Case File - a Collection of Nameless Detective Stories (25 page)

So maybe he was still in school; it was only three-thirty. But that
Flat for Rent
sign had me curious. I poked the bell beside the name on the second mailbox, Rodriguez, and pretty soon a thin, middle-aged woman opened the door to the downstairs flat. The look she gave me was full of annoyance.

"They only put the damn sign up an hour ago," she said.

"Ma'am?"

"The realtors. I told 'em people would start bothering me, even though it says right on the sign 'Do Not Disturb Residents,' and they said oh no, don't worry, that won't happen. Hah. It didn't even take an hour for it to happen." She glared at me. "Don't you read what it says on signs, mister?"

"I'm not here about the flat," I said.

"No? Then what do you want? If you're selling something, we don't want any."

"I'm not selling anything. I'm looking for Larry Travers."

"Oh," the woman said. "Well, I don't know if he's still here or not."

"Still here?"

"I saw him moving some of his stuff out this morning, but I don't know if he took it all. Maybe he'll be back."

"It's the upstairs flat that's for rent, then? Travers' flat?"

"Sure. My husband and me, we been here twenty-five years, and we'll be here another twenty-five if the government don't starve us out or blow us up."

"Do you know where Travers is moving to?"

"I didn't ask him. I don't care where he's going."

"Hasn't he been a good neighbor?"

"Too many loud parties," Mrs. Rodriguez said. "Different girls, booze, noise until all hours. Probably dope, too, for all I know."

"You mean he's brought different girls here himself, or his friends have?"

"Who knows? They came and they went; sometimes they stayed all night. Orgies, that's what he's been having up there, right over my head. I'm a respectable woman, I go to church, I pay taxes, I shouldn't have to listen to orgies in the middle of the night."

"Did you talk to Travers about these wild parties?"

"Sure, I talked to him, my husband and me both. He told us to mind our own business, the young snot. So we called the cops on him, twice, but what good did it do? The cops came and the party stopped, they went away and it started right up again. You'd think the cops could break up an orgy so decent people could get their sleep, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Cops," Mrs. Rodriguez said, and shook her head. Then a thought seemed to strike her and she frowned warily. "Say, you're not a cop, are you?"

"No, I'm not."

"Good. How come you're looking for Travers?"

"A private matter."

"Huh," she said. "He in some sort of trouble?"

"I don't know. Probably not."

"Well, it wouldn't surprise me if he was. Kids nowadays, they got no respect for nothing, not even the law. If you ask me —"

"Thanks for your help, Mrs. Rodriguez," I said, and left her standing there with her mouth open.

On the way back to my car, I did some wondering about Larry Travers. The fact that he was in the process of moving out of his flat didn't have to mean anything; people move every day for a hundred different reasons. But it seemed odd that Lynn hadn't mentioned it when she gave me his address. Maybe Travers hadn't got around to telling her about the move yet; but that was odd, too, if so. He and Lynn were engaged. Why
wouldn't he tell her he was moving?

Mrs. Rodriguez's diatribe about loud parties didn't have to mean anything either. The testimony of a complainer and a busybody wasn't always reliable, and the way she had kept using the word "orgy" made exaggeration another of her faults. Still, there was probably a fair amount of truth in what she'd told me. So was Travers playing around on Lynn Canale or wasn't he?

The one person besides Travers who could give me the answer to that question figured to be Tim Downs. He might still be at work, but I seemed to remember that plumbers quit for the day at three-thirty. I decided to try his home first because it was closer than Le Costa Plumbing and Heating, over on Harrison, where Lynn had told me Downs worked.

I drove up to De Haro. The building Downs lived in was also a Stick-style Victorian, in a somewhat shabbier state of repair, and like the one on Missouri it sat near the top of a steep hill; it would command a nice view of the city from its rear windows. I parked down the block, trudged uphill and climbed onto the porch.

Downs had the main-floor flat, and he didn't have it alone; a second name was written below his on the mailbox card: Pam Scott. Girlfriend, probably. I rang the bell. No answer here either. I was just about to start back down the steps when a dark green Toyota pulled into the driveway below and a young guy dressed in a soiled work uniform and carrying a lunch pail got out.

He gave me a curious glance and then mounted the stairs, taking his time about it. He was a big kid, mid-twenties, built like a football player. His black hair hung to his shoulders, curling up on the ends, and he wore one of those bushy mustache-and-sideburns combinations that were popular back in the 1890s. Deep-set blue eyes studied me levelly when he reached the porch and stopped a couple of paces away.

"You looking for me?" he asked.

"I am if your name is Tim Downs."

"That's my name. What can I do for you?"

I told him who I was and more or less why I was there; I also
showed him my license photostat. Nothing much changed in his
blue eyes. He wasn't impressed one way or another. "Who hired
you?" he asked. "Lynn's old man?"

"Yes."

"Yeah, that figures. He's the type."

"What type is that?"

"The Establishment type. Always overreacting."

"Why do you think he's overreacting?"

"Lots of women get obscene telephone calls," Downs said.
"It's no big deal. San Francisco is full of creeps."

"Lots of women don't have their life threatened," I said.

"Is that straight? The guy threatened Lynn?"

"This morning. He said he was going to kill her."

"Christ. You think he means it?"

"Maybe. There's no way to tell without knowing who he is.
You wouldn't have any ideas, would you?"

He shook his head. And then he scowled and said, "Why ask
me? I don't know anything about those calls."

