Dragonfire

Twelve

Nightmares plagued my sleep — blood and shadow, guns flashing, Chinese faces leering at me with Cheshire cat smiles out of a dark and bloody sky — and I woke up twice, drenched in sweat. But except for the dull ache in my shoulder, the same paralysis in the arm and hand, I was in fair enough shape in the morning.

I took a couple of the Empirin-and-codeine tablets Abrams had given me, and then brewed some coffee and made myself eat a couple of eggs and a piece of toast. It was a few minutes before nine when I left the flat, wearing the .38 and a different overcoat because the one I’d had on last night was soiled and had a rip in one sleeve. When I got downstairs, I scanned the street through the door glass before I stepped outside. I doubted if Jimmy Quon would come after me again right away, in broad daylight, but I had plenty of reason to be paranoid. I also opened the hood on my car to check the engine, and felt around under the dash when I got inside. For all I knew, Mau Yee was as handy with bombs as he was with his puppies.

Nobody followed me as I drove down to the Marina District; I made sure of that, too. The North Point address Chadwick had given me for Philip Bexley turned out to be a private house near the Palace of Fine Arts. It had been newly painted, and there were a couple of strips of lawn and some flowering shrubs in front. There were also an iron grillwork gate across the porch and grillwork bars over the first-floor windows. Everybody in the city had a reason to be paranoid these days.

I found a place to park a few doors away. In the glove compartment was an envelope with an accumulation of business cards people had given me; I rummaged around in there until I came up with one that said: North Coast Insurance Company — Lloyd Rable, Claims Representative. I put the card into my coat pocket and then got out and locked the car and walked back to the Bexley house.

It took a minute or so for somebody to answer the doorbell. A cold wind, damp with fog, chilled my neck and ears as I waited; I’d forgotten to wear my hat today. When a chain finally rattled inside and the door opened I was looking at the beefy guy I had run into outside the Mid-Pacific offices yesterday. He was wearing a different three-piece suit, expensively cut, and he had a briefcase under one arm.

He remembered me, too; recognition formed a row of frown lines between his eyebrows. I hadn’t expected him to still be home — it was his wife I’d figured to talk to — and the question now was, did he know who I was? He did if he was the man behind Jimmy Quon. Or if he’d seen my photograph in the papers and made the right connection. The other possibility was that Orin Tedescu had mentioned my talk with him, in which case I would have to keep on being Andrew James.

He said, “Yes? What is it?” in a neutral voice.

Go slow, I thought, play it by ear. “Mr. Bexley?”

“That’s right.”

“I saw you yesterday morning, didn’t I? Outside your offices? I was just getting out of the elevator and you were just getting on.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“I’m sorry to have missed you then,” I said. “But I did spend a few minutes with Mr. Tedescu. Perhaps he mentioned me?”

“No, I didn’t go back to the office yesterday. What is it you want?”

That took care of Andrew James. And if Bexley had any idea of my real identity, he wasn’t letting on; which might mean he was willing to play games, to see what I was up to. So I said, “My name is Lloyd Rable,” and took the business card out of my pocket and handed it to him through the gate. “North Coast Insurance.”

He looked at the card, still frowning. The bars made it seem as though one of us was in a cage. At length he put his eyes on me again; the only expression in them was one of polite disinterest. “I’m not in the market for any insurance,” he said.

I gave him a toothy smile. “No, no, that’s not why I’m here. I’m a staff investigator, not a sales agent. The head of your company, Mr. Emerson, has applied for a rather large policy with us. He gave your name as one of his references. I’d like to ask you a few questions about him, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“What sort of questions?”

“Oh, on his background, habits, financial status, things like that. Mostly for purposes of confirming data he supplied on his application. It’s standard procedure when an individual applies for a substantial policy.”

“Well... I was just on my way to the office. I’m already late as it is.”

“I won’t take up much of your time, Mr. Bexley. And it would save my having to bother you again later on.”

He thought it over. Or seemed to. Pretty soon he shrugged and said, “All right. I guess I can give you ten minutes.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

Bexley unlocked the gate and showed me into a spacious living room outfitted with blond furniture and at least three dozen house plants that gave the room a greenhouse atmosphere. Somewhere at the rear of the house, kids were making noise. A woman’s voice yelled at them to be quiet. I sat down on the couch, and while I was getting out my notebook the woman appeared in a doorway. She was blond like the furniture, attractive in a gaunt way, wearing a pink housecoat and fuzzy pink mules.

“Who is it, Phil?” she asked.

“This is Mr. Rable,” Bexley told her, gesturing toward me. “He’s an insurance investigator. He wants to ask me some questions about Carl.”

“Oh,” she said, “Carl,” and her mouth got a little pinched at the corners. “Is he in some sort of trouble, I hope?”

