Chapter 9
What It's Like To Play The Palace
I headed into the office and grabbed Hart’s reports. I wanted a closer look. Betty left coffee on the hot plate, so I poured myself a cup and turned off the plate. The coffee smelled good and, surprisingly, tasted liked it smelled. The mail consisted mostly of advertising, bills, and...
I opened the reports and settled behind the desk in the cushy chair. Most of their contents went over my head, but Hart's notes were very complete, and by the time I had gotten to the end I had an interesting picture of Martin Stanton's movements, and while some things didn't add up, one thing was for sure. Martin Stanton died in New Orleans.
There was a knock at the door, and I got up to answer it, using my left hand to open the door while having my right hand on the butt of my Colt. In the course of the last twenty-four hours, it had gone from being someone else's gun in a running bag to being mine. It was Lieutenant Sanders at the door. He peered at me cautiously.
“You expecting unwanted company?” he asked.
“No, just being cautious,” I replied.
I closed and locked the door behind him. He looked back at the door and shrugged. I invited him into my office and offered him a cup of coffee. He accepted. I sat down behind the desk and he took a client chair and put his feet up on the desk.
“You've been busy today,” he said.
“Picked up some clothes, had my Colt worked on, hired a receptionist, talked to Richard Hart, got the mail, and determined Martin Stanton is dead. My best guess is he was killed in New Orleans.”
Sanders stopped in a mid-sip of his coffee, he didn't seem too surprised, but he wanted more information.
“Two questions, Sherlock. What did you do to the Colt? And just how the hell did you come to the conclusion that Stanton is dead?”
I figured Sanders was more interested in how I deduced Stanton was dead. I answered his first question before I went over Hart's report.
I took out the Colt and showed him how it opened. I removed the cylinder, then I put it back, and closed the gun. I handed it across the desk butt first. Sanders took it, he slipped out the cartridges one by one and put them on the desk. He twirled it a couple of times. He opened the gun and pulled off the cylinder. He looked at the gun, carefully examining Fritz's workmanship. He smiled, reloaded it, and handed it back to me.
“No loss of balance, and quick to reload. Not bad. How the hell did you determine Stanton is dead. Is there any proof?” he asked.
“No proof as of yet,” I said. “Hart is an impressive forensic accountant. He was able to show Stanton traveling from New York to Miami. And according to his notes, Stanton was preparing to leave the country, but something changed his mind and he headed for St. Louis”
“I thought he went to New Orleans?”
“That’s what the report from National said. If you remember, Mrs. Stanton had no direct contact with Martin in person after Miami.”
I paused, leaned back in my chair, and put my feet on the desk. I interlaced my fingers behind my head and continued.
“All Stanton’s contact was with William Mason or Sam Parrish. The same William Mason who was recently hired by Mickey Philips.”
“How did you put all this together?" asked the Lieutenant. "A couple of days ago you were a drunk on the wharf.”
“My job as an MP was in investigations. While we were trying to extricate ourselves from Europe after the war, some people were looking to make a killing off the confusion of what was going on. My job was to minimize it. When I mustered out, there was a depression going on, and at the time the only people looking for someone with my talents, I didn't want to work for. Let's leave it at that.”
“And now?” he asked.
“Survival,” I replied. “I got knocked into the bay and was lucky not to have drowned. I have a strange feeling that my ending up here was not in someone's master plan.”
The Lieutenant took his feet off the desk and stood up and I joined him.
“I figure that either you're full of it or you're on the level,” said the Lieutenant. “To be honest, I don't care which. I wasn't a big fan of Philips. He was a little bent, with just enough integrity. He was a good resource, but he didn't deserve being killed in Sacramento.
“Keep digging, Watcher,” said the Lieutenant, then he laughed. “Just remember, I'm watching you. I'll lock up on my way out.”
The Lieutenant left, and I stayed in my office for a couple of minutes, then I checked the outer door. He did lock it. So far, so good.
The phone rang and I went to answer it. Mrs. Stanton.
“Hello, Mrs. Stanton,” I said after she identified herself. “If you are looking for an update, why don't you drop by the office tomorrow, and...”
“No, no, Mr. Watcher, I actually need your services tonight,” she said.
“Tonight?”
“Yes. I am to attend an artist showing at The Palace in the main room, I cannot arrive unattended, and Joseph simply will not do. There is a buffet, and you only need to be near in case I need rescuing from anyone really boring. Please, Mr. Watcher, you can update me during lulls in the showing.”
I actually had ulterior motives in going to The Palace, so I told Mrs. Stanton that I would be there in about an hour. That was fine with her.
“I hope it’s just jacket and trousers,” I said, “I won't have time to change to black tie.”
“That is fine, Mr. Watcher, I will see you in an hour.”
“The Palace was fifteen minutes away, and I wanted to do some reconnaissance before I escorted her to the art showing.”
I collected some photos from the National report that I wanted to show to some people. Something still bothered me about the whole Stanton case. There were too many unknowns and the more I learned, the more they seemed to multiply. I didn't remember cases in Europe getting this complicated unless someone was deliberately making them so.
I checked the Colt and dropped the extra cylinders into my jacket pocket. It seemed silly, but usually, when I figured things were going to be quiet, it's just the opposite. I wanted to be prepared. As I left, I turned out the lights and double-checked that the door was locked. I took the elevator down with my coat unbuttoned. As I exited the lobby, I buttoned my coat and felt a little foolish as I stepped out on to the sidewalk. After a couple of moments, I was able to hail a cab. I climbed in, telling the driver to take me to The Palace.
