Scattershot

THREE

I spent another hour with the Speers file and the telephone, without much success. I did find reference in one of the recent social clippings to Speers having hired a personal secretary, one Bernice Dolan-lots of personal secretaries running around these days, I thought-and then discovered that there was no address or telephone number for anyone of that name in the file. So I checked the White Pages and found a listing for a Bernice Dolan in Cow Hollow, not far from Speers’s Pacific Heights residence. But when I called the number there was no answer. Three other calls to people on the list also drew blanks.

The file offered a couple of other possibilities, but they would require legwork. Finding La Speers was not going to be quite as simple as I’d hoped; at least, it didn’t look as though I could accomplish the task by sitting on my ample duff with the telephone. It was too late to start knocking on doors today, I decided. That was for tomorrow’s agenda.

At four-thirty I put the file away and dialed the Bates and Carpenter number. Fifteen seconds and one secretary later, Kerry’s voice said, “Hi,” in my ear.

“Hi. What’s new and exciting?”

“Nothing much.”

“Did you finish your presentation?”

“Yep. Last night, late.”

“And they loved it, right?”

“Wrong. They want me to redo it.”

“How come?”

“Problems with the concept, I’m told.”

“Sounds like a rough day.”

“You can say that again.”

“Sounds like a rough day.”

“Cute. Did anyone ever tell you you’re cute?”

“You did, grumpy.”

“Grumpy, yourself. How was your day?”

“Not bad. Two new clients.”

“That’s good. Beautiful rich ladies, no doubt.”

“One beautiful rich lady,” I said. “But I didn’t get to ogle her. She’s missing, and I’ve got to find her and serve her with a subpoena. She’s being sued because she likes to play reckless games with her Porsche.”

“Who’s the other client?”

“A guy named Clyde Mollenhauer. He has an estate in Ross.”

“Mollenhauer? No kidding?”

“You know him?”

“Sure. A VIP. Why does he want a private eye?”

“No big deal,” I said. “His daughter’s getting married on Saturday and I get to guard the wedding gifts.”

“You’re coming up in the world, my friend. Hobnobbing with the rich and the famous.”

“Uh-huh. Listen, I could use a beer, and I’ll bet you could use something even stronger. Why don’t I meet you at the Hyatt? Then we’ll go have dinner-”

“I can’t, “she said.

“How come?”

“Jim Carpenter is taking me to dinner tonight. He wants to talk about the presentation.”

“Going out with the boss, huh? Is he the good-looking one?”

“Yes. Are you jealous?”

“Hell, no,” I lied. “I’d just like to see you, that’s all.”

“Maybe tomorrow night. I’ll have to call you.”

“I’ll probably be in and out all day. If I’m not here, just leave a message.”

We said a few more things to each other, and then she said she had to go, and that was that. When I cradled the receiver I could feel shades of blue seeping in on me again. I felt rejected, which was probably dumb; she had a career, she had responsibilities and priorities, there was nothing wrong with her going out to dinner with one of her bosses. And yet I still sensed a distance opening up between us. I just could not shake the feeling that I was losing her.

I walked over to a place on California and drank two bottles of beer. The prospect of food didn’t appeal to me; neither did the prospect of going home to my empty flat. I bought a copy of the Examiner and checked the movie listings. There were two classic private eye films showing at the Richelieu-Murder, My Sweet with Dick Powell as Philip Marlowe and Out of the Past with Robert Mitchum. So I collected my car and drove to Geary and took my funk into the dark theater.

I felt better when I came out four hours later, but not much. When I got home the flat smelled of dust and lingering traces of Kerry’s perfume. You really are a horse’s ass, I told myself as I made a sandwich and opened another beer. Lone-wolf private dicks don’t act like this. You know what Phil Marlowe would do if he walked in here right now? He’d laugh his head off, that’s what he’d do. He’d fall on the floor laughing.

