The Case of the Running Bag - Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Staying Alive

South of Market there was a gunsmith I knew about. Hell, Fritz was a gunsmith everyone knew about. Just not like me. I met Fritz in Germany when I was an MP. Because he was a gunsmith, he was always under scrutiny. The truth was, he was a gifted engineer with a love of the American West. He was a Craftsman, and whenever I could do him a favor, I did. Now he had a shop in San Francisco. Not only did I want ammunition, but I also wanted to be able to switch an unloaded cylinder with a loaded one quickly. Fritz was a man who could make that happen.

The shop door had one of those spring bells that rang as one entered to let the proprietor know someone was in the front of the shop while he was working in the rear. I hated those bells. A glass counter ran three-quarters of the length of the back of the shop. There were a large number of revolvers and rifles displayed about the shop, but all were under lock and key.
I stepped up to the counter and placed the Colt upon the glass top. A small heavyset man with thinning hair and a full neatly trimmed beard walked from a curtained doorway behind the counter. He was grayer than I remembered, but his eyes still twinkled like he got the joke you missed.

“May I help you,” he asked in a slight German accent. “Jonas? Jonas! This is you, is it not?”

“It is,” I said. “How’s your family?”

“They are good. And how are you?” he asked.

“Oddly enough, I’m better.”

“You are not with the Army anymore?” he asked.

“No, I'm not,” I said. “We parted company shortly after...”

“Enough,” he interrupted. “What can I do for you, my friend?”

“I need some ammunition for the Colt here, and I need some modifications made to it. I want to be able to take out a cylinder of spent cartridges and replace it with one that has unspent cartridges. I need to do it quickly.”

I opened up the gun and showed him. Then I handed it to him. He examined it carefully. “This is a nice piece. Hmm, single action. You must cock and pull the trigger to fire the weapon, yet you wish to load it fast?”

He shook his head, then broke the gun down to look at it more carefully.

“There are several ways I can do this, but I think the best would be to break the barrel forward, you could slide the cylinder off, and quickly replace it, bring the barrel up and lock it into place. I have done this before. I could have it ready in a couple of days.”

I took out a hundred dollars, “Could you have it done any sooner?” I asked.

Fritz scratched his head, and I took out my new temporary P.I. license and showed it to him.

“You can check with Lieutenant Sanders at the local precinct; he'll vouch for my being a P.I.”

“Lieutenant Sanders, what do I care from him? You saved my life.”

Fritz reached out and snatched the hundred dollars.

“That and a hundred dollars, gets you ammunition, cylinders, and the weapon ready to be tested this afternoon,” he smiled.

I filled out the work order and handed it back to him. I wasn't too happy about traveling around without a weapon, but I knew if I kept my eyes open, I should be okay. As I started to leave, Fritz asked me to put up the temporarily closed sign and lock the door as I left.
“And leave my bell alone,” he said.

Damn bell.
I wanted to do my shopping, but I decided to see how Betty was getting on at the office and pick up any messages.

There was a locksmith at the door when I arrived. He shifted out of my way as I entered the office, and Betty was getting off the phone. I had two messages, one from the Lieutenant, and one from Mrs. Stanton. Betty silently asked the question.

“Yeah, that Mrs. Stanton,” I said. “I'm looking for her husband. What did she have to say?”

“She arrived in Los Angeles and is staying at the Hollywood Hotel. She wanted to know if you had any news about the case.”

“She sure wants results fast,” I said, “Jeez, I just got the case yesterday.”

This whole thing was surreal to me. I was a bum in a drunk tank less than a week ago. And climbing out of the bay soaked to the skin just the other night, and now I'm a P.I. looking into a missing person's case that may be tied to a murder.

“What did Lieutenant Sanders want?” I asked.

“He called to tell you he appreciated you bringing your weapon down to the precinct so quickly for ballistics. He wants to meet with you after you stop at the National office.”

I looked at the workman.

“He got here fast,” I said. “I can't remember the last time I had someone show up the same morning I called them.”

“It helps that the police have an interest in the place being secure,” she replied.

“Look, when this guy is done, can you find out what bank we do business with? I have some money to deposit, I'm going to need to have signature cards and stuff like that.”

“Okay. I'll also have the locksmith leave a bill,” she said., “We can pay him when we get the new checks.”

My head was beginning to spin, there were a lot of little details to be worked out. Betty seemed to have things well in hand, so I was off to do some shopping at a hardware store, and I was going to need some new clothes, too. Afterward, it was back to Fritz's for my Colt.

