The Case of the Running Bag - Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Discrete Inquiries

My dreams were fragmented with memories of my time as an MP in France. Several faces passed before me as I interviewed them. The shadow above me at the pier kept showing up in
the line. His face was always blurry. Then I was arguing with my superiors in the MPs. They kept pounding on the table to drive a point home. Something was banging in my head. No, not in my head, at the door. I prefer waking from an unrestful sleep slowly. I like to stretch, yawn, and stretch again. The banging on the door startled me. I jerked awake and fell on the floor.

“Crap!”

“Mickey, Mickey, are you in there?

The door is locked! Open Up!”

“Yeah, yeah, just a minute,” I said.

My mind was trying to come up with reasons why I would be here. None of them made sense, even to me. I decided to see who it was and play it by ear. I yelled again that I was coming, stuffed the Colt into the bag, and latched it up. I was still wiping the sleep from my eyes as I pulled the chair from the door and slowly opened it with my foot as a doorstop.

“You're not Mickey,” said a heavyset man in a trench coat and a matching rumpled fedora that
screamed underpaid cop.

“Uh, no… I'm not,” I said, letting him set the pace.

“Are you his new partner?” he asked.

I wasn't quite sure how to answer, because I wasn’t, and he might know that, so I temporized.

“I'm not sure,” I said.

“Good answer. I wouldn't be sure of anything Mickey Philips does either. Say, can I come in?”

“I don't mean to be rude, but who are you?” I asked.

Reverse the roles, put the other man on the defensive, and see what I can learn.

“Oh, sure,” he opened his coat and showed me his badge. “Lieutenant Sanders, SFPD.”

I stepped back, opened the door, and let the Lieutenant in.

“Sorry, Lieutenant, uh… Mickey didn't tell me someone would be calling today. Gave me keys so I
could flop here last night,” I shrugged.

“By the way, what's your name?” he asked.

I had thought about handing him a phony moniker, but those Fickle Sisters were watching me. I was pretty sure that, in this case, honesty would be the best policy. A lie might end up putting me in the clink. Besides, I kept telling myself, I hadn't done anything wrong. I did have a key to the place. I could tell that the flatfoot was already suspicious of me.

“Watcher, Jonas Watcher,” I said.
I held out my hand. He took it in a firm handshake without any contest. I responded in kind. I had a strange feeling I could like the Lieutenant. He wasn't smiling, but the tension had lessened. I
wasn't out of the woods, but he wasn't putting me in handcuffs; not just yet.

“You ain't seen Mickey today.” More of a statement than a question.

“I got tossed the keys and the address last night, and to be honest, I can't say Mickey was the one
who gave ‘em to me.”

I couldn't be more truthful than that, right?

We went into the inner office and I took the sofa while the Lieutenant circled the desk and then sat down in one of the client chairs. In his little walk about the desk, he looked around. He had determined that I hadn't rummaged through the desk, and everything else in the office was as it should be. I was glad I hadn't succumbed to that particular urge last night.

The Lieutenant reached into his coat pocket and pulled some papers. He handed them out to me and I took them. I tried not to act surprised.

“That's the application for your P.I. License under Mickey. His info is already filled out. You fill out
yours and drop them by the precinct later today. I'll see they get processed.”

So, Mickey was looking to add someone to his... staff.

“We have to do a background check,” he continued, “but if nothing flags, you'll have your license in a couple of weeks. I told Mickey you could work under his license as temporary help until yours comes through.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant, I'm, uh...”

“When he asked me for the papers, he was still deciding on candidates, that's why your part is blank. You got a piece? Registered?”

“There's an old Navy Colt in the bag there, but it's not registered to be carried as concealed.”

The Lieutenant leaped to his feet, startling me.

“Are you kidding me? I thought Mickey was kidding me. Can I see it?”

I knew that Colt was going to be trouble. I was hesitant, but I had gone this far. In for a dime,
might as well go for the whole buck. But I didn't want him going through the bag. There might be something in there that would hang me up.

“Could you toss me the bag?” I asked.

The Lieutenant bent down and picked it up by the handle, it was still wet. He watched me closely as he handed it over.

“Dropped it in a puddle,” I said.

