City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) (13 page)

“—and I don’t want to keep you, but I’d really like a quick look at Dr. Jasper’s library. Would it be terribly inconvenient for you to let me stay here a few minutes?”

Watery blue eyes held hers while she smiled.

Hesitant nod from Wilbur. “I—I guess so, Miss Rogers. It’s not like you’re a student or anything.”

She reached out and squeezed his hand. “Thanks. I promise I won’t be long and it’ll be our little secret. Like the phone call.”

The reminder of his earlier failure to record “Jean Rogers’s” appointment sent him toward the office door in a hurry. He was halfway through when he looked back at her and whispered, “Not too long, OK, Miss Rogers? Dr. Jasper really doesn’t like people in here when he’s not here.”

She held up a gloved hand. “Not to worry, Wilbur.”

Miranda waited until she heard the door clatter in place, fully shut by the pneumatic mechanism. She quickly ran behind the desk and threw open the slim drawer on the right.

Pencils, pens, and a stack of graph paper with equations.

The Campanile bells chimed mournfully. Footsteps in the hallway outside, a dropped book on the tile floor. She jumped. Not much time left, had to make it count.

She felt for a drawer underneath the sleek desktop and located something with her fingers. She depressed a button, carefully sliding out a thin tray.

Inside it was a date book.

The noise in the hallway outside was getting louder. Voices rose and fell, talking about the weather, about the Fair, about France.

Goddamn it. Not enough time.

She hurriedly paged through, times and dates and names in careful, precise blue ink. She reached the current week.

There was one entry, June 26th, today’s date, same blue ink.

“Weidemann. Consulate, 8
P.M
.”

Fuck.

Fritz Weidemann, playboy, Olympic Club member, and Nazi consul general of San Francisco. Hitler’s old lieutenant, the most powerful member of the party in the United States.

Jasper had an appointment with him tonight.

Miranda stared down at the entry.

And … so did she.

Eleven

More voices outside. Miranda shut the black leather book and shoved it back in the drawer, sliding it noiselessly into the slot.

She pulled down her veil, plucked the notebook and pencil off the shiny desk surface, and walked quickly toward a bookcase.

She was halfway there when the door opened.

Wilbur poked his head around, grinning sheepishly. Miranda breathed out, glad the veil was in place.

“Thought I’d come back and check on you, Miss Rogers. See if you needed anything else.”

“Thank you, Wilbur. As a matter of fact, I was about to look for you. Do you know any German?”

“Enough to get by, Miss Rogers. German is a requirement for the degree in Chemistry.”

Miranda nodded, gesturing toward a tattered and well-read program facing a small cubist bronze of a dancer.

The word
Entartete
was at the top of the cover, overlaid on a photo of a large stone head. In large, red, crayonlike lettering,
Kunst
was printed at the bottom.

She looked up, watching him carefully. “I’m hopeless with it. Do you know what this means?”

“That? It means ‘degenerate art.’ The Nazis made a big stink about it a few years ago, you probably remember hearing about it. They’ve labeled all kinds of things degenerate, including most modern art.” He shook his head. “And now they’re in charge of France. I just try to mind my own business and not think about it.”

“What does Dr. Jasper think about it?”

Wilbur raised his eyebrows. “Dr. Jasper thinks the Nazis are stupid. I’ve heard him say so. They buy art no one else wants because it’s so terrible and burn the kind of art he collects. And he says we’ll beat them in science. He says we’ll be in the war in a matter of months.”

Miranda nodded her head while she made notes. Looked up to meet Wilbur’s eyes and smiled.

“Thank you, Wilbur. I’ve got enough for today. I’ll schedule the interview with Dr. Jasper later.”

“He’s only here Tuesdays and Thursdays, Miss, and his appointments fill up quickly, so call as soon as you can.”

The secretary held open the door for her and she walked quickly down the now quiet hallway, heading toward an exit. The back of her neck tingled, and she turned around quickly. Wilbur was still standing outside the main office, staring at her.

*   *   *

She found a telephone booth inside the Owl Drug Store on Telegraph and Bancroft. Waited impatiently for Jack Armstrong, All-American Boy to get off the phone with one of his string of sorority girls, blue and gold on his letter sweater clean and pressed, smile Pepsodent white.

