“About two and a half years ago.”
“Have you seen much of him since?”
“No. I’ve run into him a couple of times, the last one at a festival a few months ago. That was the last time I saw Edgar, too, come to think of it. He was there with his father.”
“Edgar Ogada, you mean?”
“Yes. He’s the only old boyfriend I still get together with once in a while.”
“Tell me about him.”
“Well, I guess you could say Edgar’s a free spirit. All he’s interested in is having a good time: parties, sports car races, sailing, that kind of thing. I liked him a lot when I first met him five years ago — I still do-but! I could never have gotten deeply involved with him. He has no ambition, so he’ll never be successful at anything.”
Uh-huh, I thought. Meaning you couldn’t manipulate him the way you do Artie.
“I think he still loves me in his own way,” she said. “That’s why I mentioned him. But he just couldn’t be my admirer. He isn’t the type to send anonymous presents; it isn’t his style.”
“Could he afford to spend the money?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe he could.”
“What does he do for a living?”
“He works for his father. The Ogada Nursery on El Camino, in South San Francisco.”
“Is that the plant kind of nursery?”
“Yes.”
I wrote Edgar Ogada’s name and address in the notebook. Then I tried some of my coffee; it was weak and tepid. Yeah, that figured, since Art Gage had made it. I was putting the cup down again when Gage came clomping back into the room. In one hand was a smallish cardboard box; in the other were four little jewelry cases. He put everything on the table next to the lacquered tray and plunked himself down next to Haruko again. She didn’t look at him and neither did I.
One of the items in the cardboard box was a sheet of ruled notepaper that had been folded several times. The words on it- With all the love in my heart — had been written in ink, the fountain pen variety, in a crabbed, almost childlike scrawl.
I looked up at Haruko. “The printing on this isn’t at all familiar to you?”
“No.”
“Do you know anyone who still uses a fountain pen?”
“I can’t think of anyone, no.”
I picked up one of the package wrappings. Haruko’s name and address had been printed in the same crabbed scrawl. Someone trying to disguise his handwriting? Maybe. The wrapping didn’t tell me anything else. Plain brown paper, the kind you can buy in any dime store. Stamps affixed in neat rows. No return address, no other markings.
The jewelry cases were plain, without any sort of store identification. The four pieces they contained-the white jade ring, a gold locket shaped like a heart with a pearl inlaid on the front, a diamond pendant, and a pair of sapphire earrings-were each free of inscriptions or traceable markings. The jade ring was bulky, more a man’s type than a woman’s, and it had some tiny scratches on it, as if it might not be new. I found a scratch on the locket, too. But the earrings and the pendant appeared never to have been worn.
“There isn’t much here to go on, really,” I said. “I’ll investigate for you, Mrs. Gage, but I can’t promise you anything more than an honest effort. A case like this, where you’re dealing with anonymous mailings… well, it all depends on who’s responsible. If it’s one of the men you mentioned, there’s a fairly good chance I can either find out or at least intimidate him enough by my presence so that he quits pestering you. If it isn’t one of those men, if it’s someone you know only casually, for instance, there’s just not much I can do.”
Haruko nodded. “I understand. I considered all that before I decided to call you.”
Gage said, “Listen, hon, I’m not so sure about this-”
“Art.”
“Well, I’m not sure it’s a good idea,” he said. He switched his gaze to me. “How much do you charge?”
“Two hundred dollars a day, plus expenses.”
“My God! Haruko… Christ, we can’t afford-”
“Art,” she said sharply, “be quiet. We can afford it; the value of the jewelry more than covers the expense. It’s something that has to be done.”
Gage didn’t like it, but he did shut up again. He sat there looking petulant.
“I’ll hire you for three days,” Haruko said to me. “That should be enough time for you to ask questions and see if you’re getting anywhere, shouldn’t it?”
“It should be, yes.”
“If you find out something and need more time, we can talk about that later. Will you start right away?”
“Yes. I’ll do what I can today and make up the rest of the time on Sunday.”
“How much of an advance do you want?”
“A hundred dollars would be fine.”
She didn’t make Gage fetch the family checkbook; she actually got off the couch and went to the secretary desk herself. She had nice hips, if you like them plump. Gage obviously did; he watched her move with low heat in his eyes. While she was writing the check I got out the standard contract form I’d brought with me and filled it in. I had Haruko sign it, then handed her a copy in exchange for the check.
Gage got off his tail, and the two of them accompanied me to the door. As I was putting on my coat and hat, and telling Haruko I’d check in with her sometime tomorrow at the latest, Gage draped a tentative arm around her shoulders. She didn’t shrug him off; instead she nuzzled against him, all kittenish now that she’d got her way, and slid her own arm about his waist. He lost his petulant look, gave me a fatuous grin over the top of her head.
Love, I thought. Ain’t it wonderful?
I got out of there.
Chapter Three
The Shimata Gallery was in the west wing of the Japan Center, sandwiched between a bookstore and a shop that sold Japanese dolls and puppets. It was a smallish place, with a lot of open floor space and most of its merchandise displayed on table-sized, clear plastic cubes. When I walked in, the only other people there were a dignified-looking Japanese guy of about thirty-five and a scrawny dowager type who had a toy poodle tucked under one arm. They were having a conversation about something called a Noh mask from the seventeenth century; evidently the dowager wanted to give it to her husband for Christmas and was worried that it wouldn’t arrive from Japan in time.
I wandered around looking at the artwork on display, waiting for them to get done with their business. Handpainted screens, woodblock prints and carvings, scroll paintings, a huge samurai sword in an ornamental scabbard. And a lot of delicate porcelain enameled in whites, reds, blues, and golds: vases, boxes, candlesticks, teapots, beakers, cups and saucers. Some of the stuff appeared to be antique and all of it appeared to be expensive. Proof of that was the absence of any price tags.
On the way over from the Gage house-I’d walked because it was only two blocks and the rain had stopped for a while-I had tried to decide on the best way to handle this job. I was still deciding. It was one of those oddballs that come along now and then: no crime had been committed, not even a misdemeanor; technically, whoever had sent the presents to Haruko Gage wasn’t even guilty of harassment. So normal investigative channels weren’t going to be of any use. And I had to be careful not to say or do anything that could get anybody after me for harrassment. About the only tack I could see to take was the straightforward one-be upfront about who I was and what I was doing, see how things developed with each of the people I talked to, and let instinct guide me the rest of the way.
It figured to be routine and pretty dull work; nothing stimulating, nothing that called for deduction or fancy footwork. Just flatfoot stuff-a lot of running around and interviewing. But that was okay. You couldn’t always get challenging cases; and the pulp private eyes could have the exotic ones that involved slinky blondes and guys with guns. All I really wanted anyway was something to occupy my mind for the next few days, so I could keep it off Jeanne Emerson, my diet, Eberhardt, and the new joint office.