I slowly opened the bag enough for the Colt to be visible, then held it up so the Lieutenant could see it.

“Go ahead take it out,” I said. If he was concerned about fingerprints, he might not take it.

He reached in slowly and lifted it out admiringly. He weighed it in his hand and turned it, so he could examine it more closely. So help me, if that gun is a murder weapon...

“Single action, hmm. Loaded?” he asked.

I looked at him and he suddenly grinned, “Stupid question.” He clicked out the cartridges from
the cylinder and handed them to me. Then he spun the gun around a couple of times, cocked back the hammer, aimed at the window, and pulled the trigger. Click! Okay, so fingerprints weren't an issue.

“That'll drop a man. Can't carry it concealed, the bulge would stick out, but a nice piece.”

He spun it around and handed it to me, butt first. I took it and dropped it into the bag along with the cartridges.

“Paperwork to carry is there, too. Fill it out and get it in before you go to work, okay?”

The Lieutenant turned to leave, and I walked with him to the outer door. We shook hands and he was gone. I closed and locked the door. That was just too lucky; he was expecting someone here, either Mickey Philips or his new partner.

I went back into the inner office and dropped on the sofa, shaking my head. I needed to get out of here and fast. Maybe the running bag belonged to whoever Mickey was going to hire. But then why was it used as a club to take me out? Since the bag had been lost or was going to be lost in the bay with my body...
Mickey's unnamed partner was either dead or held captive somewhere about to be dead.

Sooner or later one or the other was going to turn up. I didn't want to be around when crap started
falling out of the sky.

Suddenly I was hungry again, and I wanted a drink. I had a little time before things got too strange. I figured I'd go down to the diner on the corner, grab some grub, come back, pick up the bag, and leave town. I would hold off having a drink until I was in the clear.

I removed the money belt and dropped it in the bag; no need to tempt the Fickle Bitches.
I put the bag under the desk, hiding it behind the modesty panel and I headed out. I wanted a drink. Eating was a better idea. And a newspaper, I had to see if anything had been reported that might help me figure out where I stood.

At the diner, I took a stool at the counter that gave me a view of who was coming in. I signaled to the waitress for service. She was a cute kid, early twenties, blonde and fairly new to waiting tables. She still had a freshness about her and a spring in her step that indicated she was either new or an eternal optimist.

“What'll ya have?” she asked.

“The number one on your menu, coffee, and a newspaper, if you got one.”

“Sure, but we're out of newspapers unless you don't mind a used one.”

“Sold,” I said, “I'll take it.”

Several people came and went, but nothing exciting happened. I was beginning to feel like I was
overreacting. The waitress brought me a rumpled paper that seemed intact, and she was quick with the coffee and the breakfast. I leafed through the paper and didn't find anything that would help clear up anything. I even waded through the classifieds, in case there was something there. Since I came up empty, I decided to grab the bag and blow this town. I had a bankroll. L. A. was looking pretty good to me just now. I would head back to pick up the bag and then I was outta
here.

I arrived back in the office building, and this time I took the elevator up. I stepped out. Did I say The Sisters were fickle bitches? When I got back to the office, they had made other arrangements for me. Waiting outside the office door was gorilla dressed as a chauffeur carrying a briefcase. Next to him was a lady, I mean one with class. She was a tall brunette, older, but she would still leave men drooling in her wake as she walked passed.

I could ignore them and walk on by, but the bag under the desk had the money belt, and I wasn't about to leave without it. I walked up to the mismatched pair and introduced myself. I used my real name and associated myself with Mickey Philips. The woman was calm, cool, and collected. The body-builder chauffeur looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

“You're not William Mason,” she said.

“No, like I said, I'm Jonas Watcher. I'm kind of holding the fort until Mickey gets back. Do you want to leave a message?” I asked, hoping she would decide to come back
later.

“We had better come in,” she said. “I have something to leave and I want to make sure it's safe in Mr. Philips’s office.”

I nodded, smiled, and unlocked the door. She watched me closely as I opened it. Having keys, and knowing which one to use on the door seemed to ease the lady's mind. I escorted her into the inner office, and the chauffeur followed us in. I had the feeling that driving was only one part of his duties, the other was security. I indicated for them to sit down in the client chairs while I sat in the chair behind the power desk. I pulled open a drawer, took out a pad and pencil, and set up to take notes like it was second nature.

