Locked rooms

Chapter Twenty

Accident, or murder?

With that simple question, the world shifted dizzily on its axis. My father's peculiar will, the deaths of the Longs and Dr Ginzberg, the attempt to assassinate me on the street—all those came together with a clap in my mind. Not that I could see anything resembling a cause, but I had worked with Holmes long enough to see the pattern of a knot forming in the disparate strings around me. Too many deaths, too many coincidences.

Something had happened, Long had said, during the fire of 1906; something that took Micah Long away from his own family during the frantic hours when Chinatown burned, something that changed the relationship between our fathers, an event that may have driven my mother back to England for six years.

An event that, two years after our return, sent their motorcar off a cliff.

And that within four months had extinguished the lives of three individuals in whom various Russells might have confided.

And which, ten years afterwards, caused someone to lower a gun on the only surviving Russell.

The Russell who was currently sitting in a completely exposed position as the sun climbed towards the surrounding hills, with her only weapon buried at the bottom of her valise.

The stupid Russell who hadn't thought to look behind her since giving a token glance to the street outside the St Francis on Sunday morning.

I scrambled to my feet and scurried towards the house as if I'd heard a twig break in the woods. Inside, I locked the terrace door, then went rigid, waiting for a careless motion or uncontrolled breath to betray an intruder. The house was silent, and the only dampness on the stones of the floor was from my own feet. I slipped up the stairs of the bedroom wing and cautiously nudged open my own door, but the room was empty.

I felt slightly more secure with the pistol resting in my trouser-band. I stuffed my possessions into their bags any which way, then went upstairs to bang on the door of Flo's room.

No response: I had my fingers around the knob when I heard a befuddled whimper from within. “Flo, we need to go as soon as we can. I'll get the coffee ready, but you need to wake up now.”

Donny's head had already emerged from the door behind me.

“Something up?” he asked.

“I think I should be back in the city right away. I'm making coffee.”

I had just taken the percolator from the heat when Donny appeared, dressed, combed, and shaved.

“Can you take a cup to Flo?” I asked. “I don't know if she'll come out of her coma without it.”

He looked at me oddly, but did not say anything, just carried the two cups away. Eventually Flo joined us, picking at the toast I laid before her and drowning her sleepiness in caffeine.

When her eyes were somewhat clearer, she fixed them on me. “What's the rush?” she demanded. “I thought we were going to have a nice swim before we go?”

“I just need to be back in the city,” I said, the flatness of my tone brooking no argument.

Flo blinked, and Donny cleared his throat. “Well, then, if you girls want to pack up your things, I'll put the umbrella and chairs back into the boat-house.”

“Never mind them, the Gordimers will take care of everything.”

I stood up. Flo and Donny, after exchanging a glance, did the same. Without waiting to see if they did as I asked, I picked up the key-ring from its hook and walked out of the front door.

The dirt drive to the road had only the Lodge and, up at the road itself, the Gordimers' house. I went to the back door and knocked, knowing at this time of day they would be in the kitchen. Mr Gordimer opened it, dropping his sweat-stained hat over his head as he did so; the odour of home-cured bacon and fried eggs washed over me, making me smile involuntarily as I held out the keys.

“We're off this morning. Thank you for watching over everything so carefully.”

He took the keys from me and passed them over his shoulder to the figure behind him. I greeted his wife, whose stern face softened as she said, “I'm sorry we didn't have a chance to chat, Mary. I hope everything was satisfactory?”

“Absolutely perfect.”

Gordimer gave a sort of rumbling sound preparatory to speech, then came out with, “You'll be selling up?”

“I haven't decided yet. I'll most likely sell the place in the city, it's ridiculous to keep it standing empty, but if you two are willing to go on with the upkeep here I'll hang on to it for a while longer.”

“Of course we're happy to keep it tidy and safe for you,” Mrs Gordimer said, “for as long as you like. And if you want to have your lawyer drop us a line again to say you're coming, we'll put the milk in the ice-box, like always.”

“I appreciate it, Mrs Gordimer. And any of the bigger maintenance jobs that come along, I trust Mr Norbert's good at approving them.”

