Bill Pronzini - Deadfall

“Other dealers and collectors there too?”

“Two other collectors. Purcell got them all together so he could gloat, evidently; he’d just bought the box.”

“From?”

“Nobody seems to know. He kept his source a secret.”

“Illegal deal, maybe?”

“Maybe. But there doesn’t seem to be any way it could tie in to his death, or to his brother’s. And those other collectors he invited are blue-chip citizens.”

“Okay,” I said. “So you figure the guy Washburn talked to on the phone was just a crank.”

“Probably. Or somebody with a bright idea on how to make a fast buck.”

“Either way, Ben, why would he wait six months? Why not make the call within a few days of Kenneth’s death?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Klein said. “But don’t forget the same thing applies if the caller really did have knowledge that it was a homicide. Why wait six months?”

Good question either way. And one of several weak points in Washburn’s theory. I said, “Nothing in Leonard’s effects to indicate he ever talked to the guy?”

“Nothing.”

“Or what might have happened to the missing two thousand?”

“No.”

I asked him about Kenneth Purcell’s wife and daughter. He smiled wryly. “A couple of sweethearts, those two,” he said.

“How so?”

“You’ll see when you meet them. I wouldn’t want to spoil your fun by tipping you off ahead of time.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet. Can I get a list of the people at the party? Names and addresses?”

“I don’t see why not. Come upstairs with me after we finish.”

So I went back upstairs with him, and he gave me a computer printout of the list. He also gave me the address and telephone number of the Moss Beach house where Alicia Purcell now lived alone, the name of the attorney who had handled Kenneth’s legal affairs, and the name of the guy that Melanie Purcell was living with on Mission Creek.

I thought about asking him to let me look over the complete file on the Leonard Purcell homicide, but I didn’t do it. Cops don’t mind helping out private detectives now and then, if you maintain a good professional rapport with them, but they get testy if you hang around and ask too many favors. They have to slog along assembling facts on their own; they figure you ought to be doing the same thing. In the detective business, there is no such thing as a free ride. Or, for that matter, a free lunch: I had paid for Klein’s, and gladly.

Kenneth Purcell’s attorney, Lawrence Rossiter, had a suite of offices on the twentieth floor of a newish high-rise in Embarcadero Center. Both the offices and the address were impressive, and so was Rossiter himself: sixtyish, graying, with a beautifully groomed walrus mustache and the kind of courtly manner you seldom find these days in any lawyer under the age of fifty. He kept me waiting less than fifteen minutes before he had his secretary usher me into his rosewood-paneled inner sanctum, which was another point in his favor.

He was helpful, too, although he made it clear from the start that he was willing to discuss the terms of Kenneth’s will only because it was in probate and therefore a matter of public record. It was due to clear probate, he said, in less than two weeks.

“How much is the estate worth?” I asked him.

“Upwards of two million. Of course, the bulk of that is in property and other non-liquid assets.”

“How much cash?”

“Something better than five hundred thousand.”

“The three primary beneficiaries are his widow, his daughter, and his brother Leonard, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Divided how?”

“The cash into equal thirds,” Rossiter said. “Most of the property and other assets go to his widow.”

“Including the Moss Beach house?”

“Yes.”

“And his collection of antique tobacco items?”

“That too, yes.”

“How much is the collection worth?”

“It was appraised at three hundred thousand. The house is valued at half a million at the current market price.”

That kind of estate was a hell of a good motive for murder, I thought. Especially so for Alicia Purcell, but also for the daughter, Melanie; people had been given a nudge into the hereafter for a lot less than a couple of hundred grand. Still, as Klein had pointed out, a strong motive didn’t mean anything if you couldn’t prove a homicide had taken place.

I asked Rossiter, “Did Kenneth make any other bequests?”

“No.”

“Nothing to his first wife? Or is she no longer living?”

“Katherine is alive as far as I know. Living in Seattle, I believe. But Kenneth chose not to include her.”

“It wasn’t an amicable divorce, then?”

“It was not.”

“When did they split up?”

“They separated in ’seventy-three; the divorce was final the following year.”

“When did he marry Alicia?”

“Immediately after the final decree.”

“Was she the reason for the first marriage breaking up?”

Rossiter gave me a look of mild reproach. “I hardly think that’s germane to the subject of Kenneth’s will,” he said.

“I guess not. Were there any unusual stipulations or clauses in the will?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. A proviso that Leonard’s bequest not be paid to him until two full years after the closing of probate. And that it not be paid at all if Leonard died in the interim.”

“What was the reason for that?”

Rossiter hesitated. Then he shrugged and said, “I see no reason not to tell you. Kenneth disliked his brother’s lifestyle and disapproved of the man Leonard was living with.”

“Uh-huh, I get it. He couldn’t stop Leonard from leaving his own money to Tom Washburn, but he didn’t want Washburn to get a piece of his money-at least not right away.”

“Something like that.”

“Nice guy, Kenneth.”

Rossiter didn’t have any comment.

I said, “Who gets Leonard’s third of the estate now?”

“Alicia and Melanie. Evenly divided between them.”

Motive for both, I thought, to have shot Leonard as well as to have murdered Kenneth. More so for Melanie, though; when you were getting more than a million, as Alicia was, you’d have to be damned greedy to commit murder for another few hundred thousand.

Rossiter had nothing more to tell me. I thanked him for his time and left him to his work. Downstairs in the lobby, I closed myself inside a public telephone booth and called the Moss Beach number I had got from Ben Klein. A woman I took to be a maid or housekeeper answered. She said Mrs. Purcell was not at home and wasn’t expected back until after five. Did I wish to leave a message? I said no, I would call back, and rang off. I would have tried calling Melanie Purcell, too, but she didn’t have a phone. Not too many people living on Mission Creek did have one.

Where to next? I asked myself when I came out of the booth. Some of the guests at Kenneth’s farewell party had San Francisco addresses; I could start canvassing them, beginning with the gallery owner, Eldon Summerhayes. But I wanted a better handle on the surviving members of the Purcell family first, particularly after Klein’s “sweethearts” comment, and now that I knew the details of Kenneth’s will. Alicia Purcell wasn’t home; maybe Melanie was.

I picked up my car and went to find out.

Mission Creek is a narrow body of water that leads inland from China Basin, a dead-end canal spanned by the Third and Fourth Street drawbridges-all that is left of old Mission Bay, landfill having claimed the rest. The creek is flanked on one side by warehouses, freight consolidators, and industrial outfits that line parallel Channel Street; on another side by part of the Southern Pacific freight yards; on another by empty storage lots. And over it all loom the curving ramps and overpasses of Highway 280’s city terminus. Standing down there along the canal, you can hear the steady thrum of traffic, the air horns on the commuter trains that move in and out of the SP Depot at Third and Townsend, the throb and roar of trucks and heavy machinery. And yet there is something about Mission Creek itself, a kind of timeless solitude, that seems to keep it aloof from its hectic surroundings.