“As far as I know my client is the owner of the briefcase in question and its contents.”
Lee was biding his time, waiting for something. In my opinion he was acting like a buffoon but those eyes made me wary.
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“What is the name of the man who stole the briefcase?”
Lee balked then. He brought his fingers together, forming a triangle.
“I’d like to know a little bit more about you before divulging that information,” he said.
I sat back and turned my palms upward. “Shoot.”
“Where are you from?”
“A deep dark humanity down in Louisiana, a place where we never knew there was a depression because we never had the jobs to lose.”
“Education?”
“I read Mann’s Magic Mountain last month. The month before that I read Invisible Man.”
That got a smile.
“H. G. Wells?”
“Ellison,” I countered.
“You fought in the war?”
“On both fronts.”
Lee frowned and cocked his head. “The European and Japanese theaters?” he asked.
I shook my head and smiled.
“White people took their shots at me,” I said. “Most of them were German but there was an American or two in the mix.”
“Married?”
“No,” I said with maybe a little too much emphasis.
“I see. Are you a licensed PI, Mr. Rawlins?”
“Yes sir, I am.”
Holding out a child’s hand, he asked, “May I see it?”
“Don’t have it with me,” I said. “It’s in a frame on the wall in my office.”
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Lee nodded, stopped to consider, and then nodded again —
listening to an unseen angel on his right shoulder. Then he rose, barely taller standing than he was seated.
“Good day,” he said, making a paltry attempt at a bow.
Now I understood. From the moment I flushed him out of hiding he intended to dismiss my services. What I couldn’t understand was why he didn’t let me leave when I wanted to the first time.
“Fine with me.” I stood up too.
“Mr. Lee,” Maya said then. She also rose from her chair.
“Please, sir.”
Please. The conflict wasn’t between me and Lee — it was a fight between him and his assistant.
“He’s unlicensed,” Lee said, making a gesture like he was tossing something into the trash.
“He’s fully licensed,” she said. “I spoke with Mayor Yorty himself this morning. He told me that Mr. Rawlins has the complete support of the LAPD.”
I sat down.
There was too much information to sift through on my feet.
This woman could get the mayor of Los Angeles on the phone, the mayor knew my name, and the Los Angeles cops were willing to say that they trusted me. Not one of those facts did I feel comfortable with.
Lee sighed.
“Mr. Lynx has always been our best operative in Los Angeles,”
Maya said, “and he brought Mr. Rawlins to us.”
“How long ago did you first come to us, Mr. Lynx?” Lee asked.
“Six years ago, I guess.”
“And you never tried to extort your way into my presence?”
Saul didn’t say anything.
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“And why should I put a man I don’t know on a case of this much importance?” Lee asked Maya.
“Because he’s the only man for the job and therefore he’s the best,” she said confidently.
“Why don’t you call Chief Parker and get him to find the girl?”
Lee said.
“To begin with, he’s a public official and this is a private matter.” I felt that her words carried hidden meaning. “And you know as well as I do that white policemen in white socks and black shoes are never going to find Cargill.”
Lee stared at his employee for a moment and then sat down.
Maya let out a deep breath and lowered, catlike, into her chair.
Saul was looking at us with his emerald eyes evident. For a deadpan like Saul this was an expression of bewilderment.
Lee was regarding his own clasped hands on the red lacquered desk. I got the feeling that he didn’t lose many argu-ments with the people he deigned to meet. It would take a few moments for him to swallow his pride.
“The man we’re looking for is named Axel Bowers,” Lee said at last. “He’s a liberal lawyer living in Berkeley, from a wealthy family. He has a storefront practice in San Francisco, where he and an associate attempt to help miscreants evade the law. He’s the one who stole from my client.”
“What’s the catch?” I asked.
“Bowers had a colored servant named Philomena Cargill, generally known as Cinnamon — because of the hue of her skin, I am told. This Cinnamon worked for Bowers as a housekeeper at first, but she had some education and started doing secretarial and assistant work also.
“When my client realized that Bowers had stolen from him he 5 2
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called his home to demand the return of his property. Miss Cargill answered and said that Bowers had left the country.
“The client came to me but by the time my people got there Miss Cargill had fled also. It is known that she came to Berkeley from Los Angeles, that she was raised near Watts. It is also known that she and Axel were very close, unprofessionally so.
“What I need for you to do is find Miss Cargill and locate Bowers and the contents of the briefcase.”
“So you want Bowers too?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Why? Doesn’t sound like you’re planning to prosecute.”
“Do you accept the task as I have presented it?” he asked in return.
“I’d like to know where these people live in San Francisco and Berkeley,” I said.
“Neither of them is in the Bay Area, I can assure you of that,”
the little Napoleon said. “Bowers is out of the country and Cargill is in Los Angeles. We’ve tried to contact her family but all attempts have failed.”
“She might have friends here who know where she went,” I suggested.
“We are pursuing that avenue, Mr. Rawlins. You are to go to L.A. and search for the girl there.”
“Girl,” I repeated. “How old is she?”
Lee glanced at Maya.
“Early twenties,” the knockout replied.
“Anything else?” Lee asked.
“Family?” I said. “Previous address, photograph, distinguish-ing habits or features?”
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us of that. Maya will give you any information she deems necessary. Other than that, I’m sure you will find the answers to all of your questions and ours. Do you accept?”
“Sure,” I said. “Why not? Philomena Cargill also known as Cinnamon, somewhere on the streets of L.A.”
Robert E. Lee rose from his chair. He turned his back on us and made his way through the hole in the wall. The panel closed behind him.
I turned to Maya Adamant and said, “That’s one helluva boss you got there.”
“Shall we go?” was her reply.
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First I want to check something out,” I said.
I crossed the room, approaching the small out-of-the-way frame. It was a partially faded daguerreotype-like photograph, imprinted on a pane of glass. It looked to be the detective’s namesake. The general was in full uniform. He had, at some point during the exposure, looked down, maybe at a piece of lint on his magnificent coat. The result was the image of a two-headed man. The more tangible face stared with grim conviction at the lens while the other was peering downward, unaware of history.
I was intrigued by the antique photograph because of its vul-nerability. It was as if the detective wanted to honor the past general in both victory and defeat.
“Shall we go, Mr. Rawlins?” Maya Adamant said again.