The hardware store also had one of those ringing bells. Jeez. If I had to listen to that all day I would go bonkers. I walked about and picked up some tools and a few odds and ends that would let me create a false bottom in one of the armories Also, I wanted to put some detection elements in the apartment. If someone went snooping there, I wanted to know about it. The shopping trip was uneventful, and I headed back to my apartment.

The bottom to the armorer on the right side of the Murphy bed was already distressed, so any additional work I did to make the bottom of the armorer into the top of a secure box was easy to do. I made it deep enough to hold several folders, my Colt, and anything else I wanted to hide. Once I put the floor back in place and pressed it into the frame inside the armorer, there was no indication that anything had been done. I put a similar frame into the bottom of the other armorer and locked it down the same as the one with the false bottom. I check the floors of both, looking for anything that would indicate that I had done anything to them. Anyone tossing the place would miss the hidden box.

I then turned my attention to the front door. I checked out the hallway to be sure nobody was watching and then I hollowed out a couple spots for warning bits; small fragments placed in the hollows would float gently to the floor when the door was opened, and when the door was closed again they would be dispersed by the movement of a closing door. The other warning was clear plastic tape across the lower part of the door. When arriving home, if it wasn't intact then someone would have entered the apartment, and may still be there. I added similar elements to the windows; one problem with garden apartments was that the windows could provide unwanted access to one's apartment.

Once done with my handiwork, I took the tools and other things and deposited them in a rubbish bin some blocks from the apartment.

I had two appointments in the afternoon; the National office and Fritz. Which I did first depended on my clothes shopping.

I headed to a department store in Union Square to see what I could find. I wasn't exactly dressed for success. This suit wasn't mine, and it didn't really fit. I looked over several suits on the rack, I was a thirty-eight regular, so I figured I could find something. The sales clerks avoided me for a bit, so I decided to ask for help. The man closest to me who couldn't get away sighed.

“Yes, sir, can I help you.”

“I'm looking for something off the rack in a thirty-eight regular,” I said.

I reached in and took out my wallet and opened it slightly.
“You do take cash?” I asked.

“Indeed we do, Sir,” he said with more enthusiasm after seeing the bills in my wallet. He proceeded to show me several suits.

By the time I was done, I had two suits, several shirts, socks, underwear, and two pair of shoes. I spent nearly a hundred dollars and the young man gave me a store card with his name and days he worked, in case I needed anything else.

The shopping took longer than I expected, I headed back to my apartment.

My warning devices hadn't been triggered. I looked around and since no one was watching I bent down and removed the tape. I removed my other warning, so it wouldn't leave a false indicator. I opened the door and went in. I quickly put everything away and got dressed for my appointment with National.

I stopped by the office on my way and it was a good thing I did. The locksmith was gone and Betty was just getting back from lunch and was just opening the door as I exited the elevator. She whistled... I didn't know women whistled.

“You clean up real good, Mr. Watcher. I'm glad you stopped by, I have a key for you and a couple of other things.”

We went into the outer office and she pointed to the desk in the inner office. There was a small box on the desk; it was full of business cards: Discrete Investigations, the address, phone number, but no name. She stood in the doorway.

“I hope they’ll do,” she said. “They're blanks that Mickey had on hand. You can get ones with your own name, but it’ll take a couple of days.”

I nodded.

“These are great, they'll do. I have an appointment with a guy at National, a Richard Hart, we can swap lies while we swap cards.”

“A couple more things you need to do. Go to the bank on the corner. They handle small businesses. They will open an account for you with the business name, but you'll need to include your own name. Since Mickey is dead, his accounts are frozen. As best as I can tell, there isn't much in them. Also, a gentleman with a slight German accent called. He said you should come to see him. The work is done. He seemed very pleased with himself.”

“His name is Fritz, and he has every reason to be pleased with himself,” I said.

Betty just nodded. Then she reached into a drawer and pulled out a notebook and a pencil.

“You'll need to take notes with Hart,” she said.

I took the notepad and pencil, put them in my pocket.

"Betty, hiring you was the best decision I have made is a really long time," I said. "I don't suppose I could call you beautiful?"

"Try it in front of my husband," she said with an odd smile.

Since I was spending a lot of time on my feet, I was beginning to appreciate the terms flatfoot and gumshoe. The new shoes I was wearing were rubber-soled. Walking across the wet pavement in San Francisco in leather-soled shoes, I would slip and end up on my ass. The funny things one thinks about while going from one place to another.

It was a short walk to Fritz's. I opened the door to that damn ringing bell. Fritz appeared from behind the curtain.

“Ah, you got my message. Turn the Open sign in the window to Return Shortly and lock the door,” he said.

I did as he requested.

“Please come through, and let me show you what I have done. I think you will be pleased.”