“Oh, yes, there's never been a problem. Last year when the roof started leaking—no, I'm a liar, it was two years ago now—all I had to do was drop a line and suggest it was a job too big for Willy here on his own and Mr Norbert wrote right back to say we should hire whoever we liked and send him the bills. Willy wanted to do it, of course, but we hired the son-in-law of Mr Jacko—remember him, at the post office? His daughter Melinda married a nice hard-working boy from San Mateo and though of course they live over there, the boy was happy to bring his crew here for a few days and do the job. With Willy to supervise, of course.”

Willy—Wilson, his name was, and the diminutive did not suit him—looked slightly abashed that he had not mounted the assault on the roof by himself, but I was glad his wife had put her veto on his active participation. I nodded my appreciation and made to ease myself back from the door, lest I be caught in the snare of Mrs Gordimer's words for the entire morning.

“Well,” I said, “it's lovely to see you two looking so well, and I'm sorry I can't stay longer. My friends decided that they have to get back, so we'll be off.”

“That is a pity, but I do understand, young people today are so busy. You just leave everything there, I'll pop in later and tidy it all away.”

“That's very good of you, Mrs Gordimer. Perhaps I'll manage to get down again before I leave.” I threw this last down as a sop to distract her, although it was a blatant lie. I had no intention of coming again, not for years. Maybe not ever.

Mrs Gordimer's continued barrage plucked at me, but slowly I moved back, further and further from her range.

However, it was Gordimer himself who stopped me. With another rumble, he summoned the following words: “Had some people here, asking questions.”

My feet, halfway down the steps, stopped feeling their way backward. “People?”

“Man and a woman. Few weeks ago.”

Mrs Gordimer's head inserted itself between us, staring at her husband in outrage. “There were people here and I didn't see them?”

“Day you left for your sister's. I was working on the boat-shed door, after dinner one night. Nearly dark. They came around the house, bold as brass. I sent them off.”

“Can you tell me about them? Did you get their names?”

“Nah. Just told 'em to leave.”

“What did they look like?”

“Didn't see him close, he stood off down the lawn with his back to me, like he was too good to do any talking. Had grey hair. She looked vaguely familiar. Maybe forty, taller'n him. Old-fashioned hair—up on her head, you know?”

Like mine, until three months ago. “What colour was it?”

“Brown, I think. She had a hat,” he added, which I assumed was meant to explain his lack of certainty as to colour.

“And you think you saw her somewhere before?”

“Dunno. Maybe just her picture.”

“Anything else you noticed about them? Beard, eye colour, jewellery, that sort of thing?”

Gordimer took off his hat and scratched his balding pate in thought. “He'd a moustache, saw it when he turned just a little to say something over his shoulder. Never liked moustaches, myself,” he added, a surprising digression for a man so chary of words and opinion. “Wore a sparkly ring, diamond, like, on his pinkie. 'Bout my height. Wanted to be taller—wore those shoes with the soles. Foolishness.” My, my: Mr Gordimer really hadn't cared for his visitors. “The woman. About as tall as you, not quite so skinny. Brown eyes. Pretty voice. Southerner. Not him.”

I reared back. “A Southerner? You're certain?”

He shrugged. “That drawl. Magnolias and juleps. Iron underneath.”

I continued to gape at him, not only flabbergasted by the news, but by the simple fact of my neighbour speaking so many words. I scarcely noticed the addition of this third perceptive judgement until later.

However, the effort appeared to have drained him. I pressed for more detail, but he had given me all he had, or all he could manage to convey, because his words were replaced by shrugs and hand gestures, and a look of panic crept into his eyes. In the end, I took pity, and thanked him. He looked vastly relieved.

There was one other question, however, and for that I looked to his wife. “What day would this have been?”

The words that had been stemmed by her husband's unnatural loquacity burst forth as Mrs Gordimer provided me with the saga of her sister's debilitating illness in an unspecified part of the anatomy, with more details than I thought entirely necessary, but the essential detail of the day managed to creep in as well: March the thirtieth.

I thanked her, thanked him, and continued my backward retreat until I was safely out of the garden gate and the crunch of drive-way gravel was under my boots.