Miranda dropped the Chesterfield stub and crushed it with the toe of her pump. Then she kicked at the door of the phone booth. The soda jerk glanced over, little white cap dotted with chocolate syrup. He pushed it higher on his wide, sweaty forehead.

No sign of waning conversation from Jack. Two campus couples bounced up to the counter, book bags in hand, bobby socks and hairpins and Brylcreem, girls giggling and boys trying to act like Clark Gable. They ordered brown cows and banana splits, soda jerk too busy to pay attention to the phone.

Miranda counted to three and kicked again. The kid in the booth craned his neck, caught eyes with her, mouth still glued to the receiver. She tapped her wristwatch, jerked her thumb. He grinned, nodded, and spoke for another five or six seconds before ringing off. Shoved the door aside, shaking his head.

“Sorry, Miss. Gee, I don’t know what’s wrong with girls these days. A fella just can’t make any hay, and for a real ring-a-ding, too!” He looked down at her and grinned. “Bet you wouldn’t give a fella the high hat just for saying hello. Got a clambake tonight—wanna come?”

Miranda squeezed past him and into the booth. Turned to close the glass doors, gave him a smile.

“Sorry to throw you a curve, Bright Eyes. I’ve got my own clams to dig.”

She shut the partition with a clang. Operator, brisk and professional.

“Number, please.”

“MArket 3741.”

“Deposit ten cents, please.”

She plucked out two dimes and two nickels, hoping it would be enough.

“State Department.”

“Mr. James MacLeod, please.”

“I’m sorry, Miss, but there’s no one here by that—”

“Look, I know he’s there, he told me so yesterday. Tell him it’s the Ugly Duckling.”

She’d rolled her eyes at the code name when James suggested it, grinning, adding no one would ever guess it from looking at her. But the operator’s voice lowered and he spoke even faster.

“Hold, please.”

Two clicks, and James. He sounded delighted.

“Something already, ducks?”

“Jas—I mean, the subject—is meeting a Consul General tonight. Three guesses as to which consulate.”

MacLeod sighed. “We’ve known about that for a while. It’s a party … the consul throws them rather frequently. Anything else?”

Exasperation made her voice sharp. “I don’t know what you already know and what you don’t already know. But from what I can see thus far, the only thing the subject seems to be buying and selling is art. Buying modern art and selling older works. Every time he comes back from Mexico, he brings back more. If he
is
selling anything else, the art may be how he’s transferring it.”

James spoke patiently. “Yes, honey, we realize that. That’s why I told you we’re not sure if his—activities—are connected. What we need is proof—an indisputable yes or no. Can you get it?”

A gravel voice broke through the connection, making Miranda jump.

“Please deposit five cents.”

She dropped a nickel in the slot, waited until she heard the click of the operator going off-line.

“You still there?”

“I’m here. Can you get proof?”

“It’s why you hired me. But I’m working in the dark and I need to see his face. How he reacts, what he thinks, what makes him uncomfortable. I want to go in. To the party. I need help with the cover.”

Three beats. James finally spoke, voice sober. “You’re right. It is why we hired you. This goes against all training and collected wisdom, but it is your show … ducks.”

“OK. I’ll need some protection from you and the French consulate. Marion Gouchard—G-o-u-c-h-a-r-d. Born in Montreal, grew up in Chicago. You remember—same identity I used for the Incubator Baby case.”

“Oh, yes, dear Marion. Give her my regards. I can’t remember, did she work at the consulate? Your French isn’t good enough to pass for a native.”

Miranda frowned. “I’m aware of that. She works there, unspecified capacity, but privy to sensitive information. A mystery woman.”

“I warned you that we couldn’t officially step in, ducks. I’ll try to arrange something with the French consul, but it’ll be difficult, especially now. No guarantees.”

“There never are.”

Bumps, thuds, and a long squeal came over the receiver, and Miranda held it out from her ear. “Hello? Hello? James, are you—”

“I’m here. Just wanted to examine the phone.” He lowered his voice. “Please be careful. Not only do you not officially exist, but you’re dealing with diplomatic immunity.”

Her finger traced one of the carvings on the wooden ledge, “Bobby Loves Cathy.”

“Immunity comes in all varieties. Anything else I should know?”