I followed him into the back room. It was a narrow room, with a workbench running the entire length of the room on one side. The room was wide enough for a person to work and another to pass without disturbing him. There were three stools placed at different workstations. Fritz didn't always work alone.

There were small cubby holes above the bench, most holding some form of pistol or rifle broken down in parts. The room smelled of gun oil. There were several cutting and drilling tools on the workbench. There were also boxes under the bench with a lot of different raw materials. At the end of the bench, against the wall, was a bookcase with gun manuals. Fritz could make a gun to order from scratch in here. In front of the bookcase was my Colt with three cylinders. There was a doorway at the end of the room.

“Please get your weapon. Follow me down to the range and we will see if it suits you.”

He reached up into a cubicle and grabbed a box of cartridges and went through the doorway. I followed him and discovered a landing and stairs going down. At the bottom was a door, which he opened and walked through.

I felt a little bit like Alice entering Wonderland. On the other side of the door was a two-lane range with targets at the opposite end. There were cubicles of a sort to stand in, with a bench about chest high to set stuff on. He indicated I should take the right one. There was headgear for ear protection hanging on a nail.

“The room is fairly soundproof but the reverberations can be quite strong. I have tested the gun, so I know it will not blow up in your hand.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that,” I replied.

I checked the gun, it was loaded. I put on the headgear, and Fritz followed suit. I took aim at the simple circle target at the other end of the room, about fifty feet away. I cocked the hammer and pulled the trigger six times in succession. I paused and looked at the gun. It was different this time, the kick was straighter. Maybe it was just the circumstances, but I felt more in control. I slipped off the headgear.

Fritz turned a crank and the target floated back to us. The middle of the target was gone. Fritz tisked and nodded his head.

“You have not lost your skill,” he said. “Where did you train?”
“In the Army,” I said.
“I am sorry,” he said. “A man should learn to shoot to hunt for food or for the sport of target shooting, not to kill other men.”
Fritz replaced the target with a human form target and sent it back down the room. He indicated I give him the gun. I did. He adjusted a small metal piece under the cylinder and the barrel dropped away on a small hinge. He jerked the gun lightly and the cylinder dropped into his hand. He replaced the cylinder with another. He then flipped the barrel back into place with a slight click. He handed the gun to me.
“Now you,” he said.
I repeated the process and it worked just as simply. He handed me another cylinder and indicated that I do it again. It was a simple process that allowed me to reload the gun smoothly. I would get faster with practice.
“Now, you will shoot and do a cylinder switch and shoot again”, he said.
I nodded and slipped on the headgear again. I set the used cylinder on the bench and took aim. I cocked the hammer, pulled the trigger six times, I pressed the metal slip, exchanged cylinders easily, locked the barrel in place and emptied the gun again. The head to the figure on the target was obliterated, and there was a good size hole in the chest. Fritz brought the target forward.
“Do you want this?” he asked indicating the target.
“No,” I said. “You’re right, Fritz. You do excellent work.”
“Naturally,” he said.
We went back upstairs and reopened his shop.
“And how will you carry it?” asked Fritz.
I was standing there holding the Colt in my right hand. Where was I going to conceal it? I couldn't very well walk down the street with a Colt forty-four in my hand. Slipping it into my belt wouldn't work very well.
"I thought about a shoulder holster, but they don't make them for Colt forty-fours," I said.
“I believe I have a solution to your problem,” said Fritz.
He reached under the counter and took out a modified shoulder holster. “Take off your coat, and let us see how this fits you.”
I set the Colt on the counter, slipped off my coat, and placed it on the counter, too. He handed me the holster, and I slipped the straps around my shoulders. The holster hung lower and was loose. Fritz then took a clip that hooked onto the holster and attached it to my belt. The holster was high on my waist, but it was firmly against my side. I picked up the forty-four and slid it into the holster. The leather was stiff, yet held the Colt as if it was made for it.
“You’ve done this before,” I said.
“Of course,” he replied.
I put on my coat, went to the mirror at the end of the counter, and looked at myself. I buttoned and unbuttoned my coat several times. The gun and holster didn't interfere with my movements. As I walked and turned, the gun held tight to my body. I unbuttoned my coat and reached inside and drew the Colt. I wouldn't win any fast-draw contests, but the gun pulled free and I would be able to shoot unobstructed by the coat.
“I'll take it,” I said, “how much?”
“It is included,” he smiled and nodded.
I looked up at the clock. I had more than enough time to make my appointment with Mr. Hart. I thanked Fritz and headed out the door.

Continued...

Chapter 8 - A puzzle With Too Many Missing Pieces