We drove away from the lake-house on Wednesday a different trio from that which had arrived on Sunday. Then, my apprehension had been so great, my two companions could only tread quietly around me; now, I was so eager, even anxious, to be back in the city I paid almost no attention to my surroundings; Flo sat in the front seat with her shoulders set in an attitude of pure disgruntlement, with Donny beside her at the wheel, silent and puzzled.

As we started up the drive, I swung around for a last look at the Lodge. I did not know if I would see it again, but I was grateful for the days here. Grateful, too, that my companions had proved so easy to get along with, other than Flo's occasional spasms of overly solicitous behaviour, pressing on me toast and sleeping draughts. When the last corner of mossy shingles was swallowed by the trees, I faced front again.

We passed through the bucolic little village and wound through the hills towards the sea. The original plan had been that our return would cross the hills to the faster road that ran up the eastern side of the Peninsula, but before we could turn in that direction, I leant forward and put my hand on Donny's shoulder. He tipped his head to listen.

“I know it's rather out of the way, but I'd very much like to stop at that garage we passed on Sunday.”

“Which one is that?”

“In the little town, Serra Beach.”

“Oh, right,” he said dubiously. “I'd thought to go back by way of Redwood City—along the Bay. Serra Beach would mean the coastal road again.”

“Would you mind awfully?” I asked, piling on the helpless female tones, then put in the knife. “It's the very last place we spoke, my parents and I, before the accident.”

He exchanged a quick glance with Flo in the seat beside him, then faced forward again. “No problem,” he said over his shoulder. “If that's what you want.”

“Very good of you,” I said, and settled back in my seat, too occupied with my thoughts to see much of the passing scenery.

The accident site appeared up ahead of us, looming above the sandy beach where we had talked with the insurance investigator. The beach was sunny today, but deserted, with neither bread van nor closed touring car parked on the side of the road. When we got to the top of the hill, I scarcely glanced at the place where it had happened; my mind was taken up with the coming garage.

Donny pulled up to the petrol pump and all three of us got out of the motor. The boy who came out to help us was too young to remember much about the events of 1914, far too young to have built up the garage on his own. I asked him if the owner was there.

The boy glanced at me curiously, but could see no reason to fend me off. “My uncle's around the back, working on a transmission.”

The mechanic looked as if he was doing battle with the transmission, or being eaten by it. The dismantled vehicle lay strewn all about, the body lifted to one side, the engine hanging from a gargantuan tripod, and the underpinnings—drive-shaft crossed by two axles—lay atop a pair of outstretched legs. I stopped short, wondering if I should summon help to lift the weighty object off a dead man, but then the legs convulsed and, marginally more reassuringly, a string of dire imprecations emerged from the wreckage. Someone that eloquent, I thought, could not be in extremis.

“Er, I beg your pardon?” I said loudly.

The imprecations paused, the convulsing legs began to push against the paving stones, and one arm wrapped around the drive-shaft, pulling its owner into open air.

A grease-blackened face glared at me. “Yeah?”

“I'm very sorry to interrupt you, but I'm looking for the gentleman who owned this establishment back in 1914.”

More of the torso emerged, and a rag was waved across the visage, making no discernible difference, although beneath the film he appeared not much older than I. “That would've been my brother, Dick,” he said. “I helped out, and took it over after he was killed back in '20.”

“Would you have been here in September 1914?”

He cocked his head and fixed me with a long, thoughtful gaze before deciding to get to his feet. The rest of him was no less greasy, and I had to stop myself from retreating fastidiously when he climbed over his project and came over to stand in front of me. He tugged a cap from the back pocket of his overalls and pulled it on. Thus equipped for a formal interview, he squinted at me. “Why do you want to know about September 1914?”

It was my turn to look thoughtfully at him. Was it the date itself, or my asking, that had caught his attention? When in doubt, fall back on the truth, or a close facsimile.

“I was in a motor accident then, just down the road from this place. I wondered if anyone might remember any details about the day.”

The black, shiny surface before me shifted as his expression changed. “You were in that car?”

That car. “I was.”

“You're the girl.”

“I was, yes.”

“Well, I'll be da—Sorry, miss.”

“So you do remember it?”

