Hammett

15

Brass Mouth Epstein didn’t run to front. His second-floor office at 35 Powell Street was small, crowded by a big golden oak rolltop and a couple of massive fumed oak chairs with brown Spanish-grained leather upholstery. The three unwindowed walls were outfitted with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with dark-bound lawbooks in enough disarray to suggest use, not show.

Epstein was on his feet behind the desk, taking in Hammett with shrewd sparrow eyes. He was a small dark man in a brown suit to match his eyes; a gold watch chain glinted across his spare belly. His big nose dominated the other features.

‘Take off your coat, Mr Hawkins. Heat builds up here, afternoons.’

Hammett nodded his thanks and draped his overcoat across the back of one of the leather chairs. He sat down in the other. Beside the desk, within reach of both men, was a walnut smoking stand with brass fittings. At its foot was an old-fashioned brass cuspidor. On the wooden coatrack in the corner was the lawyer’s melton Chesterfield and fashionable beaver fedora.

‘Now, what can I do for the Fourth Estate, Mr Hawkins?’

Hammett settled back in his chair and got out his Camels. ‘The name is Hammett. I’m a private sleuth.’

Epstein’s eyes got sleepy in the same way that Jimmy Wright’s got sleepy when he was thinking. He fiddled with a spindle upon which was impaled a fistful of memoranda. ‘Why the charade this morning? And why tell me now?’

Hammett glanced up at the attorney through fresh cigarette smoke.

‘I want Molly Farr. We don’t have to fight about it.’

Epstein chuckled. Somewhere back in the open mouth a gold-capped tooth glinted. ‘We won’t fight about it, Hammett. This office has no information concerning Miss Farr’s present whereabouts.’

‘I’ve been hired by the reform committee to take Vic Atkinson’s place. Forget all that stuff in the papers about a gangland slaying. Vic wanted to talk with Molly about police corruption. Instead, you let her talk with the newspapers and then dust while they built her up into the biggest story since the Gray-Snyder electrocution. That’s fine with me. You’re doing a great job for her. But if you’d let Vic talk to her before-’

‘Mr Atkinson never contacted this office.’

‘That’s one of the things I wanted to know.’ A smile twitched the thin lips beneath his mustache. ‘I knew we didn’t have to fight.’

‘I am an officer of the court, Hammett. Molly is a fugitive from justice. If I knew where she was, naturally I would produce her. From what I read in the papers, she’s in New York — or Chicago — or Paris. The Mexican border patrol is going to nab her in the next hour or so, and the London bobbies are only waiting…’

‘Oh, I know where Molly is,’ said Hammett. ‘From what you say, I know more than you do. And frankly, I have more power than you do to use what I know.’

Epstein bounced to his feet. He went to the window. Through the Venetian blinds, the dying afternoon made stripes of light and shadow across his body. He turned, still abruptly, to face Hammett. There was an ominous look in his eyes.

‘Is that supposed to be a threat?’

‘I’ve been authorized to tap a number of phones around town. I’ll be questioning police lieutenants and captains on Monday. I’ll be subpoenaing records.’ He paused to flick ashes. ‘I’d like to count on your cooperation.’

Epstein’s dark eyes were unwinking, rat-beady. He said: ‘You’re doing the talking.’

‘I’d like Molly to do some talking. To me, in private. Vic wanted to bring her in, make her testify under oath. That was the wrong approach, I felt. Better to-’

‘You can damn well believe it’s the wrong approach,’ Epstein snapped. The blinds clacked dryly as he moved against them.

‘What she tells me will be used,’ Hammett admitted, ‘but won’t be attributed. Her name will never appear…’

‘I’m sorry, Hammett, but you’re wasting your time.’

‘I’m being paid for it.’ Hammett looked at his watch and stood up. ‘I wouldn’t want to make you late for supper. As it stands, I’m afraid I’ll be talking to Molly without your permission.’

‘You’re bluffing.’

He nodded. ‘Sure, I didn’t talk with her direct, just with the lady who…’

He bit off his words, stubbed out his cigarette, and retrieved his overcoat. Epstein watched, his eyes beady and unwinking. Hammett went out and pulled the door shut behind him.

After a full sixty seconds, Epstein crossed to the door, opened it and looked around the frame. His secretary’s typewriter instantly stopped clacking.

‘Jenny, did Mr Hawkins leave?’

