I thanked the jeweller, tipped my hat to his assistant, and made my thoughtful way back to the hotel. Once there, a borrowed ferry schedule, the telephone, and a handful of shag tobacco provided me with a modicum of light in the darkness and a plan of action for the afternoon.
The next problem facing me was that of impersonating an officer.
THE telephone on the desk beside her interrupted Kate’s reading. She fumbled for the receiver, her eyes still on the page, until the voice at the other end had her removing her heels from the out-pulled desk drawer and sitting upright.
“Yes, Mr. Nicholson. How are you today?”
“Enjoying the stationary life, thank you. Have you had a chance to look at the story?”
“I’m about halfway through it.”
“Then I won’t spoil it for you by telling you the end.”
“Okay.”
“However, it occurred to me this morning that, tired as I was yesterday, I failed to give you any of its background information. Of course, I haven’t written the report Philip asked me for, having not seen the actual manuscript yet, but my preliminary judgment would probably have weighed against a Conan Doyle authorship. For one thing, Doyle wrote only two other Holmes stories as narrated by Holmes in the first person—all the others were narrated by Watson, or in one case a third-person narrative. Second, a point which carries considerably more weight, Conan Doyle absolutely did not write about sex. Or if he was required to for the sake of the story, it would be heavily couched in Victorian terms—this particular story may have been written in the Twenties, but Conan Doyle was, birth to death, a Victorian gentleman. The idea of this particular man writing openly about transvestite singers and gay relationships would be, to say the least, startling. And absolutely unique in the canon.”
“So someone else wrote it.”
“Either that, or the story provides a hitherto unsuspected side of the man. You may or may not be aware that the Victorians were very fond of erotica, but they kept it well hidden, and written anonymously or pseudonymously. I have never come across the faintest breath of a suggestion that Conan Doyle wrote any.”
“And if he did?” She couldn’t quite see where he was going with his insistence.
“If this were to be verified as a Conan Doyle story, it would change the face of the Holmesian scholarship. And incidentally, it would be worth a fortune.”
Now, there was a point she could grasp.
“Well, the original is safe in the bank, in any case.”
“Good. Give me a ring when you’ve finished it.”
“I will.”
Inspector Martinelli went back to her reading.
NINE
The next problem facing me was that of impersonating an officer.
I had done it in the past, of course, any number of times. However, my present age made appearing as anything short of a high-ranking officer unlikely, and the irritatingly instantaneous communication offered by the telephone made exposing my ruse all too easy.
Instead, I decided that the appearance of a dignified and persistent legal person, formerly of the officer class, might be equally effective. I considered a car and driver, decided that the measure of verisimilitude they might offer was not worth the inconvenience of being tied to them, and turned to my storage trunks to assemble a legal personage: intimidatingly formal if slightly out-of-date suit, golden pince-nez, and much-used leather despatch case. This last necessitated a trawl through the pawn shops in the vicinity of the Flood Building, in the third of which I uncovered the one-time possessions of a failed stock-broker. Adding a tightly furled black umbrella borrowed from the doorman, I inserted myself with dignity through the doors of a taxi and directed the driver to the Ferry Building.
San Francisco, that key portal to the western United States, is guarded by no less than nine forts: North of the Golden Gate, the gap through which the sea ebbs and flows, lie Cronkhite, Barry, and Baker; McDowell stands on an island in the Bay; Mason, Scott, and Miley form the Presidio along the city’s northern shore; with Funston down the coast a distance with the longer-range guns. This is in addition to Alcatraz Island, currently a federal prison, and the distant guns at Milagra Ridge even further down the peninsula.
An embarrassment of riches when it came to hunting for one lone soldier who may or may not be a junior officer.