“Yeah, and I'm sorry to tell you you're too late. I already gave it to him.”

“Gave what to whom?” It was an effort to speak over the sudden pounding of my heart, but I didn't know if it was excitement or apprehension.

“The insurance man.”

“Insurance—you mean the tall man with the hair going white?”

“Bad cough.”

“That's the one. What did he want?”

“Didn't want much of anything at first, just asked questions about the accident. But when I told him what I'd done, what I had, he got more interested in it than in his questions.”

“What you'd—” I drew a breath, let it out slowly, and began over again. “Mister—what is your name?”

“Hoffman,” he replied, automatically sticking out his filthy paw. Without hesitation I took it, and took also the grubby rag he handed me afterwards.

“Mary Russell,” I told him. “Might we sit for a moment?”

“Sure, over here.”

I did not look too closely at the condition of the bench he offered—they were, after all, merely clothes. “Mr Hoffman, could you tell me about the insurance man and what you gave him?”

“Fellow came by late Saturday afternoon, asking about that accident just like you did. At first I didn't have the faintest what he was talking about—it'd been ten years, after all—but then after I'd shook my head about a dozen times it was like it shook something loose in my skull and a little bell started to ring. Anyway, I was in the middle of saying No, I don't know anything, when it hit me, sort of like, ‘Oh, that accident!' So I said, Now wait a minute, that was the car whose tyre I changed, and started rummaging around in the back where I keep all the odds and ends I might need one day. Only took me a little while, and there it was. Little dusty, of course, but clear as day.”

“What was it?”

“Oh, right, you haven't seen it. It was part of the braking system of a 1914 Maxwell, almost as clean as when it came off the factory floor, except it had a slice halfway across it that sure as shooting wasn't put there by the factory, and it had broke the rest of the way.”

My face must have told him that, though I was a female, I understood not only what a brake rod was, but what a cut one meant. He nodded encouragingly, and told me a long and apologetic story about how his brother had seen that perfectly good chassis sitting there getting beaten by waves and decided that it might as well be salvaged for parts before the ocean took it. As they'd been dismantling it some months later, the remaining half of the brake rod came to light. His brother had found it, showed him what it had meant, and stuck it on the shelf.

“Why didn't you give it to the police?” I asked.

“We did,” he answered indignantly. “Next time the town cop come by, a day or two later, my brother and me showed it to him, told him where we'd got it. He was more interested in the fact that we'd helped ourselves to the car—as if there was anything left of it, it was less of a car than a heap of scrap. By the time he left, he was saying he'd have to ask his sergeant about charging Dick and me with theft. Had us a little worried, I won't lie. But nothing happened after that. And when nothing happened, I sure wasn't about to stick my neck out a second time and risk getting me and my brother arrested over something that had maybe or maybe not happened four months before. So we just left it on the shelf for safekeeping and shut up about it, and after a while I just plumb forgot.”

“Until the insurance man came asking.” Asking about that accident, not one of the previous December.

Hoffman nodded. “He sawed off the end and took it away with him. The end I had, anyway.”

“It was only half?”

“About eight inches of rod cut about three-quarters of the way through. The rest of the way it'd tore, like I told you. Our local Deadeye Dick said it was a piece of junk, that it broke in the wreck. But I know cars, and I know brake rods, and even when I was a kid I could see that it wasn't just a break that happened in going off the cliff. My brother was right—someone sawed nearly through it. Couldn't be no accident or flaw in the steel, and sure as hell—pardon, miss—wasn't from no scraping rock.”

“I believe you,” I told him. He settled back on the bench, his ten-year-old indignation soothed by my agreement. I continued. “Did you notice anything about the insurance man? I don't suppose he gave you his card?”

“Come to think of it, he did—should be near the register somewheres, that's where he found me.”

“Had you seen the—” I caught myself before I could reveal that I knew that the man had come in a hired bread van. “—the car he came in?”

“Wasn't a car, a white bakery delivery van, out of the city. Never seen it before.”

We talked a while longer, but he knew nothing else about the purported insurance man. I was about to thank him for his time and rejoin my companions when I realised that I'd been so distracted by his unexpected information about the insurance man and the brake line, I'd nearly forgotten the question that started it all.