A habit I picked up in Europe was to watch the rear-view mirror for a couple of minutes after I got in a cab. It was so automatic that I almost ignored the car that pulled out from the curb, right after my cab did. I decided to check if I was being paranoid.
“Driver, there’s a newsstand just up the way here, on the right. Would you stop while I pick up a paper?”
“Sure, Mac,” he said.
We pulled over and I got out. I paused, deciding which paper to pick up. I turned and looked up as if I had heard something. Whoever he was, tailing someone wasn't one of his skills. I picked up a paper, paid for it. I got back into the cab and told the driver to continue to The Palace. He did.
After a minute or so, the cabbie spoke up. “Hey, Mac, you know we're being followed?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“You want me to lose him?” he asked.
“Nah. Actually do your best not to lose him. Don't let him know we're on to him.”
“You got it, Mac.”
The San Francisco traffic was fairly light, and the cabbie paced himself so that the car following us was able to stay up through lights. I didn't want to look back to let my tail know I was on to him.
“Can you keep an eye out and give me any information about the person following me?” I asked.
“People,” he said. “There are two of 'em. Driving a black Buick. They both smoke.”
Clearly, the cabbie had done this sort of thing before. As he drove he kept his calm. Driving through San Francisco streets is no small task, especially while giving me a running description when he had any new information.
The men were in trench coats and they both wore hats. The basic body type was average on both of them. By the time my cab pulled up to The Palace, I had pretty good descriptions of my shadows.
I got out. My tail hung back. I paid through the front passenger window, so I could get a better look. I gave the cabbie a generous tip and my card and asked him to call me. I also got his card and cab information, so I could ask for him specifically.
“Unless this is not something you want to go through again.”
The cabbie smiled, “Are you kidding, this is the best ride I've had in some time. You tip real good, too. You need a cab, you call and ask for Max.”
I stood up and smiled. The Buick pulled past and the driver was clearly looking for a place to park. They were not going away. I continued to be the bait and I was slow in going into the lobby. I was worried because my two tails were still looking for a parking place, then one of them finally figured out that they could separate. I hoped I hadn't been too obvious about knowing they were following me.
I stayed at the center of the lobby, looking as if I was trying to get my bearings. It wasn't too difficult because I was. Towards the back and off to the side was as very elegant shoe shine stan with a canopy next to a barbershop. It was an excellent place to keep an eye on who came into the lobby. I was a half-hour early for my “date” with Mrs. Stanton. I'd observe as much as I could about my two admirers before meeting up with her.
I headed for the shoeshine stand. It was much more than just a stand. There were three raised overstuffed seats in a wooden mahogany base that stood next to the door of the hotel barbershop. That isn't an apt description either. A black man in a kind of footman uniform bearing the Palace emblem was finishing up with a man's shoes. The man paid and stepped down.
“Do I need an appointment?” I asked.
The black man stood up and grinned at me. “No Suh, you do not. Not with Billie Whitehall,” he said in a rich Jamaican accent. “Step on up and get a shine.”
I climbed up and took a seat. It would better be described as a lounge chair. I placed my feet onto the footrests and sat back.
“Give me your best shine,” I said.
Billie gave a small twist of his head and looked at me closely. “That is some weight you’re packing, sir. Do I need to be concerned about anything?” he asked, his rich accent softened considerably.
“Weight?” I asked.
“If you don't mind me saying, the bulge that is sitting at your side. It ain't no thirty-two or thirty-eight. I make at least a forty-four.”
Billie continued his shine without missing a beat.
I sat holding a paper as if I was casually looking at it while I kept an eye on the main lobby door. “I have a license,” I said. “To answer your question, everything should be cool for now.”
“Yeah, but you keep watching that door as if you're expecting someone.”
I looked down at Billie Whitehall and suddenly realized he could be a major asset. “Billie, would you be interested in a proposition?”
“I don't mix in anything illegal, or that might get me shot. Promised the Missus.”
“Actually, I don't want you to do anything you don't normally do. Just keep your eyes and ears open, and upon occasion collect information for me.”
“I gotta go anywhere?” he asked.
“Nope, just stay here, shine shoes, and if anything odd occurs, let me know.”
“An' what is this worth to you?”
“Twenty a week, every week rain or shine,” I said
“Just who are you?”
"I'm a private investigator."
“You the man who took out Perfume Eddie,” said Billie as he straightened up a bit.
I looked surprised.
“San Francisco is a small city,” he said.
“Is that a problem?” I asked
Billie laughed, “No Suh, you performed a public service, but it took some skill to take him out, he wasn't no slouch. And that is a forty-four you’re packing. Why you want me?”
“You're invisible, Billie, I mean no disrespect. All service people are invisible. You're a part of the furniture, you can listen while doing your job and people ignore you.”
“They do that.”
“You interested?”
“When do I start?” he asked.
He snapped the cloth he was buffing my shoes with and straightened up. My two tails entered the lobby and I casually pointed them out.
“I picked them up outside my office. Just let me know where they are when I return. I have an engagement with Mrs. Stanton,” I said.
Billie whistled, “That's nice work. You escortin’ her to the Art shindig in the Grand Ballroom?”
“I guess I am,” I said.
I handed him a little over twenty bucks and said it was his retainer, plus the shoeshine.
“It will be nice working for you, uh…”
“Watcher, Jonas Watcher,” I said as I slipped him my card along with the money. Billie nodded and waited for another patron.
