?"

"No. She wouldn't talk about it, at least not to me."

"Why not to you?"

Canale smiled sardonically, without humor. "We haven't been close in the past couple of months," he said. "Ever since she became engaged to a young man named Larry Travers."

"You don't approve of this Travers?"

"No. And of course Lynn rebelled when I made my feelings clear to her."

"Is there any particular reason you don't like him?"

"I don't think he'll be good for her. Besides, she's too young to marry." He made a small suffering sound in his throat. "Father-daughter relationships can be difficult sometimes," he said. "Particularly when the father is the only parent. My wife and I were divorced when Lynn was a year old; neither Lynn nor I have seen her since."

I was not qualified to comment on any of that, never having been either a husband or a father, so I remained silent.

Canale watched me for a moment. "So. Am I correct in assuming you'll investigate the matter for me?"

"Yes, sir," I said. "As long as you understand that there's only a limited chance of success on my part. All I can guarantee you is my time and an honest effort."

"That's all I ask of any man." He leaned back in his chair. "I expect you'll want to talk to Lynn right away."

"Yes."

"Good. I told her when I talked to her that I was hiring a detective, and I gave her your name as the probable man. She'll be expecting you."

He wrote me a retainer check, and I told him I would be in touch as soon as I had anything to report, and he showed me out. The check was for two hundred dollars, my daily rate; I took it out and looked at it again in the elevator on the way down. It made me feel a little more cheerful than I was when I got there.

II.

L
ynn Canale lived in one of the apartment buildings in Parkmerced, near the San Francisco State College campus where she was a student. She had moved out of her father's house in the Forest Hill district two years ago, when she first entered school; Canale had told me on the phone earlier that she was strong-willed and self-sufficient, and that she had insisted on being on her own, rather than living at home, while she pursued a bachelor's degree in history. He had tried to talk her into moving back home with him when he found out about the calls, but she had refused. Stubbornness and a highly developed sense of pride were two other facets of her personality, Canale had said. I suspected she'd inherited them from him.

She had received the first call two weeks ago. There had been two others the first week, and since then she'd been getting them almost daily. She hadn't told her father about the calls until three days ago and then reluctantly, when he pressed her because she seemed tense and nervous at a family dinner. She hadn't offered any details of what the caller said to her; all she would say was that he made lewd suggestions and that his tone of voice frightened her.

I parked my car on Grijalva Drive, just down the street from Lynn's building. She lived in 3-C, and she buzzed me in immediately when I identified myself on the intercom above her mailbox in the entrance alcove. When I went upstairs to 3-C I found that she was a slim, graceful girl with the fine-boned face that attracts fashion photographers and portrait painters. She had thick brown hair, worn long and straight, and brownish gold eyes under long natural lashes; the eyes told me she was as worried as her father, even though she was trying not to show it. She wore white slacks and a dark blue tunic.

The living room she led me into was small and over-furnished, so that it had a cramped feel. The window drapes were open, and the room was brightly lit by sunshine and by a hammered-brass curio lamp. Books and papers were scattered on a writing desk and on an old mohair sofa that looked as though it had come out of somebody's attic.

A little apologetically, she said, "I hope you don't mind the mess. I've been trying to study."

I thought about my flat, with the dirty dishes and the pulp magazines I collect strewn around, the dust-mice under the furniture; her apartment, compared to the home of a slob like me, was immaculate. "Not at all," I said. "Are you alone, Miss Canale? Your father said someone was staying with you."

"Someone is. Connie Evans, a friend from school. But she had a ten o'clock class, and this is the week final exams start for the fall semester."

"Will she be coming back?"

"Yes." She gave me a faintly defiant look. "I don't mind being alone, you know."

I didn't say anything.

"Well," she said. "Sit down, won't you?"

I sat in an armchair opposite the sofa; it was not very comfortable, but it was better than the only other places to sit—a couple of beanbag chairs. Lynn asked me if I wanted some coffee, and I said no, nothing. Then she sat on the sofa, tucked her legs under her and regarded me solemnly.