“About the accident, ten years ago. Apart from the brake rod you found later, was there anything about the day itself that stuck in your mind?”

“Long time ago,” he said.

“Yes, I understand. Well, thank you—” I started to say, but he was not finished.

“. . . and you know how it's hard to be sure about details, when things happened, unless you pin them down at the time?”

“Yes?” I said by way of encouragement, settling down again on the hard seat.

“Well, after we found the brake rod—and remember, that was months later—end of December, first part of January—I got to thinking back. Like I said, I'd been the one patched the car's tyre, and when I heard a little later that it'd gone off the cliff just down the road, all I could think of was I hadn't fastened the wheel down strong enough and it fell off and I'd killed them. Can't tell you what a relief it was to see all four wheels still on the car—the rubber melted, of course, but there. So the day itself made what you might call an impression on me, you understand?”

I nodded encouragement.

“It's like there's a light on the day, and yeah, I forgot about it there for a while, but once I thought about it again, I could see a lot of details. Like those wheels, and where Dick stuck that hunk of rod, and that it was the afternoon a girl I was sweet on come by and brought me a cake she'd made, that kind of thing, you know?”

I nodded again, wondering where this tale was leading us.

“So, one of the things I remembered later, I'm pretty sure it was that same day, but if you told me it wasn't, I couldn't call you a liar, you know what I'm saying? But I think it was the same afternoon that the man with the scars was there.”

It was a good thing I was already seated; the thump of reaction would have put me on the ground. “Scars,” I repeated breathlessly.

“Yeah, burn scars, all over his face. Not real heavy, you know, and his eyes and nose were okay. Just that the skin was funny-looking, all shiny.”

“And his eyebrows were gone.”

“Not completely, but they were kind of patchy, like his moustache. Even the front of the scalp was uneven, like. And they weren't pink, so they probably weren't new. I was sixteen then and the war had just started up so it was in all the papers, and when I saw him I wondered at first if he'd got them in the war, then realised it was probably just some kind of accident.”

“What did he want?”

“Nothing, as far as I could see. I'd just finished putting the wheel on and noticed him standing about, and he was still there when I'd moved the car and helped another customer. So I mentioned it to my brother, thinking maybe the guy was looking to steal something. Dick laughed at me, said I'd been reading too many cheap stories, look at the guy, did he look like someone who needed to steal things? He went over and talked to him, turned out he was just waiting for a ride he'd set up. And his ride must've come, because he wasn't there next time I came out.”

“But you remembered the fellow, later.”

“When that cut rod got me thinking, yeah. But like I said, I can't be a hundred percent sure it was even the same day, just around then. And the guy didn't look like someone who'd crawl under a car with a hacksaw.”

“Dressed well?”

“Yeah, like a dandy.”

A dandy. “Did . . . by any chance, was he wearing a diamond ring?” This was feeding information to a witness, but it couldn't be helped, and imagination or no, I didn't think the mechanic was terribly suggestible.

The grimy face looked startled, then the eyebrows came down in thought. “He was, now I come to think about it. How'd you know?”

“A friend mentioned him,” I told him, more or less truthfully: The scars explained why Mr Gordimer's grey-haired intruder with a diamond ring had kept his back turned, only revealing his face when he spoke over his shoulder, showing a scrap of moustache. “You haven't seen him since?”

“That I haven't, and I think I'd have noticed.”

“I imagine you would,” I said. “Can we just check the insurance man's business card?”

He led me inside the tiny building, rooting around in his cash-drawer for a minute before coming up with a slip of white pasteboard identical to the one the man had given me on Sunday. I handed this one back to the garage owner, thanked him, and gave him a card of my own with the telephone number of the St Francis on it, in case anything else should occur to him. Before I left, I asked, “The boy outside, is he your brother's son?”

“He is. Four years old when his daddy joined up. I'm raising him as my own.”

I went back into my hand-bag and laid a ten-dollar bill on the counter. “I'm sure there's something the boy needs. This is a thank-you from an English citizen, to one who made the great sacrifice.”

He took the money, shook my hand again, and watched me walk away.