However, this Cinderella soldier had tended to scurry off before his coach turned into a pumpkin--or rather, before he was stranded on the wrong side of his day’s duties. The Army launch would serve for ordinary business, but for Raynor’s no doubt clandestine activities, the anonymity of the ferry might have better suited him. A printed schedule obtained from the hotel clerk informed me that my last opportunity for a ferry to Sausalito, the town nearest those forts north of the city, departed at 1:30 in the morning, precisely correct for a man having to hurry away from his musical entertainments just before the strike of one. I thought a destination of Fort McDowell unlikely since, being an island, McDowell would have involved Raynor in further transportation beyond Sausalito; this left the contiguous forts of Baker, Barry, and Cronkhite.
Fort Baker, occupying the sheltered eastern stretch of the south-facing peninsula called Marin, was closest to the ferry’s landing. And according to my most reliable local informant, a boot-black who plied his trade around the corner from the hotel, Baker was the most active of the three northern forts. This was only sensible, that those fortifications facing the sea should come into their own in times of war, but be allowed to rest during the peace.
It was nearing three o’clock when a taxi hired from the Sausalito dock delivered me to the gates of Fort Baker. I informed the guard that I needed to speak with the commander, who proved to be a Major Morris. It was not, of course, as easy as all that, but persistence, coupled with my accent, clothing, and grey head, eventually had me in the presence of a large man with jutting iron-grey eyebrows and a body showing the strain of desk work.
‘I don’t have much time,’ the major began by telling me. ‘I have an inspection at four, you should have made an appointment.’ He transferred some papers from one side of his desk to the other, to illustrate how extremely busy he was.
‘Had I telephoned for an appointment, you would have given it me next week. And had you seen me when first I entered your offices, we might have been finished by now. I am looking for a man under your command by the name of Jack Raynor.’
‘You and half the post,’ he snapped.
The phrase was sufficiently colloquial that I thought it advisable to clarify his meaning. ‘Am I to understand that Mr Raynor is absent without leave?’
‘You are indeed. Lieutenant Raynor is officially absent without leave, taken off with some floozy no doubt. I tell you, mister, this is a hell of a place to command. Much easier out in the middle of nowhere, the boys have nothing to tempt them away.’
This time, I perceived a trace of actual concern beneath the bluster, and thought it time to ingratiate myself into the major’s affections. With a wry smile on my face, I told him, ‘I can understand that. My last command was surrounded by nothing but sand and rats, and any discipline problems we had were due to boredom rather than opportunity.’
He perked right up at that, as I had anticipated. ‘What command was that?’
The regiment to which I claimed allegiance had in fact served in South Africa, although so far as I know, it had never possessed a young officer by the name of Sigerson. Still, anecdotes about inadequate arms, wretched food, and wily enemy action bring a bond to such men, and Morris was feeling considerably more beneficent towards the one-time English captain before him when I worked our conversation back to his missing lieutenant.
I arranged a look of sympathy on my face and leant forward to reinforce it. ‘Has Lieutenant Raynor pulled a disappearing act before this?’ Now that I had Jack Raynor’s proper rank, I took care to pronounce it in the American style, so as not to distract my informant.
‘Raynor? He hasn’t been w
ith us all that long, but I’ve never had cause to reprimand him. Lately he’s looked a little the worse for wear some mornings, but he’s never so much as reported late, far less failed to appear entirely.’
‘Why do you suppose he has seemed, er, “the worse for wear”?’
‘Why do you think?’ he answered with a snort. ‘Good-looking young officer, a little money behind him, he’s a catch. I figured he’d get tired of the hours pretty soon and either drop her or marry her.’
I did not inform the major that the lady in question and the lady to marry might comprise two separate problems.
‘You say he hasn’t long been under your command?’
The major fixed me with a curious look. ‘I thought you were the family lawyer?’
‘I represent the family lawyer, who did not feel the matter required his personal presence. I was charged simply with the delivery of certain papers, which did not at the time appear to necessitate a knowledge of Raynor’s history.’
‘Not enough to bring the big man himself from Minneapolis, eh? Or was it St Paul?’