“The consul will be in a temper. A young man named Dr. Herbert Hoehne—a German spy—was arrested by the FBI in Los Angeles just five days ago. He calls himself a pharmacist, but he’s a courier—delivering messages to Mexico, Venezuela, and Argentina. Before his arrest, he brought information to Fritz we’d love to get our hands on. Of course, Weidemann denies ever hearing the name Hoehne, won’t front for bail, and is pleading ignorance of the registration law. The U.S. attorney in L.A. wants to press charges, but Washington will never agree.”

Miranda was furiously writing in her notebook. James cleared his throat.

“I wanted you to see what you’re up against, ducks. This is the way the game is played. We may be able to help you with the cover, but if you’re caught, you’re on your own. I don’t officially know a ‘Miranda Corbie.’ Don’t compromise the mission, of course, but try to take someone with you … someone you trust. Even if he waits outside. When you walk into that consulate, you’re out of our reach … and in Hitler’s Germany.”

Her stomach twisted. “Understood.”

“One more thing—I’m leaving for Washington tomorrow, so call the other num—”

Crackle and two dings. A whiny voice interrupted the line.

“Your time is up. Please deposit five cents to continue this call.”

“Goddamn it—”

“There is no need to use profanity, Madame.”

Miranda shoved a nickel in the slot. “Your money’s in the machine. Now fade.”

The operator clicked off the line aghast, her “Why, I never—” making Miranda grin.

“James? James?”

No luck. She hit the switch hook twice more, turned to look through the glass.

A line of three Berkeley kids, two bored, one in a panic. Maybe three minutes before a revolt at the soda fountain.

“EXbrook 6700.”

“Deposit ten cents, please.”

Miranda slid the dime into the slot and heard the click as the coin was deposited, static on the line while the woman connected the number. Another female voice, smooth, unruffled, with overtones of Kay Francis.

“
San Francisco News
.”

“Newsroom, please—Rick Sanders. It’s important.”

The mirror cracked a little, as the woman sighed. “It always is, sister.”

Tapped her foot while counting the seconds of dead airspace. Sudden clatter, male voice a deep bark.

“Sanders here.”

“It’s Miranda, Rick.”

She could hear the Irish lilt smooth over the sandpaper, picture the wide-mouth grin and the crinkly blue eyes, two fingers pushing the crumpled fedora off his forehead.

“About time—I’ve left you two messages. You were mentioned as a person of interest in your client’s murder last night.”

“Goddamn it. All the papers?”

“Yep. No photo, though, except for
The
Examiner—
they just put out the afternoon edition and ran a small shot of you from February, the Eddie Takahashi case. I convinced Tony to go with a splash on the Hart dame instead.”

“Thanks. It’s that bastard O’Meara. Listen, we can talk later—”

“You want to go to dinner?”

“I don’t know, I’ll call you when I’m in the office, I’ve only got about a minute or two left—”

“Where the hell are you?”

“Quit interrupting me, Sanders—”

A click and a cough signaled the operator. “Please deposit five cents.”

Miranda swore, scavenged the bottom of the bag with her fingers, and pulled out another nickel.

“Rick—Rick, you still there?”

Mournful sigh. “Aren’t I always, Miranda?”

“Can it. I need to know something pronto. Fritz Weidemann’s hosting a party at the German consulate tonight—got any details?”

“Since when do you follow the West Coast Nazi social calendar?”

“Damn it, Sanders, either give me the information or—”

The phone dropped. Cacophony of typewriters and men’s voices in loud discussion, punctuated with guffaws. She tucked the receiver between her ear and her shoulder and quickly looked through her change purse, found one last nickel, and deposited it before the operator could make another tired demand.

A Butter Rum Life Saver churned up from the depths of her purse. She popped it into her mouth. Studied the graffiti carved with pen knives and thick pencils: “Andy Loves Sally” and “Professor Engstrom’s all wet” and “Effie Richardson’s an easy lay.”

Another loud clatter signaled Rick’s return.

“Fritz and his Nazi Princess Stephanie von Hohenlohe are apparently throwing a costume ball for the diplomatic and Fascist elite of the Bay Area tonight at eight … SS uniform optional. Maybe they misplaced your invitation. What the hell are you up to now, Miranda?”

“Thanks, Rick, I’ve gotta go. I’ll phone in an hour.”

“I might be at lunch or even, as hard as it may be for you to believe, on an assignment. How about if I meet you at your office?”