‘He went straight through without stopping, Mr Epstein. If you would like me to try to catch him, sir…’

‘No, that’s fine, Jenny.’

He went back inside and sat down at the desk. He frowned at his green blotter, then picked up the phone and dialed the long-distance operator. He leaned forward intently.

‘Yes, ma’am, I would like to make a person-to-person call to Mrs..’ He broke off abruptly. The tension left his small, tidy body. ‘Uh

… cancel that, operator. I nearly made a mistake.’

He put the receiver back in the hooks with a grimace, and stood up for a turn around the room. He went to the window. He looked out. He muttered, ‘Damn him,’ under his breath. Hammett might have told him about putting listeners on phones just to panic him into doing what he nearly had done — calling before they got around to him. Then Hammett would subpoena his records from the phone company.

Epstein got his hat and coat from the rack and went out. ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes, Jenny, if you don’t mind waiting.’

‘I’ve got two more revisions to type on the Wilcox brief anyway, Mr Epstein.’

Epstein went down the narrow stairway to emerge into Powell Street with the Pig’n Whistle on his right and the Edison Theatre on his left. His eyes darted and probed. No Hammett. The Turpin Hotel a few doors down, the cigar store next to that? The Pig’n Whistle itself, maybe?

No, all too risky, too exposed.

He turned abruptly up Powell toward Ellis with quick, nervous strides that his small stature made almost strutting. He went by Gene Compton’s and the United Cigar store on the corner without pausing, although both had pay phones, and right across Ellis. He’d made up his mind.

On the far corner he darted across Powell and started back down the even-numbered side. No Hammett. The tall, hawk-faced detective would be too conspicuous even in a crowd to be missed.

At Market he ducked abruptly into the Owl Drug’s brightly lighted, cavernous interior. Beside the front entrance was a pair of pay phones with green metal trays holding the current directories. Epstein spilled silver across one of the trays, dialed the long-distance operator and asked for a three-digit Marin County number. He completed the call, fed in the required coins, and talked for a scant thirty seconds.

He hung up with a complacent look on his face. ‘What I thought,’ he muttered aloud. ‘Faking it.’

Three minutes after he had disappeared across Powell toward his office, Hammett lowered the newspaper that had been shielding him from view at the lunch counter. He hissed out a cigarette in his coffee cup, left a dime for the waitress, and sauntered over to the pay phones.

He thumbed a nickel into the slot of the phone Epstein had used. His face felt flushed. Goddamn, to play the percentages that way and have your number come up! It had just felt right that of all the pay phones available on the block, Epstein would choose the crowded, bustling Owl as the place he’d be least conspicuous while calling.

‘This is your long-distance operator. May I help you?’

Hammett drawled, ‘Inspector O’Gar. Homicide, Central Station. Five minutes ago a long-distance call was placed from this number. SUtter eight-seven-three-seven.’

‘Homicide?’ Excitement vibrated in her voice. ‘What… how can I help you, Inspector?’

‘Number called. Name of party called. Location of that phone.’

‘Ah… the number is two-three-two Mill Valley, Inspector. That is registered to a Mr George F. Biltmore on Corte Madera Street-’

‘I’ll be dammed!’ exclaimed Hammett.

‘I beg your pardon!’

‘Oh. Yeah. Sorry.’ He got back into his imaginary O’Gar’s skin. ‘Who’d he ask for?’

‘Mrs Biltmore.’

Hammett hung up in her ear without thanking her; it was what she would expect from a real cop.

George F. Biltmore!

Who would expect madam Molly Farr to be stashed in the Marin County estate of San Francisco’s Commissioner of Shipping? Biltmore was a power on the Street, a wealthy man who had started out as a sea captain and now had one of the city’s largest ship brokerage firms. Did Biltmore know who he was hiding up there in the redwoods? Or had Epstein lied to him about a secret witness or an endangered client or

…

Tomorrow for Biltmore. He thought he had a way to get to him. But meanwhile, he had other things to find out.

He dialed Fingers LeGrand’s number, TUxedo 8273, but he got no response. From the operator he got the phone number for 22 Prescott Court, the flat directly below LeGrand’s. He was in luck. He recognized the sultry voice that responded.

‘This is the man with the blisters,’ he said.

There was silence for a moment, then a low laugh as the whore remembered their brief encounter on her back porch.

‘Hi, big boy.’

‘My weakness is still liquor, sweetheart, but maybe you can help me. I’m trying to get in touch right away with Fingers…’