Max Idol - THE CHEAP RUBY RING

Text: © Copyright by D. Goetz

Cover: © Copyright by D. Goetz

Publisher: D. Goetz

Tannenbergstr. 11

73230 Kirchheim

Producer: epubli, neopubli GmbH, Berlin

….You're a piker, Marlowe. You're a peanut grifter. You're so little it takes a magnifying glass to see you….

Raymond Chandler, The Long Goodbye

1

It tried to crawl up the pane vertically. It had covered already two thirds, then obviously changed its mind and turned to the left. I tried to count its spots, but didn’t get further than fifteen - fifteen black spots contrasting to the deep purple-red of its body. Its ancestors had come a long way across the Pacific before one of their offspring decided to say hello to me.

I liked the bug. It brought color into my room. Finally it got apparently sick of being gazed at and spread its wings. Our short acquaintance and all the color were gone.

I got up got shaved and dressed and was ready to leave when the phone rang.

"Hello, my name is Coleman, Abigail Coleman."

It was a rather low-pitched voice for a woman, something below alto, but still female. A gentle voice, a voice you are inclined to trust and which made you feel at home.

"How can I help you?"

"Well, Mr. Laydon, my husband is missing. I'd like you to find him."

"To be honest, I don’t' like to track down missing husbands who ran away from their wives for whatever reason. And I hate being hired to prove your husband was cheating you. By the way, why me of all PIs?"

"Two statements, one question. Which one do you want to be answered first?"

Her voice was still gentle, pleasant and friendly, but between pleasant and friendly it had turned slightly tense.

"It's up to you."

"Well, to start with your question, a friend of mine recommended you to me. As for my husband, we've now been married for ten years and he never ever went away without telling me when he would be back. He has now been missing for three days."

I should have asked her who her friend was and why she had picked out me, but I didn't.

"Why didn't you report it to the police?"

"I did, their answer was similar to yours."

"So, Mrs. Coleman, how do think I could help you?"

"Well, I'd be pleased if you came to my home. We then could talk over everything unhurriedly and make a plan how to continue. Maybe, you could you make it by four this afternoon?"

If I had had a roster, the pages would have been full of the names of my clients, but there wasn't any roster. The rent for my flat had to be paid.

She gave me her address somewhere in East County. To get there, you had to drive about half an hour from downtown San Diego. People called this area San Diego's backyard - a region full of rolling hills and sparkling lakes. In springtime you could enjoy the bloom of thousands and thousands of wild flowers. In San Diego you can meet a lot of rich and a lot of less rich people. The less rich ones don't live in that part of East County.

One of the estates more or less randomly scattered in the rugged landscape was the modest home of Abigail Coleman. The driveway was lined with evergreen citrus trees that blossom in the spring and provide colorful fruits.

The parking area in front of the house was just big enough for my VW Beetle. If you tried hard you could spot without using binoculars two more cars parking, a Mercedes S500 Coupé and a sports car Porsche 911.

I rang the bell at the door. I immediately recognized her voice when she answered via intercom.

"Lawdon," I said. "Jacob Lawdon."

The release buzzer was pressed and I let myself in.

When I saw her, I knew I'd met her before. Strictly speaking it was only part of her that I remembered. I had seen the color of her suit not long ago.

The ladybug had lost its bug, but not its color. Only the dark spots were missing.

She was middle-sized, slender, but not too much, auburn hair which came down to her shoulders, sun-tanned complexion, aged about forty. Her eyes were wide set, but not too wide and their color was something between amber and night.

"I'm glad you managed to come, Mr. Lawdon. Have a seat, please. Like a drink, alcoholic or nonalcoholic?"

"I'd rather have a nonalcoholic one, one third orange juice and the little rest filled up with rye if you don't mind."

She gave me the faintest smile I'd ever seen, maybe it wasn't a smile at all. She got my drink and seated herself opposite to me on a davenport.

"Well, Mrs. Coleman, would you tell me the whole story."

She gave me a rough outline. Obviously her husband, Michael Coleman, had left their house three days ago and promised to be back in two days. She told me he was working as a consulting engineer for an international group and had to go abroad quite frequently. She had already tried to contact his secretary, but didn't succeed. So she wanted me to find out about his whereabouts, at least to get in contact with his secretary.

"What's the name of his secretary?"

"Olivia, Olivia Jackson. She should be in the office downtown."

She really seemed to be concerned about her husband and I finally agreed to take care of the case.

"I charge a flat fee of $250 per day including all my expenses."

"I guess you require a retainer, don't you? Would $1000 be okay?"

She issued a check for $1000. It had been a very long time I saw a one followed by three zeros on a check. So I said good-bye and promised to do my best. She showed me out and I gave her my finest smile. Before I got into my car, I had a short glance back and saw her standing in the doorway. Somehow I felt a sense of envy and I thought Mr. Michael Coleman ought to be a happy man and it was neither his Porsche nor his estate he should be happy for.

I drove the way back to San Diego.

2

"Is Mr. Coleman available, please?"

The blonde behind the desk in Mr. Coleman's office threw a look at me she had been practicing for many years. I was just about to confess that I had lied to my father when I was three, but before I could, she said, "Who wants to know, friend, business friend?"

"Both, we've been friends since we played together in a sand-box some forty years ago. It was then that I dug out a dime and promised to split the amount fairly, but I'm afraid, I never did. So today I came here to do what I should have done for years - to give him his share and to beg his pardon. You know, I should have stuck to our bargain!"

Apparently she didn't disapprove my words totally - to be honest, she became quite talkative, but still kept a straight face.

"He's on a business trip abroad. His secretary can give you more details. I'm afraid, she has some days off. By the way, I'm disgusted with people who owe money and don't repay it. So beat it!"

She wrote down name and address of Mr. Coleman's secretary and gave me that look again, but the second time it wasn't so impressive any more. You got used to it after a while.

Before I tried to get in contact with Olivia Jackson, I went back to my apartment in East Village. In former times this neighborhood was well-known for its drug addicts, prostitutes and vacant buildings. Though there had been a lot of urban renewal recently, some of the buildings were still in a pretty bad shape. In one of them I had my apartment, third floor, no lift. It was a one bedroom apartment, besides there were a closet, a bathroom and a kitchen, not to mention the two windows. To claim that lots of natural light was entering this upstairs unit would be a slight exaggeration. Part of the living room I used as an office.

What I was really proud of, was the illuminated doorplate made of elegantly styled polished brass with the engraved words 'Jacob Lawdon, Private Investigator'. Each time I read this, it reminded me of the fact that I was still living there and my landlord hadn't yet arranged the eviction.