"You're a friend of Lynn's, aren't you?"

"So? She's got a lot of friends."

"She had her phone number changed yesterday. Except for
her father, you and Larry Travers are the only ones she gave the
new number to."

"What the hell?" he said. There was hostility in his voice now,
in the set of his mouth. "You think maybe I'm the one who
called her up and threatened her?"

"Did I say that? I don't have any ideas about you one way or
another; all I'm here for is to ask you some questions. You don't
have to answer them if you don't want to."

"What questions?"

"Did you give Lynn's new phone number to anyone?"

"No. Why should I?"

"Are you sure?"

"Sure, I'm sure. I didn't even tell Pam."

"Who's Pam?"

"Pam Scott, The lady I live with."

"Do you know if Travers gave the number to anyone?"

"No. Ask him, why don't you?"

"I stopped by his flat before I came here. He wasn't home."

"Yeah, well, he's been busy lately."

"There's a
Flat for Rent
sign on his building," I said. "The woman who lives below him said he's moving out."

"That's right, he is."

"Where to? Another place here in the city?"

Downs hesitated. "No. He's splitting."

"You mean he's leaving San Francisco?"

"This coming weekend, yeah."

"Where's he going?"

"San Diego."

"Why? He decide to change schools, or what?"

"Not exactly. He dropped out of U.C. at the end of last
semester; he may stay out until the fall, sign up at San Diego State. It all depends."

"On what?"

"On whether this deal he's got going works out."

"What deal?"

Downs hesitated again. Then he shrugged and said, "Him
and another guy are taking a boat down to Dago for the guy's
old man. Guy he met over in Berkeley. The old man bought the
boat when he was up here over Christmas, had it put in for some
minor repairs; he owns a bunch of boats down south. Larry
figures maybe he can get a regular job with him."

"Does Lynn know about this deal?"

Another shrug. "Maybe Larry didn't tell her yet. Ask him."

"He didn't tell her he'd dropped out of school either, did he?
Or that he was leaving San Francisco?"

"So he hasn't told her, so what?"

"He's engaged to marry the girl."

"Yeah, sure," Downs said, and grinned crookedly.

"What does that mean? He isn't going to marry her?"

"Larry's not the marrying type."

"No? Then why the hell did he get engaged to her?"

"Come on, man, why do you think?"

"You tell me."

"You met her, didn't you? She's a nice kid, but a little square; she's got old-fashioned ideas. Getting engaged was the only way Larry could score with her."

Anger clotted my throat; I didn't trust myself to speak for a moment. Some sweet guy, this Larry Travers. A girl like Lynn won't go to bed with him, so he tells her he loves her, promises to marry her and strings her along until he's had enough of her and her body. Then he drops her, shatters her dreams and away he goes without giving her another thought. A bum like that was capable of just about anything. Including a series of obscene and threatening telephone calls, for whatever warped reason of his own.

What I was thinking must have been plain on my face. Downs said, "Hey, man, why get so uptight about it? Lynn'll get over it; they always do. It's no big deal."

"It's a big deal to me, sonny."

His jaw tightened. "Don't call me sonny."

"I'll call you any damn thing I feel like calling you. Where can I find Travers?"

He glared at me without answering. I glared right back at him. He was half my age and in better physical shape, but the way I felt right now, I was ready to beat the crap out of him and Travers both. Maybe he saw that in my face, too; or maybe he just didn't feel like mixing it up with anybody on his front stoop. His eyes shifted away from me, and he muttered something under his breath and started past me to the front door.

I blocked his way. "I asked you a question. Where can I find Travers?"

"How should I know?"

"Where does he hang out when he's not home?"

"I don't have to answer your questions, man —"

"Not mine, maybe. How about the police?"

"You can't put the cops on me. I ain't done anything . . ."

"I can and I will. I used to be a cop myself; I've still got friends on the force. Now, do you want to tell me where Travers hangs out or don't you?"

He muttered something else under his breath that I didn't catch. Then he said, tight-mouthed and sullen, "Elrod's, on Eighteenth and Connecticut. He's there most days around five."

"He still living in his flat or not?"

"Some nights. Other nights he spends on the boat."

"Where?"

"China Basin. The Basin Boatyard."

"What's the name of the boat?"

"The Hidalgo."

"All right," I said. "If you talk to Travers before I do, tell him I'm looking for him. Tell him I think he's one of those creeps San Francisco is full of."

I brushed by Downs and clumped down the stairs. And I didn't look back.

V.

E
lrod's was a neighborhood tavern that had been outfitted to resemble an English pub—British and Irish beer signs on the walls, a couple of dart boards, a big fireplace with some logs blazing inside. From the look of the twenty or so patrons, it catered to the under-thirty crowd and was probably what passed for a singles bar on Potrero Hill. I was the oldest person in there by at least ten years.

The bartender was a young guy with a bright red beard. I ordered a pint of Bass ale and asked him if he knew Larry Travers. Sure, he said, but Larry hadn't come in yet today. A great guy, Larry. Drank beer like it was going out of style; drank beer for
breakfast
, once poured some on a bowl of cereal to prove it. A hell of a guy.

Yeah, I thought. A hell of a guy.

A dollar tip got the bartender to agree to point Travers out to me if he showed up. Then I took my ale into a telephone booth at the rear and called Tellmark, Graham, Canale and Isaacs. Jud Canale was back from court and in his office—it was almost five o'clock—and he came on the line immediately.