39
Horse Liniment
They’d taken the Golden Gate auto ferry from the Hyde Street pier to Sausalito, had driven north to San Rafael, then on to the little town of Fairfax cupped in the wooded hills a few miles to the west. The top of Henny’s Austin was down; Spade had the open backseat of the little upright saloon car to himself. Mai-lin was huddled close to Henny in the too-big leather coat he gallantly had given her.
At 3 p.m., Henny stopped at the south end of Pastori Road, one hundred yards from the railroad station. Ahead was a wooden bridge over a meandering stream, flanked by white wooden slat fences like those at horse ranches. At the far end was a gate.
“Used to be Pastori’s Hotel,” said Spade. “Built around an outdoor dining area with the big oak tree in the middle of it. Once they winched a piano up into the tree and Irving Berlin climbed up and played it for one of their dances. Three years ago the Emporium department store bought it up to turn it into a country club for its employees.”
“That’s how I found Charles Boothe,” said Henny. “I was at lunch with Pater at the Bohemian Club. The manager of the Emporium heard us mention Boothe and told us a retired banker named Charles Boothe was accountant for their country club.”
They used the turnaround in front of the main building, stopped, and Spade got out. The grounds were beautifully land scaped, with a manicured lawn perfect for croquette matches. Whiskey jays squawked raucously in the flanking hardwoods.
“You folks wait here for me,” said Spade.
A pleasant-faced woman in her forties, hair cut short in the current fashion and a sheaf of menus under her arm, greeted Spade in the open, airy front dining room. The room was bright with ferns and round paper Chinese lanterns.
“May I help you?”
“I’m looking for your accountant.”
“Mr. Boothe?” She consulted an enameled Ball watch on a chain around her neck. “He’s probably in his cabin.” She raised her voice. “Hank? Do you know if Charles is around?”
Hank was in his forties, bearded, dressed casually.
“Left ten minutes ago, Mrs. Hendrix.” He looked at Spade without enthusiasm. “Charlie doesn’t like to be bothered.”
“We’re a little protective of Charles,” said Mrs. Hendrix. “He’s got a stiff leg, and for a time he was...”
“A boozer?” asked Spade.
“Oh, no, nothing like that,” she lied. She led Spade out the rear entrance. Bees buzzed lazily in honeysuckle vines draped to the ground. She pointed past a row of buildings. “The cottage at the far end. You can drive down there.”
The little cabin was of the same architecture as the main building, with two white-framed windows on each side and one in the rear. Low hedges shielded it, shade trees overhung it. The three of them crowded onto the narrow-roofed front veranda. Spade knocked on the door. There was no response.
“Mr. Boothe?”
After a long pause there was the sound of approaching uneven footsteps. The door opened.
Boothe was in his late sixties, as tall as Spade. His face would have once been rubicund, but now his nose was W. C. Fields’s, bulbous and red veined; his watery blue eyes behind rimless glasses had no answers, only questions. His free hand held an ebony cane. One leg was obviously stiff.
“Yes?”
Mai-lin stepped forward, bowed slightly to him.
“You were an associate of my father, Sun Yat-sen.”
“Even if true, there’s nothing to talk about.”
Boothe started to close the door, but Spade pushed past him into the cabin’s spacious main room. It had a round table, four chairs, and a double daybed that would open out into a bed at night. Beside the daybed was a floor lamp with an oval shade on a swivel that could serve as a reading lamp, and a bookcase crammed with adventure novels, mostly for kids.
Boothe stood stiffly, his back to the table. Spade chuckled.
“A Child’s Garden of Verses?”
“The books came with the cabin,” said Boothe quickly. “A woman and her two little daughters lived here before me.”
“Mmm-hmm. Let’s talk about Sun Yat-sen’s money.”
Strangely, Spade’s words seemed to lessen Boothe’s hostility.
“A young journalist from one of the San Francisco papers came round shortly after Sun Yat-sen’s death. He thought there might be a story in it. There wasn’t. Apart from him, nobody’s wanted to talk about those fund-raising days for years.”
“What was his name? What did he look like?”
“Slender. Dark hair. Fine features.” Boothe made a dismissive gesture. “There really was no story. I was unable to raise the money that Sun needed. It all came to naught.”
“Unable to raise all of the money,” said Spade.
“I don’t know what you mean.” Boothe glanced toward Mai-lin. “I’m sorry, but your father was an impossible man. He did not ever really trust Fritz and myself.”
“He was wise not to,” said Spade.
“What ever happened to Lea?” asked Henny.
Boothe’s eyes went vague. “I have no idea.”
Mai-lin was disbelieving. “Are you saying you didn’t know that he turned up after the revolution, in nineteen twelve, in London?”
“Oh, I knew that of course.” He gave a wry drinker’s chuckle. “Then I lost track of him, lost a leg, lost interest.”
“Miss Choi has it on good authority that you raised a quarter of a million bucks that’s never been accounted for.”
“Errant nonsense! The Emporium paid a quarter million to Adele Pastori for this property in nineteen twenty-five, and that was one of the largest real estate transactions in Marin County’s history.” His mouth tightened. “What good authority?”
Mai-lin said, “A few years ago the pastor of my Methodist congregation in Hawaii received a communication from the pastor of St. John’s Church in Chinatown. It told of a rumor that in nineteen ten a quarter of a million dollars had been raised for my father’s cause by you and Mr. Lea but was never turned over to him.”
“It’s all lies. Nothing but damnable lies.”
“Maybe a drink would help you remember.” Spade stood up abruptly. “We’re through here.”
A silent Henny drove up Main Street, recently renamed Broadway, in the gathering dusk. The water cart had been by, sprinkling the road and laying the dust. Mai-lin was huddled beside Henny as if exhausted.
“Stop here,” said Spade.
Across the street, at 19 Broadway, warm light came through the windows of the Fairfax Hotel and Restaurant. Henny twisted around on the car seat to face Spade.
“I don’t approve of some of the things you said and did back there, Mr. Spade. You were very unpleasant and—”
“I’m doing what she hired me to do. Ask her.”
“It’s all so... mixed up.” Mai-lin put a hand on Henny’s arm. “I went to Mr. Spade because he is the kind of man who can find out for me those things I thought I needed to know.”
Henny looked sheepish. “Heck, I’m sorry, Mr. Spade.”
Spade got out, said, “Go back to the city; I’ll catch the train to Sausalito.”
He crossed the ill-lit street to the two-story brick building. Light from the hotel lobby fell on a man of twenty-five leaning against the corner of the entryway in shirtsleeves. He had wise guy eyes and black hair slicked back with a lot of pomade.
Spade said, “Last time I saw you was in Wop Healy’s joint.”
“It got a little too hot for me over there across the bay.”
“I need a bottle of horse liniment, Slick.”
“Whiskey or rye? It all comes out of the same bathtub.”
“Just so it’s got alcohol in it.”