The hell with Phil Marlowe, I thought. I’m not Phil Marlowe; I’m me. I’m me, damn it, and I love that lady.

I went to bed. And pulled the covers over my head, like a kid alone in a big, empty house.

There was a woman waiting for me when I got down to Drumm Street on Tuesday morning.

She was hovering around the hallway, looking annoyed, and when I unlocked my office door she followed me inside. “Are you the detective?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am, I am.”

“You’re supposed to be open for business at nine o’clock,” she said accusingly. “That’s what your ad in the telephone directory says. Do you know that it’s almost nine-thirty?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m running a little late this morning.”

“I’ve been waiting fifteen minutes,” she said. “I was just about to leave and go find someone else.”

“I’m sorry if you were inconvenienced,” I said, with more tact than I felt. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Of course there’s something you can help me with. Would I be here if there wasn’t?” She made a sniffing noise. “My name is Edna Hornback.”

She looked like an Edna Hornback. She was thin and pinch-faced, with vindictive eyes and a desiccated look about her, as if all her vital juices had dried up a long time ago. I took her to be somewhere in her mid-forties, although she had herself arranged-dyed blond hair, stylish clothes, plenty of makeup-to look ten years younger. She wore rings on eight of her ten fingers, at least a couple of which sported precious stones. Because of the obvious value of the rings, I decided I would keep on letting her be rude to me. Up to a point.

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Hornback,” I lied. “Come into my private office. We’ll talk there.”

I took her through the anteroom and pointed out one of the chrome-and-corduroy clients chairs. She sat down, put her purse on her lap, and promptly lit a cigarette. Her eyes, moving over the surroundings, showed disapproval.

“I can’t say much for your decor,” she said.

I didn’t say anything.

“I’m an interior designer,” she said. “The color scheme is all wrong; the colors clash. There’s no harmony.”

“I didn’t design the place, Mrs. Hornback.”

“Yes, well, it offends.”

So do you, lady, I thought. I went over and picked up the coffeepot. “Would you care for some coffee?”

“No, thank you. I had some earlier.”

I decided I didn’t want any, either, and came back and sat down. “What can I do for you?”

She sighed out a lungful of smoke, straight across the desk at me. I waved it away with my hand. I used to be a two-pack-a-day man, until my doctor found a lesion on one lung; now, three years after I quit the things, cigarette smoke irritates my sinuses and makes my chest feel tight.

“I’m here about my husband,” she said.

“Yes?”

“He’s a miserable, no-good son of a bitch,” she I said, “and I’m going to fix his wagon. I am definitely going to fix his wagon.”

There isn’t much you can say to a statement I like that. I just sat and watched her vindictive I eyes and waited.

“He’s got another woman,” Mrs. Hornback said. I “I don’t suppose that surprises you.”

God, no, it didn’t. But I said, “Things like that happen.”

“Typical male response.” She made a vicious production out of jabbing her cigarette into the desk ashtray. “But that’s not the worst of it. He’s also a damned thief.”

“Thief?”

“That’s right. Over the past three years Lewis has stolen at least a hundred thousand dollars from Hornback Designs.”

I frowned at her. “That’s a lot of money.”

“Damn right it is.”

“You’re partners in this design firm?”

“We were partners. I stupidly let him handle the books. I trusted him, the bastard.”

“How did he manage to steal so much money?”

“We have a very successful business,” she said; “we have a yearly income in the high five figures. It wasn’t that difficult for him. He overcharged some of our customers, pocketed cash payments from others, and falsified the books. I think he also took kickbacks from suppliers.”

“How did you find out about it?”

“We’ve had an exceptional year so far, but our bank balance doesn’t reflect it. I began to suspect something funny was going on a few weeks ago. Then I found out about this bitch of his, and I knew something funny was going on.”

“Have you confronted him?”

“Yes. He denied everything, of course. I have an auditor going over the books now, but that takes time.”

“So you haven’t gone to the police.”