“Sorry, no secretary,” I said.

“Yes, I know… getting married. Mr. Philips already told me. My name is Elizabeth Stanton, I'm from New York. Are you familiar with my case?”

You could have knocked me over with a feather. She was a lady, a really rich lady, and as for the case, there were several possibilities. Her father-in-law was rumored connected to the New
York underworld. Her husband had disappeared. There had been anonymous threats against her. She was a queen in New York Society. Her brother was running for Senator in Massachusetts. She was hosting some big art show in San Francisco. She had been seen in the company
of some Hollywood producer in Los Angeles. She could keep the tabloids making bank all by herself.

“I'm just taking care of the office right now, Mrs. Stanton. Mickey has a secure box here in the desk and I can open it for you to store whatever it is you have for him.”

She turned her head to the chauffeur.

“Joseph, take out the file.”

The chauffeur opened the briefcase and rummaged a bit looking for the “file.” As he shifted, a bulge under his arm became more than noticeable. Ape-man was packing. I decided to continue to play it straight. Even though by doing so, I seemed to be getting deeper into something I knew nothing about. And it was about to get more difficult to extricate myself. Finally, he pulled out a folder and put it on the desk. Mrs. Stanton slid it over to me. I picked it up and started to put it away in the secure drawer when she stopped me.

“No, no, I want you to read it... study it. Mr. Philips was quite adamant that whoever we met here
would be the operative to handle my case.”

Jeez, everyone was expecting to meet someone here; I seemed to be the only person present, and I wasn't supposed to be here. The Sisters Fate were out there somewhere laughing up a storm. It was a hell of a predicament I just found myself in. I slowly opened the folder and briefly leafed through the papers.

“I don't expect you to read it all right now, Mr. Watcher, but I believe the retainer there should be enough to get you started looking into where my husband is. The last few checks I sent him were picked up here in San Francisco at General Delivery. I must go down to Los Angeles for a day. When I get back you can update me. I'll be staying at The Palace.”

Of course, she would. The retainer was a cashier's check for two grand, made out to cash. I nodded
knowingly, not looking the least surprised. I rose as Mrs. Stanton stood up.

“Joseph, we are going. Mr. Watcher has much to do. We'll see ourselves out.”

I watched as they left. The chauffeur seemed confused and somewhat distressed. She, on the other hand, was cool, and as she walked away, she swayed in a way that maybe left me drooling, just a little.

This was getting too crazy. I woke up a little over twelve hours ago, hurting, hungover, and broke. There was absolutely nothing going on in my life. Now someone has attempted to kill me. I was sitting on over a year's income. And I am mixed up in something that could only blow up in my face. I was seriously considering running for the hills. I couldn't go to Los Angeles. Mrs. Stanton would be there. I know it's a big place, but The Sisters were messing with me. I didn't dare take the two G's without looking into her husband's whereabouts.

Any minute now, Mickey Philips would come through that door and all hell would break loose. Then all of a sudden it hit me! I could be walking into something where I was going to be the biggest patsy of all time. Two people are looking for someone and here I am. I'm him, except I'm
not him. And someone could be dead, and who killed him? The only viable suspect was me!

I had been playing it fast and loose and so far, I was still on my feet, and I intended to stay that way. If I boogied now, it would all come down on me. I had to do two things. Find out where Mrs. Stanton's husband was. Locate William Mason. If he's dead, prove I didn't make him that way.

Where the hell was Mickey Philips?

My Options were to stay or flee.

I sat down at the desk and started filling out the forms. Luckily, no one came in while I was giving the police a true breakdown on my life up until now. When I finished, I put Mrs. Stanton's folder, including the check, into the secure drawer and headed for the local precinct. I hoped the Lieutenant would still be happy to see me. Right now I figured the roof was about to cave in on me.

I took a deep breath. I had three things to do. Apply for a P.I. license. Get a permit to carry a
concealed weapon. Stay sober. It was the only way I was going to get out of this alive. And you can stop laughing, you fickle bitches.

Continued...

Chapter 3 - An Uninvited guest.