‘The firm has offices in both cities,’ I replied equably.
‘Right. Well, Raynor’s only been here going on three months. He was in Manila, but came down with the malaria and the medics said if he didn’t get himself into a cooler climate for a while, he’d be a goner. So they transferred him to the Presidio, and since he wasn’t good for much, they sent him to me. Not that I needed another young officer, especially one who’s not up to much, but Barry--you know Fort Barry, just to the west along the headlands? Barry’s on caretaker status, with just a detail to keep an eye on things--pretty boring station, so we keep it turned over fairly regularly. There’s really just a handful of men, and sometimes there’s just a non-com in charge, although at the moment I’ve got a young lieutenant over there. When Raynor came, I sent him over there, mostly to get him out from under my feet--last thing I needed was an invalid lieutenant to nurse. And I figured Raynor could keep the other young man company. Once Raynor was back on his feet, I thought I’d bring him back over here and let him do some work. Now that he’s getting his health back, Raynor’s shown signs of being a good officer. The men like him, he fits in well with the other officers, no problems. Until this.’
‘When was he last seen?’
‘Friday. Five days ago--another two days and he’s going on the books as a desertion, and he’s in big trouble. He led a detail to service Battery Wallace, supervised the shooting range in the afternoon, came back here to Baker to lead a night-time manoeuvre, and the next day he was missing.’
‘Did he take any possessions with him?’
‘His clothes are still in his rooms, but who knows what else he had?’
‘There might be one thing to indicate whether he planned to be away for good,’ I suggested. ‘I happened to be shown a letter he wrote some time ago, from Manila, which referred to a number of pearls that he’d bought to have made into jewellery for various family members. If we looked in his rooms and found them, that would be fairly definitive indication of an accidental absence.’
The major thought this over for a minute, and nodded. He opened his mouth to summon his adjutant outside the door, then changed his mind. Instead, he opened a drawer in the desk and came out with a formidable ring of keys, stood and set his cap on his head, and told me, ‘I’ll do this myself. I’ll be back in a few minutes.’
I, however, was standing as well. ‘I can come with you, see if anything catches my eye. I will give you my promise that I will touch nothing, if you like. The family will want to know,’ I added. I intended to see the inside of the young officer’s rooms, even if it meant breaking into an Army base at midnight.
Such a venture proved unnecessary, for the major only hesitated a moment before deciding that a fellow officer could be trusted that far, and shouted for his car.
The major, it seemed, preferred to motor under his own power rather than use the driver that rank might have expected. No sooner were we away from the parade ground than I began to wish him more concerned with appearance than the art of motoring. Major Morris was a terror behind the wheel, one of those men who can scarcely bear to glance at the road ahead, and instead peers to either side, into his passenger’s face, and even around to the back window. I clung to the front and attempted to empty my mind of all thought.
The road to the neighbouring fort was steep, but brief, and cut through the intervening hills in a distressingly long and narrow tunnel which was in a condition my younger associates might term ‘dodgy’. It couldn’t have been more than eight or ten years old, but the massive timbers making up its damp walls and ceiling looked as soft as old bed sheets, and when the major had to shift into a lower gear with the gradient, I expected the sound to shake the walls down onto our heads. I came closer to prayer than I have at any time since I gave up the habit as a schoolboy.
After a small eternity, blessed daylight opened up around us, and I peeled my fingers out from the dents on the dash-board and reminded myself to breathe.
The fort on the other side of the tunnel was a collection of buildings overlooking a long, narrow lagoon. It was an attractive setting, but appeared nearly deserted, as I saw only two men in uniform between the tunnel’s mouth and the apparent centre of the fort. We passed the chapel and pulled to a stop--adding a large dent to the smaller ones in the dash-board, as the major’s use of the brake was as vigorous as might be expected. I lowered myself to solid ground and followed him up the steps into the officer’s housing.
