The Classic Car Killer. Richard A. Lupoff
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around in the kitchen. There was a high-pitched whining sound. Unless Roberts was performing some self-administered dentistry, that had to be a coffee grinder. Some rattling, then Roberts came back and settled into his chair. “That’ll take a few minutes. Maybe I should have some with you instead of this ’toonie, but I couldn’t face it.”
“Think hard,” Lindsey persisted. “How many slams?”
“Two.” His martini was down to its last quarter-inch. Roberts disappeared the last of it and set the empty glass on an ebony coaster. “Definitely two. The more I think about it, the more certain I get. Two.”
“Did you tell Gutiérrez that?”
Roberts closed his eyes. “No.”
“You told him you heard just one slam?”
“I think I just told him I heard somebody slam the car door. He didn’t ask me how many slams, and I didn’t really think about it.”
Lindsey jotted a note. He looked up. “Then what?”
“Two slams, starter noise, lights went on, car pulled out of the driveway into Lakeside Drive.”
Lindsey nodded. “What did you do?”
“I just stood there. I was still pretty drunk, I’m afraid. For a couple of seconds I just watched the car pull away. Then it dawned on me, nobody should be driving the car then. Not the Duesenberg. It was supposed to stay there until the party ended, then the chauffeur was supposed to take the officers to their homes. That’s a perk. Then he’d bring the car back to the garage.”
Lindsey was jotting as fast as he could. Roberts said, “The water should be boiling.” He got up and disappeared into the kitchen again. When he came back he said, “Just a couple of minutes now.” Lindsey would have settled for instant, but he wasn’t going to complain.
“Then, Hob—Hobart—what do they call you?”
“Bart.”
“Then I ran into the mansion to tell everybody, and I did black out. They got some coffee into me and I was able to talk to Gutiérrez a little, then Dr. Bernstein took me back to her place and got me to bed on the couch.”
Lindsey frowned. “On the couch?”
Roberts looked sour. “In fact, yes. But what business is it of yours? You’re an insurance adjuster, not the morals squad.”
Lindsey held up his hand. “I’m not judging you. Or her.”
“Besides, Mason would have killed me.”
“Mason.”
“Ed Mason. Used to play line for the Raiders. He and Martha live together. Have for years. Since the Raiders were in Oakland.” The odor of coffee was wafting into the room. “That should be ready now.” Roberts went out to the kitchen and brought back a tray with cups and spoons and something that looked like a lab beaker full of raw petroleum. Steam rose from the beaker.
“Look, Lindsey, Bart, what’s going on here? Why don’t you just pay off the claim?”
Lindsey filled his cup and tasted the coffee. He had to admit that it was better than instant, or even the Mr. Coffee product that he and Ms. Wilbur drank at International Surety. “Right, we could just pay the insurance. We’d wait a while, hope the Oakland police could track the Duesenberg down, then pay up if they couldn’t. But we don’t want to rely on anybody else. If we can find that car, we can save a fat wad of money.”
Roberts ran his hands through his hair. He really did look dreadful. Lindsey had suffered through hangovers himself. Not many, but enough to know how Roberts felt. Roberts managed to look at Lindsey. “Bart, we can talk some more, but not now. I’ve got to get into bed.”
Lindsey drank some more coffee. It really was good; he didn’t want to abandon it. “You have an office? Somewhere you’ll be tomorrow?”
“Yeah. I have a little cubbyhole downtown. In the Clorox Building. I love a clean workplace.”
Lindsey laughed politely. Roberts laughed louder.
Then Roberts said, “Just phone first. And not too early, please! Maybe around 2:00 PM. Or 3:00. One benefit of being your own boss is, you get to set your own hours.”
Lindsey nodded. “Okay.” At the doorway, he said, “When you check your machine, you’ll find a call from me. Ignore.”
Roberts said, “Yeah.” He stood with his martini glass in his hand while Lindsey let himself out.
CHAPTER THREE
There wasn’t much Lindsey could do on a Sunday night. Mother was able to cook dinner for them before turning on Murder She Wrote and watching it in black-and-white. They could have saved money by buying a black-and-white TV, but sometimes Mother went to bed early and Lindsey was able to reset the controls and watch the late news in color.
Not tonight. Some desperate program director had scheduled Heidi, with Shirley Temple and Jean Hersholt. Lindsey wondered if Mother was slipping ever farther into the past. For a while she had been fixated on 1953, the year Lindsey’s father had died and Hobart Lindsey was born. But now she seemed to wander the corridors of time, from the Truman Era to the Roaring Twenties, without rhyme or reason.
Lindsey sat with his pocket organizer in his lap, jotting notes and trying to figure out a way to get the Duesenberg back. He had plenty of ideas, but before he pushed them too far he wanted some more info, and somebody to talk the case over with.
On Monday morning he arrived at his office in Walnut Creek and found that Ms. Wilbur had got there ahead of him. She greeted him with a smile and a message. “Call Mr. Harden.”
Lindsey pointedly took his coffee and sipped before he hit the speed dialer for Regional. Over the rim of the cup, he watched Ms. Wilbur watching him, wondering what went on in her mind.
“What about that Duesenberg?” Harden snapped without preliminary.
“I’m working on it.” Lindsey’s hand trembled a little, but he’d lowered the level of the coffee and nothing spilled.
“And?”
“And what, Mr. Harden?”
“‘Working on’ doesn’t tell me squat, man! What have you accomplished?”
“Ah—I scrutinized the scene of the crime. In Oakland. The Kleiner Mansion.”
“That didn’t take you two days, did it?”
“And I established contact with the police investigator. Officer Gutiérrez. And I talked with Ollie and Wally and they put me in touch with—”
“Ollie and Wally? What are you talking about, what is this, Lindsey, some kind of comedy? Ollie and Wally?”
“I was starting to tell you that they put me in touch with an eye witness. An eye witness to the—”
“Who the fuck are Ollie and Wally?”
Lindsey ground his teeth together, placed his coffee cup carefully on his desk, and carefully, gently, laid the telephone handset back on its base.
Ms. Wilbur applauded silently.
The phone controller on her desk trilled and she reached for it but Lindsey said, “That’s okay.” He lifted his own handset and said, “—theft. A man named Joseph Roberts. I interviewed him yesterday, at his home, and will follow up. I also spoke with the resident manager of the Kleiner Mansion and with several other members of the Smart Set. Ollie and Wally are Oliver Wendell Holmes van Arndt and Wallis Warfield Simpson Stanley van Arndt and they run the society. Thank you, Mr. Harden.”
He hung up again, as gently as he had the first time.
Ms. Wilbur said, “You’ve come a long way, Hobart.”
Harden didn’t call again.
Lindsey