The Vanished - [Nameless Detective 02] Read online

  I said, ‘Then I’ll make the trip for you,’ and gave her a little smile to let her know I was on her side all the way.

  She nodded, and relief was apparent on her pale face. ‘How soon can you leave?’

  ‘Probably tomorrow sometime,’ I said. ‘I’ll have to make arrangements.’

  ‘Will you need more money, for tickets or anything?’

  ‘Well, I’ll have to get some traveler’s checks.’

  She came quickly to her feet and went to where her purse was on the nightstand and got a checkbook out of there. She sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Five hundred dollars—will that be enough for right now?’

  ‘More than enough.’

  She wrote very fast and tore the check out and brought it to me. I put it away in my wallet. ‘I should be going now,’ I told her. ‘There are a lot of things I have to do.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘I’ll let you know later today what sort of flight schedule I can work out.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  We went to the door and got the farewells said, and I left her there alone with the kind of thoughts you should never be alone with. And as I rode down in the elevator, I realized the nature of that inexplicable pollutant which had clouded her skin with such inner grayness.

  It was fear—raw and desperate fear.

  * * * *

  There was one envelope in my office mailbox, and my answering service reported no calls in the day and a half I had been away. I put on coffee and opened the valve on the steam radiator and sat down to open the envelope. It was an advertising circular from a mail-order house in New Jersey that specialized in stuff like hand-guns and balanced Indonesian throwing knives with double-edged blades. Some business enterprise—and some laws to sanction it. I put the circular away in the waste-basket and pulled out the telephone book and set about booking airline accommodations to Germany.

  It took a little time, but I managed to arrange a seat on a direct polar route flight from San Francisco to London, leaving the following afternoon at three. From London, I would take a connecting flight to Frankfurt. Kitzingen, it turned out, was some one hundred kilometers south, on the Main River, and I would have to rent a car and drive down there from Frankfurt.

  When I had all of that set up, I dialed Cheryl’s number and there was no answer. Well, that took care of that for the moment. I sat back and lit a cigarette, and the telephone rang.

  It was Chuck Hendryx, wondering if I had gotten back from Oregon yet and if I had learned anything of import. I told him about the hotel, and about the suitcase. He said, ‘I don’t like the looks of it. Roy wouldn’t just leave his stuff in that hotel unless he’d gotten into some kind of jam—a bad one, you know?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Have you got any ideas?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Well, what do you do now?’

  ‘I go to Germany,’ I said.

  ‘Germany? What for?’

  ‘Because Elaine Kavanaugh wants me to.’

  ‘I don’t see the point,’ Hendryx said. ‘Wherever Roy is, it sure as Christ isn’t Germany.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘but we’re dead-ended in Oregon and San Francisco. We’ve got nothing at all to work on. There’s an outside chance I may find something over there.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like whether or not that portrait of him means anything,’ I said, and I told him about the theft of it from my apartment.

  The only reaction I got was: ‘Who the hell would want to steal a thing like that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Somebody seemed to want it—and badly.’

  ‘It couldn’t be valuable, could it?’

  ‘I don’t see how.’

  ‘Then stealing it doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘Not much seems to in this thing.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  I threw him a soft curve. ‘What do you know about the Galerie der Expressionisten?’

  ‘The what?’ he said. Some pitch.

  ‘The Galerie der Expressionisten. It’s an art gallery in Kitzingen.’

  ‘I never heard of it. Why?’

  ‘The name came up, that’s all.’

  ‘Is that where Roy had the portrait made?’

  ‘Possibly. That’s one of the things I’ll be checking.’

  ‘Well, I hope you find something that leads to Roy. I just don’t see how that sketch can tie in, but I hope it does if it turns him up. Keep in touch, right?’

  ‘Sure.’

  So my questions had gotten me nothing at all. I had not really expected them to; if Hendryx—or Gilmartin or Rosmond—had stolen the portrait, they would be on guard against possible slips. The thing was, I could not really envisage any of them doing it. There just didn’t seem to be any logical reason why one of the three would want to run heavy risks to get his hands on a portrait of his best friend.

  That started me thinking about this Nick Jackson again, and I rang up my friend Salzberg at the Presidio. He had the information for which I had asked. Jackson had been born in Salem, Oregon, was divorced, and had no permanent civilian residence; but his widowed mother still lived in Salem, and a brother, Dave, resided in Portland.