“No. He just applied for some insurance, that’s all.”

The woman looked disappointed. “I’m sorry to hear that. If he was in trouble, it would have made my day.”

“Linda,” Bexley said sharply, “why don’t you go do something about those boys? It sounds like they’re tearing up the bedroom back there.”

“They’re just playing—”

“I don’t care what they’re doing. Get them quieted down, will you?”

She made a face and muttered something I didn’t catch; but she went away. Bexley sat in an armchair across from me. There was a cut-glass cigarette box on the table next to him; he got a filtertip out of there and lit it with a table lighter.

I said, “Your wife doesn’t seem to care much for Mr. Emerson.”

“I guess she doesn’t.”

“May I ask why?”

“Personal reasons.”

“Do you feel the same way?”

“Carl and I get along all right.”

“Would you consider him a friend?”

“Not really. A business associate.”

“How long have you known him?”

“Six years. He was with Honeywell when I went to work there; that’s how we met.”

“How would you describe him generally?”

“High-powered,” Bexley said without hesitation. There were traces of bitterness in his voice, just as there had been in Orin Tedescu’s yesterday. “When he makes up his mind to do something he goes out and does it. On his terms. He doesn’t let anything or anybody stand in his way.”

“That sounds as though he might be a little unscrupulous.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. He—”

The woman’s voice rose again from the rear bedroom. One of the kids quit yelling, but the other one kept it up in an argumentative way. Then he broke off and let out a howl, as if the woman had smacked him one, and began to cry noisily.

Bexley winced. “Kids,” he said. “You have any?”

“No. I’m not married.”

“They get on your nerves sometimes.” He made a meaningless gesture with his cigarette. “What was I saying?”

“That you wouldn’t call Mr. Emerson unscrupulous.”

“No, I wouldn’t. Not exactly. I don’t want you to get the wrong impression; he hasn’t done anything unethical in building up our firm. Mid-Pacific is aboveboard in every way, Mr. Rable. Orin Tedescu and I see to that.”

“Meaning Mr. Emerson might do something unethical if you weren’t around?”

“No, I don’t want to imply that either.”

I made a couple of squiggles in the notebook, just for show. Bexley watched me write with the book balanced on one knee, and when I looked up again he asked, “What happened to your arm?”

“An accident.”

“Car accident?”

“Yes. Even insurance investigators have them now and then.”

He smiled sympathetically. “Must be difficult, trying to do things with one hand.”

“It is,” I said. “Can you tell me if Mr. Emerson has ever been in trouble?”

“Trouble? You mean with the law?”

“With anyone at all.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Lawsuits, anything like that?”

“No.”

“What about his personal life?”

A little boy about five or six came running into the room; his face was scrunched up, wet with tears. “Daddy, she hit me!” he wailed. “Mommy hit me!”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Bexley said. He glanced at me, said, “Excuse me a second, will you?” and got up and scooped the little boy into his arms and carried him out of the room.

I looked around at the potted plants. It’s not Bexley, I thought. He wasn’t putting on an act for my benefit; the things he’d said so far, the domestic stuff, had the feel of authenticity. Unless I was losing my sense of judgment, he was just a guy with a wife and a couple of kids and a thinly veiled dislike for one of his business partners.

I listened to muffled voices and then silence as the little boy stopped crying. Bexley came back and sat down again and said, “Sorry about that. I had to play peacemaker.”

“No problem.”

He lit another cigarette; he’d got rid of the other one while he was out of the room. “You were asking me about Carl’s personal life, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m not sure I ought to talk about that. He wouldn’t like it if he found out.”

“He won’t find out, Mr. Bexley. These interviews are strictly confidential.”

“Yes? Do you mind telling me if Mr. Tedescu talked freely when you interviewed him?”

“He was very cooperative, yes.”

“I’ll bet.” Bexley’s mouth quirked into a sardonic smile. “I’m surprised Carl listed him as a reference.”

“Why is that?”

“They’ve had their differences in the past.”

“Over business matters?”

“Primarily.”

“Would you care to elaborate?”

“I’d rather not. It doesn’t have anything to do with what we’re discussing here.” He paused. “Just what sort of policy did Carl apply for, anyway? Life insurance?”

“Yes. Property insurance as well, on his home in Burlingame.”

“May I ask who’s the beneficiary on the life policy?”

“I’m not at liberty to divulge that.”

“Sorry. I was just curious. Carl doesn’t have any relatives, and it certainly wouldn’t be Tedescu or me. Or his ex-wife.”

“Do you know his ex-wife?”

“Just to talk to. I haven’t seen her since the divorce.”

“What was the reason for it? The divorce, I mean.”

He shrugged. “Carl never said. But it wasn’t an amicable split, I can tell you that. Not the way he acted after it happened.”