“I can’t do that without proof. And I’m afraid he’ll run off with the money and his bitch before lean.”

“This woman-who is she?”

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Hornback said. “That’s what I want you to find out.”

“I see.”

“Every day lately he leaves our office-Hornback Designs is on Union Street-every day he leaves there at five o’clock, and he doesn’t come home until after midnight. It’s her he goes to. I found a woman’s comb in his car, cigarette butts with lipstick on them in the ashtray. That’s how I know he has a bitch on the side.”

A woman’s comb and lipsticked cigarette butts didn’t prove Lewis Hornback had a girl friend; those things could have belonged to customers or acquaintances. But I didn’t tell her that. Edna Hornback was not the kind you could tell anything to, once she had her mind made up.

“I think she’s the one who’s keeping the money for him,” Mrs. Hornback said. “I’ve been through his things; he doesn’t seem to have an extra savings account or another safe deposit box. Or if he does, she’s got the passbook or the key. Find her and you’ll find my money. It’s as simple as that.”

It probably wasn’t as simple as that, but I didn’t tell her that, either. I said, “You want me to follow him, is that it?”

“Yes. Find out where he goes at night, who his bitch is.” She paused. “What are your daily rates?”

“Two hundred, plus expenses.”

She winced. And then got her face under control and drew herself up in the chair. “Well, I don’t mind paying for results,” she said. “And if you find my money, I’ll give you a five-hundred-dollar bonus. How does that sound?”

It sounded fine, in theory. But it didn’t thrill me very much. I was not convinced that Mrs. Hornback was correct in either of her allegations. Maybe old Lewis had misappropriated a hundred grand of their firm’s money, but then again, maybe he hadn’t; she had not given me any proof of it, nor did she seem to have any real proof of it herself. It could all be a fantasy concocted by a vengeful woman. And even if old Lewis did have another woman, as she claimed, I would be willing to bet he had justifiable cause. Not that that part of it was any of my concern. It was up to God to make moral judgments; it was up to me to make an honest living for myself.

I debated. She was not someone I cared to work for, right or wrong in her accusations. On the other hand, her money was as good as anyone else’s, and if I didn’t take the job she would find someone who would. I already had two clients to attend to this week, but the Mollenhauer job was not until Saturday and the Speers investigation could be handled during regular business hours. There was no real reason why I couldn’t spend a few of my evenings trailing Lewis Hornback- particularly now that Kerry was spending her evenings with presentations and one of her bosses.

Mrs. Hornback was in the process of lighting another cigarette. “Well?” she said.

“All right, I’ll do what I can. Do you have a photograph of your husband?”

She had one, which she fished out of a fat wallet and handed to me as if it were contaminated. Lewis Hornback was about the same age as she, with dark brown hair, a mole under his right eye, and nondescript features. He was not smiling in the photo; I had the feeling that he never smiled much. Considering Mrs. Hornback, it was not difficult to understand why.

I put the photograph into my coat pocket and got a contract form and filled it in, making sure to add a clause about the five-hundred-dollar bonus. When I gave it to her she read it over three times, the way George Hickox had yesterday, before she affixed her signature. Her scowl as she made out a retainer check was close to being I ferocious.

I asked her a few more questions-the address of their Union Street office, their home address an apartment on Russian Hill), the make and license number of her husband’s car and where he parked it during the day. Then I promised to tender daily reports by phone and got her out of there. The air in the office seemed thinner after she’d gone; she occupied a lot of space, that woman.

With the Speers file in front of me, I planned out an itinerary for the day. Unless I ran into problems, I ought to be able to cover all the legwork possibilities I had established yesterday; and maybe I would get lucky enough to wrap up the Speers thing right away. In any event I figured to be finished in plenty of time to be waiting for Lewis Hornback on Union Street when he quit work at five.

My love life may have been in an uncertain state these days, I thought as I left the office. But business, for once, was booming.