  I spent the next half-hour on the phone long-distance to Salem and Portland, feigning an old friendship with Jackson. I learned that he was still stationed in Okinawa—but that he had come back to the States for Christmas, returning on the fifteenth of December. He had arrived in Oregon, with a WA nurse on his arm, on December 24; he and the nurse had gone to San Francisco from Hawaii, the mother told me, and the two of them had been touring the coast, since the WAC was from Georgia and had never been west of the Mississippi until now. Jackson had stayed with Dave and his family in Portland until six days ago, and then he and the nurse had left to do some touring. His leave was up on the twenty-fifth of the month, and he was scheduled to return to Okinawa, via Hawaii, on the twenty-fourth—flying out of Portland on that date. As to where Nick Jackson had been at the time Roy Sands disappeared, and where he was at the moment, neither mother nor brother could tell me.

  I swiveled my chair around and stared out the window for a time. None of what I had learned about Jackson had to mean anything, of course, but it was considerable food for thought—especially because San Francisco had been Jackson’s first stateside stop, and his whereabouts between the fifteenth and twenty-fourth of last month were unaccounted for. Depending upon what I learned in Germany, I would have to decide whether or not to fly up to Portland when I returned. In the meantime, Jackson remained on my mind; and he had plenty of company there.

  I went into the alcove and rolled out the stand with my portable typewriter on it. For the next half-hour I worked out a report for Elaine Kavanaugh on my investigation thus far, making a duplicate for my files. When I had that finished, I tried Cheryl’s number again; there was still no answer.

  I notified my answering service that I was leaving for the day, and that I would not be in for several days hence. Then I turned off the heat and started across the office to get my overcoat. Before I reached the coat tree, the door opened and Rich Gilmartin came in.

  ‘What’s the word,’ he said. The corners of his mouth and his silky Continental mustache were pulled up in a glad-hand grin. He wore corduroy trousers with a knife crease and a leather jacket lined in thick white fur.

  ‘How are you, Gilmartin?’

  ‘No kicks. I had to come in to the Presidio today, and so I thought I’d stop by and see if you were back.’

  ‘I came in this morning.’

  ‘Find out anything in Eugene?’

  Well, I thought, let’s do it all over again and see what happens. So I did it all over again— relating what I had discovered in Oregon and then going into the theft of the sketch—and nothing happened. Gilmartin possessed a good poker face, and he maintained the same expression throughout. He had no idea why anybody would want to steal the sketch, it had looked like nothing more than a simple street-artist’
s work to him—was I sure that whoever had broken into my flat was after that specifically? He had never heard of the Galerie der Expressionisten, he said; art galleries were definitely not his bag. And he echoed Elaine’s and Hendryx’s sentiments that the abandoned suitcase did not look very good for Roy Sands.

  When I told him I was leaving for Germany the next afternoon, he said, ‘What do you figure to find over there?’

  ‘More than I’ve been able to find here, maybe.’

  ‘You’re the detective, baby. Locating Roy is the main thing, and if you think you can do that in Germany, you must know what you’re doing.’

  I thought there might be some irony in his voice, but I wasn’t sure and I let the remark pass. ‘What can you tell me about a man named Nick Jackson?’ I asked him.

  He had nothing to tell me about Jackson— at least nothing that I did not already know. Gilmartin knew of the trouble between Jackson and Sands—he made a couple of obscene references to Jackson’s sexual proclivities—and said that as far as he knew, the feud between them had ended with the capture of the men who had actually been responsible for the black-marketeering. Jackson had left the Presidio six months after that, and Sands had not mentioned his name since in Gilmartin’s presence.

  I got out a fresh cigarette, and I thought of something I had neglected to ask Hendryx. Gilmartin could supply the information just as well. I said. ‘There’s a friend of yours—of Sands—still at Kitzingen, isn’t there? MacVeagh, something like that?’

  ‘Yeah, Jock MacVeagh.’

  ‘Will he give me a hand while I’m over there? I’m going in cold.’

  ‘If he can,’ Gilmartin said. ‘Jock’s a good cat.’

  ‘How do I get in touch with him when I get there?’

  ‘Just tell the main gate sentry you want MacVeagh, in the quartermaster’s office. He’ll get you there.’

  ‘It might be a good idea to send him a wire to let him know I’m coming,’ I said.

  ‘It probably would. If you’re leaving tomorrow, you won’t get into Germany until sometime Saturday. Could be Jock’s got a little piece lined up off Larson for the weekend.’

  ‘How would I address the wire?’

  He told me and I went to the desk and wrote it down. He said, ‘It looks like you’ve got some work to do, so I guess I’ll shove off. Unless you could stand a belt or two.’

  ‘Some other time, maybe.’

  ‘Yeah, sure. Well, hang loose, baby.’

  When he was gone, I sat down at the desk and composed a wire to Jock MacVeagh and called Western Union to have it sent off immediately. Then I put on my overcoat, locked the office, and went down to my bank—one that stays open till six on weekdays—to do something about the check Elaine Kavanaugh had given me ...

