Takahashi squinted. “Good shot. Man knew what he was doing. Used a telephoto, of course. What’s the problem?”
“What day was the picture taken?”
Takahashi looked up with surprise, bent over the photograph. After a moment he said, rather more slowly than before, “You’re thinking about the sunlight?”
“Yes. Notice the clock outside the jewelry store. Assuming that it’s accurate, and since the sunlight slants down at an angle that can be measured, and the orientation of Grant Avenue is a fixed value, can’t you calculate from that what day the picture was taken?”
Takahashi rubbed his chin. “It might be last year. Or the year before.”
“It’s this year. Look at the license plates on the cars.”
“Of course!” Takahashi jumped to his feet, went to a cupboard and returned with a large-scale map of San Francisco. “Let’s see what can be done here...”
Ten minutes passed, twenty. Richard Takahashi measured angles, made sketches on scratch paper, worked his slide rule, consulted the Nautical Almanac. Finally he leaned back in his chair. “The photograph was probably taken Tuesday, June fourth, although it could have been June third or June fifth. That’s the range of possibility, Merv.”
“You can’t pin it down to a single day?”
“No.”
Mervyn thanked Richard Takahashi and left. What the devil was the use?
In a fog of gloom and anxiety, he trudged south on Telegraph Avenue. He turned into an espresso coffee shop, sipped a brew whose bitterness he hardly tasted. At a table in the corner a young woman sat, nose in a book. Long dark hair fell forward, almost obscuring her vision. It was John Pilgrim’s girl friend, the lady of the guitar.
Mervyn got to his feet, took his coffee over to her table and sat down. She looked up with a filmed-over expression and smiled vaguely.
Mervyn said, “John Pilgrim never introduced us. My name is Mervyn Gray.”
“I’m Varella.”
“Varella? Varella what?”
“Just Varella.”
“Well,” said Mervyn, “why not? How does your driver’s license read?”
“Just Varella.”
“Didn’t the clerk protest?”
“Why should he? It’s my name.”
“I see.” He glanced at her book. “You like poetry?”
“Yes.” She spoke with absolute finality.
“Does John Pilgrim write good poetry?”
“Yes.” She gave the word an equally positive sound. You’re a lousy critic, sweetheart, Mervyn thought.
“You’re his fiancée?”
Varella guffawed. “Oh, no! Nothing so foul. When things get formal they go all skibiyah. I see a great deal of him, though. I’m waiting for him now.”
“How long has he worked at the Claremont?”
“Sh! You must never mention that. John pretends it’s for kicks. Secretly he’s very depressed about it.”
“Does he work every night?”
“Naturally not. He has Tuesdays and Wednesdays off.”
“Never Friday night?”
“I don’t think so. Although sometimes he trades shifts with another bellboy.”
“Oh,” Mervyn said. “Which bellboy is that?”
“Al Pennington. Al is crazy about painting birds. The most meticulous work. Imaginary birds sometimes.”
“Today is the twenty-second.”
“Of course.” Varella laughed, as if at some esoteric joke.
“Yesterday was the twenty-first.”
“How true.”
“A week ago was the fourteenth. Do you remember it?”
“I don’t think so. I try very hard not to remember things.”
“Was John Pilgrim working on the night of June fourteenth?”
“I simply refuse to remember. The past is blank, dead. I hate death.” She gave an elaborate shudder. “The symbols of death. So many of them. Sunset. A car going into a tunnel. An empty cup.” She pointed to Mervyn’s. “Please fill it.”
“All right. How about you?”
She shook her head. “I haven’t touched mine. I order it, but I’m afraid to drink it.”
Mervyn returned with a full cup. “See? Renewed life. Your symbols all have an obverse. Sunrise. A car coming out of a tunnel. A refill.”
“Yes.” Varella gave her hair an irritated poke. “It’s probably ultra-humanist to care. I’m ultra-humanist myself, but I despise it in anyone else.” She studied Mervyn. “My goodness, you’re a handsome man. Do you like girls? Or—”
“Girls, definitely,” said Mervyn.
“I have a friend you might like,” Varella said thoughtfully. “Skinny as all hell, but with beautifully silky red hair. You’d do her a world of good, I think. She’ll be out of the clinic next weekend.”
“Clinic? Is she a nurse?”
“No, she’s a patient. Every few months she goes to the Langley-Porter Clinic and stays for three weeks of therapy.”
“Varella,” Mervyn said desperately. “Think of the fourteenth. Not as a week ago, but as a springboard to today. A kind of a launching pad into the future?”
“Yes... How interesting!”
“Now.” Mervyn inhaled. “Did John Pilgrim work the night of the fourteenth?”
“I don’t know. I’ve only known him a few days.”
Mervyn swallowed a curse and left. He crossed the street to a service-station telephone booth and called the Claremont Hotel, asking to speak to the bell captain.
A soft, cautious voice came on the line. “Charles speaking.”
“What time does Al Pennington come on duty?”
“Pennington? He’s gone.”
“Gone? You mean he doesn’t work there any more?”
“That’s right, sir. Quit for the summer. He’s temporary help.”
“Do you have his address?”
“Mexico.”
Mervyn rolled his eyes telephone-booth-ceilingward. “Do you happen to know if Pennington worked on the night of the fourteenth in place of John Pilgrim?”
“No idea. The boys switch shifts around to suit themselves. So long as there’s the full quota of men on the floor it’s O.K. by me. Who’s calling, sir?”
“Government checkup, confidential,” said Mervyn in a tone of voice he considered suitable. “Nothing to anyone’s discredit, you understand. Is anyone there who’d remember the fourteenth?”
“John Pilgrim would.”
“Yes, of course. Remember, please, this is confidential.”
“Yes, sir,” the bell captain said. He sounded utterly unconvinced.
Mervyn hung up and laughed loudly. The laugh bounced off the walls of the booth.
About the only thing he was sure of was that Mary Hazelwood was dead.
And that whoever had killed her was measuring one Mervyn Gray for his scalp.
Chapter 11
Mervyn walked listlessly back to the Yerba Buena Garden Apartments. He had no idea what he ought to do next. He stopped before his car, the fateful green convertible. It looked back at him with baleful intelligence, headlamps glinting with evil knowledge, bumper pursed as if restraining a smile.
By God! thought Mervyn. That’s one thing I can do, and right now. Before he left, he kicked the front left tire.
He stalked to his apartment and rummaged about until he found the pink ownership certificate. A minute later he was rapping on the door of Apartment 1.
John Boce looked out at him blearily. He wore a flannel bathrobe, rumpled and stained. His thin, sandy hair was mussed, his face flushed with sleep. “Oh, it’s you. Come in.” He yawned, showing a throatful of teeth and other things. “What’s on your mind, Mervyn?”
Mervyn’s words came as a surprise even to Mervyn. The idea must have been clamoring in his unconscious. “Did you put a fifth of whiskey outside my door last night?”