Bill Pronzini: Scattershot

It was noon by the time I got back to Drumm Street. Some of my funk was gone; I had my mind on business, instead of on Kerry, and things seemed a little brighter than they had earlier. I stopped at a cafe near my building, ate a pastrami sandwich, and then went to the office to earn my fee.

I spent fifteen minutes going over the Speers file. In addition to the names and addresses of relatives and friends, there were some newspaper clippings chronicling various activities: social stuff, parties she’d attended or given, a fund raising for a local congressman; accounts of her two divorces, one from a doctor named Colwell and the other from a businessman named Eason; a recent gossip column squib linking her romantically with a well-known Hollywood TV actor; an article dealing with an arrest for drunk driving a couple of years back, which had been newsworthy because she’d led two police cars a merry chase through the Marina. None of that told me much, except to confirm what Brister had led me to believe about her.

I dragged the phone over and dialed the number listed in the file for her home address, an exclusive section of Pacific Heights. A woman’s voice answered by saying, “The Speers residence.” I asked for Lauren Speers, and the woman said she was sorry, Ms. Speers was out of town, and I said I was calling for the well-known Hollywood TV actor mentioned in the gossip column squib, who was anxious to talk to Ms. Speers on a matter of urgent importance. Could she please tell me where Ms. Speers might be reached? She could not. She said she would pass along the message if Ms. Speers called or returned home; then she asked, a little coldly, for my name and number. At which point I thanked her for her time and hung up on her. So much for trying to be clever.

I called a guy I knew who worked for the Examiner, and through him I got to talk to the woman who edited the society page. I didn’t tell her I was a detective, which would have aroused her curiosity and got me nowhere; instead I said I was a writer who wanted to interview Speers. But I got nowhere with that, either. The society editor had no idea where Speers was, nor did she know of any upcoming special events in or out of the city which Speers might be expected to attend. All I learned from her was that Speers was reputed to be writing a book, about what no one seemed to know, — she offered the opinion that maybe the book was the reason why the lady had dropped out of sight.

Using various cover stories, I made half a dozen more calls to Ms. Speers’s friends and relatives. The results were’ the same; if any of them knew where she was, they weren’t talking under any circumstances. I decided I needed a different approach and went back and reread Brister’s file, looking for an angle that I could pursue. I was still looking when George Hickox showed up for his three o’clock appointment.

He came in right on time; he was the type who would always be punctual. He was in his mid-thirties, brawny, heavy-featured, with styled black hair and a neat mustache, and he had a stiff-backed, vaguely supercilious air about him. His clothing was immaculate: dark three-piece suit, crisp white shirt with monogrammed cuff links, crisp blue tie with a monogrammed clip. The suit was of good quality, but it was not particularly expensive; the same was true of the cuff links and the tie clip and his polished black loafers. He may have represented money in the person of Mr. Clyde Mollenhauer, whoever he was, but he was not exactly wallowing in it himself.

I ushered him into the inner office and watched him look around before he took one of the clients’ chairs. His lip seemed to want to curl a little when he laid eyes on the Black Mask poster, but he managed to control the impulse. He sat stiff-backed, as I knew he would, and crossed one leg over the other and studied me the way he had the office. I must have passed inspection, because after a moment he nodded once and said, “What do you charge for your services?”

“That depends on what the service entails. I generally get two hundred dollars a day, plus expenses.”

“That would be satisfactory.”

“Just what is it your Mr. Mollenhauer wants guarded? Or should I say who?”

“No, it’s what. Wedding presents.”

“Pardon?”

“Wedding presents,” Hickox said again. “Mr. Mollenhauer’s daughter is being married on Saturday, — the reception will be held on his estate in Ross.”

Ross, I thought. Well, now. Ross was a little Marin County community a half-hour’s drive across the Golden Gate Bridge; it was also the kind of place that catered to people with a lot of anachronistic ideas about class and racial distinctions. They had a committee which screened applicants for pieces of their exorbitantly priced real estate. You could be as rich as King Midas, but if you did not measure up to certain rigid standards, or if you happened to be a member of a variety of ethnic groups, you would be hard-pressed to buy your way in.

Not that everybody who lived in Ross was a bigot or a snob, of course; most of the people were all right and had gravitated there for the prestige, the scenery, and the best police protection in the county. But the ones who controlled Ross were of a type, and the types they wanted to live with were their own. I wondered if Mr. Clyde Mollenhauer was one of those controlling forces. If he was, I was not going to enjoy working for him.

Hickox said, “The gifts are to be delivered prior to the church ceremony, by their respective givers. Mr. Mollenhauer anticipates a number of very expensive items among them.” “I see.”

“Your job will be to keep watch on them while everyone is away at the church and during the party afterward. You’ll be on duty from two o’clock until eight, when the bride and groom begin opening the presents.” “That’s fine.” “Do you carry a firearm?” “No. You want me to come armed?” “Mr. Mollenhauer would prefer it.” “Why? He’s not expecting trouble, is he?” “Of course not. It’s merely an added precaution.”

“All right. Whatever Mr. Mollenhauer wants.” “Yes,” Hickox said, “exactly.” “Is there anything else I should know?” “I believe that’s everything.” “Okay, then. It sounds simple enough.” “It should be, yes. Do you know Ross at all?” “I’m afraid not.”

“Mr. Mollenhauer’s estate is on Crestlawn Drive. Number eighty.” He went on to tell me how to get there, and I dutifully wrote down the directions on my notepad. “You’re to arrive by two o’clock,” he said. “Please be on time.”

“I will be.”

He nodded. “You’ll be paid at the end of your tour of duty. I trust that’s satisfactory.”

I said that it was. I got out one of the standard contract forms I use, filled it in, and asked Hickox to sign it as Clyde Mollenhauer’s agent. He did that, but not until he had read it over at least twice.

He stood up after he handed it back to me; I stood up with him. “Do you mind if I ask you a question, Mr. Hickox?”

“Yes?”

“Just who is Clyde Mollenhauer?”

He looked surprised. “You don’t know?”

“The name isn’t familiar, no.”

“Mr. Mollenhauer,” he said stiffly, “is one of the most important men in the computer industry. He owns several companies and several patents. He is also a leading figure in political circles.”

Good for him, I thought. And I’ll bet I know which side of the political fence he’s on, too. “It must be interesting,” I said, “working for a man like that.”

“Yes, it is. Very.”

“What is it you do for him, if you don’t mind my asking?”

He did mind my asking; his eyes said that. They also said that I was a little too inquisitive for my own good and that I would be wise if I remembered my place, whatever he thought that might be. “I am Mr.‘Mollenhauer’s personal secretary,” he said. And two seconds after that he said, “Good afternoon,” and took himself out of there without bothering to shake my hand.