I didn’t reply, but instead let my head fall back against the seat. I was tired and sleepy. At ten o’clock last night, Ann had called. She’d been deeply disturbed, almost in tears. She’d just had an unexpected call from her ex-husband, a society psychiatrist named Victor Haywood. The purpose of the call had been a demand that she “do something” about their younger son’s grades. In Haywood’s terms, the boy was a “low achiever.” Ann, a fourth-grade teacher, had protested. Billy was bright and happy: an imaginative, lively boy. A bitter argument had flared, during which Haywood had superciliously questioned Ann’s choice of a “bed partner.” Translation: Haywood thought I was a low achiever, too. Ann had hung up on him — and then called me. We’d finished talking at midnight. At 2 A.M. I was still awake — still angrily brooding.
Beside me, I heard Canelli elaborately clearing his throat. He couldn’t tolerate long silences. He couldn’t tolerate curiosity, either. So he began to probe:
“The guy that called it in—” Canelli hesitated. “I had the feeling that he knows you.”
“He does. We’ve played poker a few times.”
“Is he on the force?”
“He used to be. Now he’s private detective. He’s an old friend of Lieutenant Eberhardt’s. They served together on General Works.”
“As long as I been on the force,” Canelli said, “I never knew a private detective. Not personally, I mean. But whenever I run across one in the line of duty, so to speak, I gotta say that they give me the creeps, sometimes. I mean, there’s this one guy I met that seems to make his living snatching kids from one parent to give to another parent. And he seemed to be proud of what he was doing. And he also seemed to be getting rich from it, too. He was driving a Mercedes, I remember. And he even said he had an airplane, too.” Canelli shook his head. “I couldn’t get over it.”
I pointed ahead. “Van Ness is next. You’d better get in the right lane.”
“Oh. Right.” Canelli glanced hurriedly over his shoulder and abruptly jerked the steering wheel to the right. His broad, swarthy face furrowed as a horn blared from behind.
“Those sportscars,” he muttered. “They’re always coming up on you from out of nowhere.”
I often wondered why I’d chosen Canelli as my driver — or, for that matter, why I’d picked him for my squad. At age twenty-eight, at a suety two hundred thirty, Canelli looked and acted more like an overweight fry cook than a homicide detective. His brown eyes were innocent. His normal expression was either puzzled or beguiled, depending on the problem. His only professional asset was a perpetual run of incredible good luck. If the entire squad spent days sifting through garbage for a murder gun, Canelli would accidentally stumble over the weapon lying under a rosebush. His luck protected him behind the wheel, too. In hot pursuit, Canelli drove with a kind of inspired lunacy — all the while muttering to himself. Once, mopping my face at the end of a chase, I’d told Canelli that he reminded me of W. C. Fields in The Bank Dick. Canelli’s large brown eyes had reproached me for days. He was the only detective I’d ever known who could get his feelings hurt.
“If he’s a friend of Lieutenant Eberhardt’s, I suppose he’s all right,” Canelli ventured. He was probing again.
I shrugged. “He seems all right to me. He’s one of these people who doesn’t talk unless he’s got something to say. And, if it’ll reassure you, I don’t think he’s got much money.”
“That probably means he’s honest.”
“It probably does.”
My poker-playing friend — they called him Bill — was standing just inside an elaborate wrought-iron gate.
“Hello, Frank. Good to see you.”
I smiled and offered my hand. “Good to see you, too.”
I introduced him to Canelli and turned to look at the house. It was an impressive sight: a two story neo-colonial with a pillared portico, Williamsburg-style windows and a gabled roof. The property was surrounded by an ornate iron fence supported by traditional brick pillars. The grounds around the house were meticulously landscaped. Situated on some of the most desirable real estate in San Francisco, the property could easily be worth a quarter of a million dollars. Seen shrouded in the fog that was blowing up Russian Hill from the Bay below, the house and grounds seemed strangely isolated, revealing nothing.
I turned to Canelli. “You go inside and secure the premises. Then make the calls. When you call, make sure you get the best personnel available, even if they come from home. I want Parrington from the lab and Walton from the coroner’s office — plus enough assistants to get the job done. I’ll call the D.A. myself, as soon as I get the details straight.”
“Yessir.” Canelli turned to Bill. “Which phone did you use?”
“The one in the study. The front door’s locked, so you’ll have to go in through the service door to the garage. It’s on the downhill side. That door was ajar when I came. So that’s the way I left it.”
“Once you’ve made the calls,” I said to Canelli, “you may as well open the front door. Leave it wide open, and tag it in that position for the lab.” I hesitated a moment, surveying the large corner lot, with only the five-foot iron fence for protection against the curious. “Better call for three black and white units,” I added. “At least.”
“Right.” Canelli lumbered down the sloping sidewalk toward the driveway.
I turned to Bill. “Before the troops get here, I’d like you to give me everything you’ve got that’s relevant. We can talk there—” I gestured to the porch, where we would be sheltered from the fog. As I preceded the private detective, he carefully closed the gate behind us, using a handkerchief.
For the next few minutes he talked and I listened. Midway through the report Canelli opened the front door, and I gestured for him to join us.
Bill’s report was a good, solid one: concise but not too sketchy, perceptive but not too speculative. When he finished, I regretfully shook my head as I looked him straight in the eye.
“At this point,” I said, “the man we want to question most is your client. He’s the one who’s missing — and probably running. I guess that’s obvious.”
His only reply was a brief, rueful smile. But the expression on his squared-off face was easily readable. He was a serious, conscientious man — one who cared what happened to his clients. He hated the idea of his client in custody. But he wouldn’t ask me for a break. He was too proud.
As two black and white cars pulled up in front of the house, Canelli asked the private detective whether he’d ever served in Homicide. The rueful smile returned.
“I was never asked,” he replied.
I faced the two of them. To Canelli I said, “I want you to take him into a bedroom, or somewhere, and make notes on everything he’ll tell you — names, times, addresses, everything. It’ll be part of your report. I don’t have any of his information on paper. So it’s your responsibility. Clear?”
Canelli nodded. “That’s clear.”
“If you want,” Bill said, “I’ll send you a written report.”
I nodded. “Fine. Thanks. But I still need Canelli’s.”
We shook hands, and I watched the two big men turn and walk into the house together. Their movements were as different as their personalities. Despite his size, Canelli’s gait was loose and ambling. Bill’s movements were solid and decisive. Canelli was still deciding who he was and where he was going. The older man already knew.
I turned to the four uniformed men who had assembled behind me on the walk, waiting for orders. I recognized a sergeant, and made him responsible for securing the perimeter of the property. As we talked, a third black and white car drew up at the curb. Across the street, a press car was parking illegally. Up and down the block, window drapes were drawn aside; front doors were opening. In the cold, fog-smudged darkness, shirtsleeved people were materializing: silent, disembodied, two-dimensional figures. Whenever someone died, wherever the place, the same silent shapes appeared. The shades, someone had called them. From Greek tragedy.