‘This is a duplex,’ he informed me. ‘Raynor’s got the west half, Lieutenant Halston the other. The house-boy lives in the back.’
Raynor’s quarters had the methodical tidiness of an experienced soldier, with everything in its place and, apart from the furniture, capable of being packed up in an hour. The books on his shelves were the usual--Thackeray, Defoe, Hugo, two poetry collections--although the recordings stacked neatly by the Victrola were more classical than the Jazz I might have expected. Some of them I owned myself.
His most personal effects were a small, intricately worked Chinese carpet on the floor between his armchair and the fireplace, its thick pile depicting a lively and colourful twisting dragon, and three similarly intricate carvings on the table beside his armchair, each a different form of dragon. The smallest was of age-darkened ivory, no bigger than a chestnut, the creature turned back on itself and with features picked out by a knife-blade like the point of a needle. The next was of a lustrous jade the colour of the ocean across the next ridge, grey tinting the green and giving it a depth and mystery. This dragon was simpler, but muscular, if that word can be used to describe a thing that would fit into a fist.
The third dragon was of some tropical wood, a glossy dark substance almost without texture. The seven-inch-high creature was sitting on its haunches like a begging lap-dog, its tail curled around its rear legs and both small fore-legs in the air. It was the sort of thing an amateur critic would instantly dismiss as rough and whimsical, but in fact, the eye kept returning to it, for behind the whimsy the dragon gave off an air of watchful deliberation, and the roughness of the carving was of a kind with the rough surface of a master Japanese potter. A curious object, all the more so to find it in the establishment of a junior Army officer.
I pulled myself away from Raynor’s collection of dragons and turned to the man’s desk, but before I had done more than open a drawer, Major Morris came upon the small velvet bag of pearls. It was in the first place he looked, the bottom of his lieutenant’s sea bag. ‘They always hide things in their travelling kit,’ he mused, the black bag pulled open on his palm, but his mind was clearly taken up with the implications of the pearls rather than the habits of young soldiers. ‘If he left them here…’
‘Then he did not intend to be gone,’ I finished his sentence for him, equally preoccupied with the scrap of paper in my own hand. (I had not actually promised to touch nothing, merely said that I would make such a promise if he ha
d asked. He had not.) ‘Do you know a man whose name begins with DuM? The “M” is a capital letter, so perhaps DuMons, DuMont, something of the sort?’
‘No,’ he said, pulling the strings shut on the bag. Then he added, ‘There’s DuMaurier, but that’s not a man, it’s a battery. Was a battery, I should say.’
‘It is no longer?’ I asked, but he was already set on his historical lecture.
‘The emplacements are all named for Army men. DuMaurier was a captain who led a daring raid against Fort Sumter in the Civil War. DuMaurier is one of the older emplacements, although the gun itself was pulled out in 1917 and sent to France. Probably melted down by now and being used to tin peaches. Anyway, turns out there’s no point in having a gun you can see from the air, not any more. Airplanes are changing everything.’
‘Quite.’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because he’s made a note here, “DuM 2:00”.’
The major dropped his find back in the duffel bag and came to look at the paper in my hand. He scowled at it, then at me, for the paper I held had nothing written on it, but then, I’d had more practice than most in the art of reading pencil indentations pressed from one sheet to another. I had needed only the light through the window, but for the major, I took a pencil from the desk drawer and gently rubbed at the sheet until the letters appeared.
He raised one of those bushy eye-brows, and without another word walked to Raynor’s door. I hesitated, my fingers yearning after the envelopes that lay so tantalising in the drawer behind the pencils, but Morris was standing there waiting. I closed the drawer reluctantly and wondered again about the difficulties of a night-time raid on Army grounds. I was glad to see him turn the key in the door behind us.
As he marched down the steps of Raynor’s ‘duplex’ the major spotted a callow uniform approaching, and raised his voice in that effortless parade-ground bellow of the career soldier.