Around the side of the garage, I found a water tap and a bar of filthy soap stuck onto a nail, and absently scrubbed at my palms, my mind caught up in the sensation of pressure, of memories unseen, and the inner echo of that morning's voice murmuring: They died.

Clearly, the Southern woman and her scarred companion had hired another agent. Still, I'd have expected their “insurance man” to be more than a few days ahead of us. Gordimer had thrown the pair off the lake property five weeks ago—why hadn't they come to the Serra Beach garage at that time? If they were looking to retrieve any evidence of their murderous sabotage of my father's motorcar, why wait until I was breathing down their necks?

I joined Flo and Donny at the car, but before I got in, I turned to study the garage and its adjoining café.

Something was missing here; either that, or I was missing something. Trim building, petrol pumps, big gum tree growing around one side, a general air of prosperity; the air smelt of eucalyptus oil, the sea, petrol, and frying meat from the café; the sounds were the chugging of the pump, the cries of sea-birds, voices in conversation, a dog somewhere barking in play; I couldn't put my finger on what should have been there but was not.

“Do you see something missing?” I asked my companions. When they did not answer, I glanced around and saw their expressions, which were frankly concerned. Belatedly, I realised that my peremptory commands of the morning, given without explanation, had left them wondering as to my stability.

“It's okay,” I said with a rather forced laugh. “I know I've been a bit lunatic this morning, but really, I simply remembered that there was something I needed to do in the city, and hadn't made other arrangements. Sorry I've been so pushy. And here, well, I'm trying to remember what it is.”

Both of them dutifully turned to study the front of the garage. Donny cleared his throat and suggested, “These kinds of places sometimes have signs standing out in the road,” but that did not feel right. With a sigh of resignation I climbed into my assigned seat.

My thoughts were so distracting that all the way back up to the city, I was scarcely aware that I was not the one driving.

Back at the St Francis, I invited them in for a cup of tea. They hesitated, then Flo said that she knew it was early but she'd really like a drink, and so they left their car with the valet and came in. The waiter brought their “tea” in long-stemmed glasses with an olive in each, although I stuck to the more traditional English stimulant. I excused myself for a moment to go up to the room, but there was no sign of Holmes, and the only message was from Mr Braithwaite at the hospital, giving me the information I'd asked for regarding Dr Ginzberg's death. I read it, noticed the house keys on top of the dressing-table and pocketed them, then went back downstairs.

I made an effort to redeem myself and be friendly and relaxed, but when Flo and Donny left, amidst a flurry of affectionate cries and kisses worthy of her mother, I felt a great burden depart with them. I waved them away, thought about the empty room upstairs, thought too about the possibility that Holmes could return at any time, and asked the man for a taxi: If the keys were here, Holmes was not at the house, and I could have some quiet in which to meditate.

During the short trip into Pacific Heights, I considered what I would do with the remainder of the day. After I had absorbed some silence, I would go to police headquarters and locate the officer who had investigated Dr Ginzberg's death, whom the note identified as James Roley. Then I would locate the bread company whose van that false insurance agent had hired, find out at what garage their van had spent the previous day, and hunt down the man through the garage's mechanic.

The taxi stopped in front of the house, and I paid the driver and got out, walking briskly up the walk and working the key without hesitation, then locked the door behind me.

I took one step, and froze: There were lights in the house, and movement.

My hands dove for my hand-bag of their own accord, slapping at the clasp and fumbling for the cool touch of the revolver before Holmes appeared at the far end of the hall-way. I straightened, allowing the weight to slip back inside, and gave a startled laugh as I started down the hall.

“Why didn't you bring the keys with you, Holmes? Did your pick-locks need practice, or did you have a copy—”

My voice strangled at the sight of the well-dressed figure sitting before the library's fireplace: legs as awkwardly long as Holmes' own, skeletal fingers on the chair's arm, an incongruously healthy head of red hair going grey at the temples: a man I'd last seen driving away from the beach at the base of the cliffs.

In an instant, with no fumbling, the gun was out and level. “Holmes, move away from that man. He's working for the people who killed my parents.”

Holmes did not move, and I glanced briefly at him, keeping the gun steady.

Why the devil was my husband positively grinning—and with what looked remarkably like relief?