“How did he act?”

“Oh, angry and upset. The divorce was her idea, not his; he didn’t seem to want it.”

I nodded. “How would you characterize Mr. Emerson’s present life-style?”

“I really can’t answer that question.”

“No? Why is that?”

“He keeps his private life pretty much to himself.”

“You don’t socialize with him?”

“No. An occasional business dinner, that’s about it. We’ve never been to his house, he’s never been to ours. As I said before, my relationship with him is strictly business.”

“I see.”

“Yes,” Bexley said.

“Can you tell me anything at all about his habits?”

“What do you mean by habits?”

“Well... does he use drugs, for instance?”

“Why do you want to know that?”

“Drug users are health risks,” I said.

“Really?” Bexley said, as if he didn’t believe it. “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if he smokes a little grass. Who doesn’t, these days?”

I didn’t. But I said, “Hard drugs of any kind?”

“Not that I know of.”

“How about women?”

“Women? You mean is he a swinger?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose he gets his share. But he doesn’t talk much about it.”

“Is there any vice he might have that he does talk about?”

“Just one. And not much about that, either.”

“What would that be?”

“Gambling,” Bexley said. “It’s a big passion with him.”

I sat up a little straighter. “What sort of gambling?”

“You name it. Horses, football games, blackjack, craps. And poker — especially poker.”

“Does he play for high stakes?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. He usually wins, too. Or he does to hear him tell it.”

“Is there any place in particular he goes for poker?”

“Las Vegas. Three or four times a year.”

“How about here in the city?”

“None that he’s ever mentioned.”

There it is, I thought, the possible connection. Carl Emerson is a heavy gambler; Lee Chuck runs a gambling parlor for the Hui Sip tong; Jimmy Quon is a body-washer for Hui Sip. But Emerson was a Caucasian, and those Chinatown parlors were generally reserved for Chinese gamblers. How would Emerson get in on high-stakes games at Lee Chuck’s? Why would he want to, given the fact that there were plenty of other gambling spots in San Francisco?

I could not think of a way to pump more information out of Bexley without making him suspicious. And I didn’t want to blow my cover; Bexley may not have liked Emerson much, but if he realized I wasn’t who I said I was, it might drive him straight to his partner to find out what was going on. If Emerson was the man behind Jimmy Quon, I did not want him to know I was on to him. There were others who might be able to tell me if Emerson and Lee Chuck were connected. Kam Fong, for one. Emerson’s ex-wife, for another.

I said, “Has Mr. Emerson ever lost enough gambling to put him in financial difficulty?”

“If he has, he’s kept it to himself.”

“Then as far as you know, he’s financially solvent?”

“As far as I know. That ranch he bought up in Mendocino County didn’t come cheap.”

“Ranch?”

“You don’t know about that?”

“No. There was no mention of it on his application.”

“Place called Seaview Ranch, somewhere near Mendocino. The village, I mean. Carl bought it about six months ago — his weekend retreat, so he says.”

“An expensive piece of property?”

“I don’t know what he paid for it, but you can’t buy real estate anywhere in California these days without shelling out a good piece of change for it.”

“True enough. Is there anything else you can tell me about Mr. Emerson that my company ought to know?”

“I can’t think of anything, no.” Bexley consulted his watch. “I have an appointment at eleven; I can just make it if I leave now. If you don’t have any more questions, Mr. Rable...”

“I think that’s about it,” I said. I put the notebook and pen away, and when I stood up Bexley did the same.

He said, “I’d like to ask you a question.”

“Go right ahead.”

“Are Carl’s policy applications going to go through?”

“That’s not up to me. I’m just a field investigator.”

“But you do recommend acceptance or denial?”

“In some cases, yes.”

“What I’ve just told you... will it have a bearing on your recommendation in this case?”

“It might. I still have other people to see.”

“Well, I hope I’ve been of some help,” he said.

“You have, and I appreciate it.”

“My pleasure.” He smiled at me. There was a kind of satisfaction in the smile, as if he thought maybe he’d said enough to turn me against Emerson and the prospect pleased him. “If you’ll just wait while I say good-bye to my wife, I’ll walk out with you.”

“Fine.”

He disappeared again into the back of the house, and after a moment I heard him talking to Mrs. Bexley. The North Coast Insurance card was on the table next to his armchair, where he’d put it when he sat down; I moved over there and picked it up and slipped it into my pocket. I was standing by the door when Bexley returned. He didn’t even look at the table as he caught up his briefcase.

Outside, he shook my hand and gave me another smile before he went to open his garage. He was in a much better mood than when I’d arrived. I may not have made his wife’s day, but I had sure made Bexley’s.

Now, I thought as I walked to my car, let’s see if somebody can make mine.