"I'm not sure this is a good idea," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"My father hiring a detective. I mean, lots of women get obscene telephone calls, don't they?"

"Yes," I said. "But in most cases, the calls don't keep coming as frequently as you've been receiving them."

"I'm not afraid," she said. "He's just a crank."

"Are you certain of that?"

She averted her eyes. "Oh, God, I wish he'd just go away and leave me alone."

"Maybe I can see to it that he does. Will you tell me about the calls?"

"Not what he says, no. I won't repeat that filth."

"Sexual suggestions, that sort of thing?"

"Yes. In great detail. It made my skin crawl, the first time I
heard it."

"Has he threatened you at any time?"

"Not in so many words."

"Implied threats?"

"Yes. The things he wanted to do to me . . . well, they involved
pain. You know, S and M stuff."

"Yeah," I said. "I know."

"He's an animal. Just . . . an animal."

"Is his voice at all familiar to you?"

"No.
"

"You're sure you've never heard it in person?"

"I'm sure," Lynn said.

"Is there anything distinctive about it? An accent, a lisp, anything like that?"

"Well, it sounds sort of adolescent . . . you know, high
pitched. And muffled, as if it's coming from a long way off."

"That might mean he's trying to disguise it," I said.

"I know, I've thought of that."

"Because if he didn't, you'd recognize who he was."

She pursed her lips. "My father thinks he's one of my friends. Is that what you think, too?"

"I don't know enough to think anything yet. But you did have your number changed yesterday; and you did get another call last night."

"I can't account for that," she said. "I don't know how he got my new number, or why he's doing this to me. All I know is, I want him to stop."

I let a few seconds pass in silence; any more reassurances or solicitous comments would only have sounded empty. Or fatherly, which might be worse. When I spoke again I made my voice gentle. "How many people did you give the new number to?"

"Not many," she said. She sounded calm again. "My father. Connie. Larry. Tim Downs —"

"Wait, now. One at a time. Who would Larry be?"

"Larry Travers, my fiancé. We plan to be married in June."

"Congratulations. Have you known him long?"

"We met three months ago. He was going with Connie at the time, but I didn't know her very well then, not until after they broke up and Larry and I started dating. Anyhow, it didn't take long for both of us to know that . . . well, that we were in love."

"Does he also attend S.F. State?"

"No. U.C. He's a phys-ed major."

U.C. was the University of California, across the bay in Berkeley. "Does he live in the East Bay?" I asked.

"No. Here in the city. On Potrero Hill."

"I'll need the address, if you don't mind."

She told me a number on Missouri Street and I wrote it down in my notebook. "You mentioned someone named Tim Downs," I said then. "Who would he be?"

"A friend of Larry's."

"Also a student at U.C.?"

"No. He's an apprentice plumber. He lives near Larry and he's a sports nut; that's how they became friends. Larry is a sports nut, too."

"Why did you give Downs your unlisted number?"

"Because he's Larry's friend."

"Did he ask you for it?"

"No. He and Larry stopped over last night, on their way to another Super Bowl party; Larry wanted me to go along, but I had studying to do. While they were here I gave Larry the new number, and Tim, too, because he was standing right there."

I asked her where Downs lived and where he worked, and she told me. Then I said, "Is there anyone else you gave the number to?"

"Has anyone else been here besides Connie Evans? Anyone who might have seen the number on the phone itself?"

"No, I haven't had any . . . wait, yes I have. Joel Reeves stopped by yesterday while the man from the phone company was here. He only stayed a couple of minutes—Joel, I mean—
but he might have noticed the number."

"This Reeves is a friend of yours?"

"Yes. Well, an acquaintance. He's a T.A. in the History Department at State."

"T.A.?"

"Teaching assistant. A graduate student who assists the
professors. He lives in this building, up in Five-E."

"Why did he stop by yesterday?"

"He wanted to borrow a book of mine on Victorian poetry.
The Victorian era is Joel's primary historical interest."