  * * * *

  CHAPTER NINE

  When I got to my flat, there was no mail, no further evidence of illegal entry, and no beer in the icebox. The kitchen contained a faint odor, the origin of which turned out to be a bowl of stew I had cooked but not eaten four days previous. I had forgotten to refrigerate the damned stuff, and it had some kind of gray-green substance over the surface of it. I threw it into a garbage bag and took the bag down the stairs to the trash can, wedging the door shut again with the broom handle and the copper wire when I came back up.

  You need a keeper, I thought, that’s what you need. To clean out this cage once in a while.

  In the apartment, I called Cheryl’s number another time, and on this occasion I knew intuitively that she would be home. I sat on my unmade bed, listening to the circuit noises and looking at the soiled sheets and the piles of laundry strewn around the bedroom. A goddamn keeper, all right. I wanted a cigarette and gave in to the desire, and in my ear there was a click and her voice said, ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, Cheryl,’ I said. ‘How are you?’

  I did not have to tell her who it was this time. She said, ‘Fine. And you?’ and her voice was soft and warm.

  ‘Fine. I got back into town earlier this afternoon and tried to call you then, but there was no answer.’

  ‘Doug and I were shopping at Stonestown,’ she said. ‘Did you find out anything about Roy?’

  ‘Nothing encouraging.’

  ‘It’s a terrible thing when someone you know just disappears like that, for no reason.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Listen, Cheryl, I’m leaving for Germany tomorrow. Sands’ fiancée seems to think there might be a clue to what happened to him over there. I don’t know when I’ll be back—just a few days, I think— and I was hoping you’d be free tonight.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I have to work.’

  I tried to keep disappointment out of my voice. ‘Tonight of all nights.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I work evenings three times a week, and this happens to be one of them. I wish it wasn’t.’

  I liked the way she had said those last words. I asked, ‘Well, how’s the food out at Saxon’s?’

  ‘Fairly good, for a coffee shop.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll come out for a steak tonight.’

  ‘I’d like that, but... well, the owner doesn’t take kindly to employees having personal discussions while they’re working.’

  ‘I guess it wasn’t such a good idea.’

  ‘I hope you understand.’

  ‘Of course. Can I see you when I get back from Germany?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘It’s a date. Do you like Russian food?’

  ‘I’m not sure I’ve ever eaten any.’

  ‘I know a place. I think you’ll enjoy it.’

  ‘It sounds very nice.’

  ‘Cheryl—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve thought of you often since Tuesday night.’

  ‘Have you?’ Her voice was softer.

  ‘Yes. I just wanted you to know that.’

  There was a moment of silence that was not in any way awkward. She said then, ‘I think I’d better go now. I have to be to work at six.’

  ‘I’ll call you as soon as I get home.’

  ‘Please do.’

  I paused. ‘Is your brother there, by any chance?’

  ‘Yes, he is. He’s been wondering about Roy, and I know he wants to talk to you. Just a moment.’

  Doug Rosmond came on immediately and asked me about Oregon. For the third time that day I recounted my trip to Eugene and explained about the theft of the sketch of Roy Sands, and for the third time the reaction was typically innocent: dismay at my discovery of Sands’ suitcase in the transient hotel, incredulity at the theft of the sketch, which Rosmond said Chuck Hendryx had mentioned on the phone as being ‘a pretty good likeness, probably done by one of those sidewalk artists.’ He had never heard of the Galerie der Expressionisten and wondered where I had gotten the name.

  ‘It was on a piece of paper among Sands’ effects,’ I said. ‘It’s an art gallery in Kitzingen.’

  ‘Why would Roy have the name of an art gallery?’

  ‘That’s a good question, especially after the theft of the portrait.’

  ‘Do you really think his portrait has something to do with his disappearance?’

  ‘It might,’ I said. ‘That’s one of the reasons I’m leaving for Germany tomorrow.’

  ‘Germany? You mean Elaine Kavanaugh is sending you all the way over there?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘That seems like a hell of a shot in the dark.’

  ‘Maybe it is, but it’s about all we’ve got left.’

  ‘You think you can find out about the portrait over there?’

  ‘That’s what I’m hoping.’

  ‘I guess Elaine is getting desperate, and I don’t blame her. If I were in her place, I’d probably have you do the same thing. It’s better than just sitting around, waiting.’

  ‘That’s for certain.’

  Rosmond wished me luck, and I told him I would be in touch—unnecessarily, because of Cheryl—and we said a parting. I went into the living room
and stood at the bay window and looked out through the curtains at the approaching darkness, the subtle transformation of chill bright gray into ebon black. The sharp winter wind blew eddies of dust in a series of miniature tornadoes along the gutters, slapped at the glass with the thin, cold fingers of a crone.