The Classic Car Killer. Richard A. Lupoff
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silken lapels and a wing-collar shirt and a bow tie that looked as if he’d tied it himself. His hair was parted just off center, slicked back with a glossy substance that shimmered in the lights that surrounded Lake Merritt. His upper lip bore a pencil-thin moustache. He looked a little bit like Mandrake the Magician.
“Look at the scene?”
“The scene of the crime! Come on, man, don’t you realize what’s happened?”
Lindsey was taken aback. “Of course I realize what’s happened. You car was stolen.”
“Not exactly my car. I drive a 1946 Ford Sportsman. But yes, the Dusie was stolen from right there. Wasn’t it, Wally m’dear?” He pointed to a spot near Lindsey’s Hyundai, managing to turn his head simultaneously toward the woman who stood beside him.
She was several inches shorter than her husband, even in heels. She wore her light brown hair short, a band circling her forehead and a feather rising from behind her head. Her dress was clasped at both shoulders and was draped in champagne colored folds—at least as far as Lindsey could tell by the lights on the mansion’s veranda.
“We’ve been over the ground, Ollie darling.”
Lindsey noticed that she was swaying slightly, and held a half-empty martini glass in one hand. She wore rings on several fingers, and they did not have the look of costume jewelry.
Still, it might be a good idea, and it couldn’t hurt. “Would you show me, Mrs. van Arndt?”
The woman giggled and took Lindsey’s hand. She swayed against him, making her way down the steps of the mansion. She led him to a spot on the gravelled driveway. It swung in a U-shaped loop off Lakeside Drive. There wasn’t much traffic on the drive, this time of night, but a pair of headlights swept past every so often, glaring like the eyes of a great supernatural beast.
The air was chilly and moist. Lindsey’s breath—and Mrs. van Arndt’s—clouded before them. Beyond the mansion, a low bank of fog hung just above the surface of the lake.
“I don’t see anything,” Lindsey said. The driveway was covered with a thick layer of gravel. It would show tire tracks, to a certain extent, but it would hold little if any detail. “Do you know what time the car was taken?”
“What time is it now?” Can you see my little watch, Mr. Lincoln?”
“Lindsey.”
“Can you?” She stood close to him, her shoulders pulled back and chest pushed forward so he could see the old-fashioned timepiece pinned to her bodice. Her hands hung at her sides, one of them holding the martini glass. A few drops splashed on the gravel.
“Wally? Yoo-hoo, Wallis!”
“That’s me,” Mrs. van Arndt giggled. “Ollie must be getting anxious. Have you seen enough, Mr. Lipton?”
“Not much to see here. Let’s go back.”
She took his hand and pulled him along toward the mansion. “Ollie isn’t really so jealous, he just likes to keep an eye on me. We have the same birthday, you know. That’s how we met. I mean, we met at Antibes, have you ever been to Antibes?”
Lindsey hadn’t.
“Well, don’t bother, it’s ruined now. But it used to be wonderful. Ollie and I were both there on vacation and we discovered that we had the same birthday, even the same year. It seemed we were fated for each other. Our parents even named us for famous people. He’s named for Oliver Wendell Holmes. My name was Wallis Warfield Simpson Stanley. Now we’re Ollie and Wally van Arndt.”
She swayed up the steps, still dragging Lindsey by the hand. He was happy to transfer custody back to her husband. They went inside the mansion. The entrance featured a cloak room the size of Lindsey’s house. They passed through it into a huge, high-ceilinged room lighted by electrified chandeliers. The furnishings looked more Victorian than Art Deco. A handful of men and women stood around in period costumes, looking like refugees from a stage production of The Great Gatsby. One exception to the tuxedo-and-gown set was a black man in a World War II era uniform. He sat slouched in a period chair, the sleeves of his olive drab Ike jacket marked with a tech sergeant’s chevrons. A row of service ribbons were pinned above the jacket pocket. He appeared to be dozing.
A white-covered table bearing the decimated remains of a buffet meal stood at one end of the of the room; a deserted bandstand, at the other.
“This was our annual 1929 gala,” van Arndt said.
“Where did everybody go?”
“When the Dusie was stolen—well, a few wanted to keep the party rolling, but it just put such a damper on, it fizzled.”
“Did anyone see the car taken?”
“Joe Roberts did.”
“He still here?”
“No. He was too upset to stay. He’s our youngest member, too. The club baby. Thirty-three years old. Some of the members didn’t want to let him join, but he convinced them. He’s a scholar, at that. A great researcher. In fact, that’s why he joined the Smart Set.”
Lindsey had his pocket organizer in his left hand, his gold-plated International Surety pencil in the right. Anybody could get a wooden International Surety pencil, or a plastic company pen, but only top performers got the gold-plated models.
“Did you want to talk to Joe?” van Arndt asked.
“He actually saw the car stolen? Saw the thief get in and drive off in it? How did he start the car? Were the keys left in it? Or did he tow it away?”
“I didn’t see. Wally and I were dancing. The orchestra was playing Star Dust. Roberts must have gone outside for a breath of air. I’m afraid he’d had a few sips more than he should have and he wanted to clear his head. At least, that’s what I think.”
“Yes, yes.” Lindsey kept his patience.
“Well, you tell it, Wally, m’dear.”
“He came in shouting,” Wallis furnished. “Waving his arms and shouting, ‘It’s gone, they stole the Dusie!’ And then he fell down.”
“What?”
“Right on the dance floor.”
Van Arndt said, “He was dizzy. Poor chap passed out. He’d had a bit too much, I mentioned that, didn’t I? I’m afraid the excitement and the sudden change did it. You know, it was pretty stuffy in here. Roberts had just gone outside a few minutes before for some fresh air, when he saw the car taken and came running back in.”
“And you say he left? He took a cab? I hope he didn’t try to drive.”
“No. He gave his statement to Officer Gutiérrez. Did the best he could, anyway.” Van Arndt looked up. Lindsey followed his gaze. Mrs. van Arndt had tipped her glass up and emptied the last drop from it onto the tip of her tongue. She swayed to her feet and made her way from the room.
“Roberts,” Lindsey prompted.
“Dr. Bernstein took him home.”
“Dr. Bernstein?”
“Martha Bernstein.”
“M.D.?”
“Ph.D.”
Lindsey put on his best listening-with-eagerness expression, his gold-plated pencil poised to jot notes.
“Dr. Bernstein is in the Sociology Department at Cal.”
“She an Art Deco enthusiast?”
“I don’t think so.”
“But she’s a member of the club? Or was she here as guest?”
“Oh, she’s a member all right. I was against her, too. Like young Roberts. But she insisted on joining.”
“You couldn’t