Bill Pronzini: Quicksilver

Haruko sat on the couch again. I sat on one of the fake Victorian chairs; it was about as comfortable as sitting on a fence. The rain made a steady thrumming noise beyond the room’s velveteen-draped bay windows. Out in the kitchen, Gage banged pots and cupboard doors-angry sounds in the stillness.

I said, “What was it you wanted to see me about, Mrs. Gage? Your husband mentioned something about presents, but he didn’t elaborate.”

“I’m glad he didn’t. He gets emotional on the subject.”

“What sort of presents are they?”

“Expensive ones. Different pieces of jewelry. The latest was a white jade ring.”

“Who’s sending them to you?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

I raised an eyebrow.

“That’s the problem,” she said. “That’s why I want to hire you — to find out who’s doing it.”

“Let me get this straight. These gifts come in the mail?”

“Yes. First-class.”

“No return address?”

“None.”

“Insured?”

“No.”

“Postmarked where?”

“Here in the city-all of them.”

“No accompanying notes or anything?”

“Only with the first one. A one-line note.”

“What did it say?”

“It said, ‘With all the love in my heart.’ ”

“Just that?”

“Yes.”

“Do you still have the note?”

She nodded. “I saved it and the wrappings from the last couple of packages. I’ll have Art get them for you. The jewelry, too.”

“When did the first package arrive?”

“A little over two months ago.”

“How many others have there been?”

“Three. One last Saturday, another yesterday.”

“And you say they all contained expensive jewelry?”

“Yes. Four pieces, each one different, worth a total of over eight thousand dollars. I had them appraised.”

“That’s a lot of money for anonymous gifts.”

“Exactly,” she said.

“And you have no idea at all who’s sending them?”

“None. It’s driving Art crazy. He thinks I either had or am having an affair.” She gave me a level look. “He’s wrong. If they were that sort of present I certainly wouldn’t have told him about them, would I?”

“I don’t suppose you would.”

“Art is like a little boy sometimes,” she said, and the tone of her voice indicated she felt that was pretty much true of all men. I decided I would not have liked being married to her. But then, I wouldn’t be her type anyhow. Art Gage was her type; I had a feeling she hadn’t picked him by accident.

I said, “Is your husband’s jealousy the reason you decided to hire a private detective?”

“Not really. At first the presents were amusing; every woman likes the idea of a secret admirer. But now I’m getting worried. Whoever he is, he has to be at least a little crazy. Who knows what he might do?”

I made an agreeing noise: she was right.

“I want to know who he is,” she said, “and I want him to stop sending me things. And I don’t want him bothering me in any other way.”

“Has he bothered you in any other way? Anonymous phone calls, cars following you, anything like that?”

“No. Just the gifts. I’ll even give the jewelry back to him if that’s what it takes.”

“You mean you’d prefer to keep it?”

“Of course. Why shouldn’t I?”

I just looked at her.

“Well,” she said, “he’s put me through all this worry. And now there’s the expense of hiring a detective. Don’t let this house fool you; Art’s dad is a realtor and he got it for us cheap and gave us part of the down payment as a wedding present. We aren’t all that well off. Designing wallpaper makes us a good living, but there’s no extra money for luxury items. And I like nice things. What woman doesn’ t?”

Neat rationalizations. But I was not going to argue with her; what she did with the jewelry was her business, not mine.

“Your admirer is probably somebody you know,” I said. “It usually works that way. Do you have many male friends?”

“Not many, no. Mutual friends of Art’s and mine, mostly. But none of them has eight thousand dollars to spend on fancy jewelry. Besides, they’re all perfectly normal guys.”

Sure, I thought. Except that nobody knows what goes on inside another person’s head. Any number of “perfectly normal” people have committed all sorts of screwball acts, from mass murder on down to indecent exposure in front of old ladies, zoo animals, and park statues.

I asked, “How long have you been married, Mrs. Gage?”

“A little over two years.”

“Your first marriage?”

“Yes.”

“Any serious involvements prior to that?”

“Well… I dated a lot of men.”

“Did any of them ever propose marriage?”

“Yes. One.”

“So he must have been pretty serious, then.”

“I suppose he was.”

“How did he take it when you turned him down?”

“He was disappointed, naturally.” She frowned; you could see her working her memory. “Very disappointed, as a matter of fact. But I can’t imagine… no, it couldn’t be Kinji. He’s only been in this country six years and his beliefs are old-world.”

“How do you mean?”

“His beliefs toward women. They’re very proper.”

“You said his name is Kinji?”

“Kinji Shimata. He owns an art gallery at the Japan Center.”

“Successful, this gallery?”

“Oh yes. He could have afforded all that jewelry, but I still can’t-”

A sudden shrill whistling interrupted her: a tea kettle going off in the kitchen. The noise went on for four or five seconds, until Art Cage did something about it. I used the time to get out my notebook and write down Kinji Shimata’s name.

“Were there any other men serious about you?” I asked Haruko.

“Well, Nelson Mixer asked me to move in with him. But that was purely sexual, I think. It’s not the same as a serious proposal of marriage.”

“Maybe not,” I said, but I was thinking that it could be. “This Mixer is Caucasian, I take it?”

“Yes. He teaches California and U.S. history at City College. I met him there while I was taking some classes three years ago.”

“Have you had any contact with him since your marriage?”

“No. I haven’t seen Nelson since right after I refused to move in with him. I haven’t been back to City College and we don’t move in the same circles.”

“So Mixer went away quietly, then-no bad feelings or anything like that?”

“No. Nelson isn’t that kind.”

“What about Kinji Shimata? Did he go away quietly?”

“Yes. I still see him now and then, because the Japan Center is so close. He’s always very polite and reserved.”

Art Gage reappeared carrying a lacquered-wood tray with two cups and little bowls of sugar and milk on it. He put the tray on a boxy-looking table between his wife and me. Then, without saying anything, he went over and sat down next to her.

She let him get settled before she said, “Art, would you get the jewelry and the other stuff and bring it down? The jewelry’s in the bedroom; the rest is in that box in the studio.”

He gave her an irritated look, she gave it right back to him. It was no contest. His will was about as strong as an old lady’s belch, and hers was like pig-iron; he’d never be able to hold out against her for more than a few minutes on the best day he ever had. This wasn’t his best day and he didn’t make it past five seconds. He sighed and said, “Shit,” and got up and went out of the room again.

“Any other men you dated more than casually?” I asked Haruko. “Who might care for you more than you thought at the time?”

“The only one I can think of is Edgar Ogada.” She hesitated, then reached for her tea and said, “And Ken Yamasaki, I suppose. I never did know what he was thinking.”