Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 137, No. 1. Whole No. 833, January 2011
- Автор: Коуди Лиза, Faherty Terence
- Год: 2011
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines/Crosstown Publications
- ISBN: ISSN 0013-6328
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 137, No. 1. Whole No. 833, January 2011». Краткое содержание книги:
“No, señor. I don’t have that.” He leveled a steady gaze on me. ”That’s a new car. You go to Golden Gate Mercury.”
“Oh, I did go there. I want a purple coupé. They said it’d be about two months to get one. It’s very popular. They can’t keep ’em in stock. There’s a waiting list.”
“That’s too bad. Maybe you want to get a nice used car now. I got a ’forty-one DeSoto. Or you like a purple car? I got a nineteen forty Plymouth in purple.”
“Last night I had dinner at Rosa’s,” I said. “You know it? It’s a Mexican restaurant over by the Mission. Good enchiladas. Anyhow, after dinner I saw this kid parked out there in a ’forty-nine Mercury so I talked to him. He said if I want one and I don’t want to wait, I should see George Lopez.” There went my eye tic again.
“Must be some other Lopez. I’m sorry, I can’t help you, Mr. Kennedy.” He turned and walked towards the trailer.
“Three grand, señor. Two thousand, seven hundred, the price of the boiler and three hundred berries because I want it now.” He stopped. “All in cash, of course.”
Lopez turned around and hitched up his pants. “It’s true; I have some good connections in the auto business. Sometimes I can get a car outside of the channels that the new car dealers have to use. Let me talk to some people. You have a number where I can call you?”
I had better than a number. I gave him a card for Francis Kennedy, Wholesale Grapes, and wrote my Old Vine office phone number on the back.
5
I stopped for an early lunch at the Black Lizard Lounge, a place I knew south of Market. I went with the fried chicken, and had a half-bottle of ’45 Vosne-Romanée from Henri Jayer to wash it down. They often say that burgundies have a dumb period, when they shut down. I think the Jayer was playing dumb.
After that, I went to Motor Vehicles and looked up the plate number Karin Maldau had given me. It checked out — a purple, two-door, 1949 V-8 coupé, registered to Agustin Maldau. He’d bought it only two months ago. I took down the serial number for the engine, and the Maldaus’ home address, which was in Sea Cliff near Baker Beach.
Then I swung by police headquarters and looked at the police blotter for stolen cars. No ’49 Mercurys had been reported missing for the last two weeks. Finally, I picked up a cup of java and went back to my office to wait for Karin Maldau’s call.
I had a hunch Lopez might call me, too, so when the wire buzzed at three-ten, I answered by repeating my phone number. It was Lopez, so I became Kennedy. He was all cheery, like any slick used-car salesman. Good news, maybe he could help me out, if I was still interested in doing business. I told him I was more than interested, I was eager.
“I made some calls, Mr. Kennedy, and I think I’ll have your car late tonight.” He asked me if I could come by his place after nine.
“I thought you closed at six,” I said.
“Usually we close, but tonight, I’m gonna stay late and wait for you.” I said we could do it in the morning. Lopez said it was a very special deal and he preferred to do it when there wouldn’t be other people nosing around.
I told him I had to get a ride over, so that I could drive my new car home. “How about ten o’clock?”
“Okay,” he said, “but no later. And look, this is a special deal. That’s why I’m staying late. I don’t want everybody to know about it, so come alone. Have your friend drop you off down the street, and walk the last block. And bring cash. Three thousand.”
“I get the pink slip and everything, right?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said. “You get it all.” It sounded to me like we had an understanding, so I said I’d see him tonight.
About fifteen minutes later, the phone rang again. This time it was Karin Maldau. “Mrs. Maldau, nothing definite yet, but I might have something for you later on this evening. I have a good lead.”
“My husband has gone to Half Moon on business, Mr. Swiver. I expect him to spend the night. If you get the car back tonight, could you come by the house?”
“Are you alone?”
“I have a Chinese servant, but no one else is in the house tonight. We may rely on her discretion.”
“Very well,” I said. “If things work out, I’ll call you, and then come out. It’ll be eleven or twelve.”
“I look forward to seeing you then.” She hung up.
6
I closed up shop at four-thirty and drove home. One leftover piece of roast pork, a couple glasses of Louis Martini’s Monte Rosso Zin, and three hours later, I put on some coffee. While it was brewing, I changed into some dark duds for the evening.
By dusk, I’d had my java and, flashlight in hand, I headed out the back door. I walked eight blocks north on Octavia to Greenwich Street, then I turned left, staying a block south of Lombard.
I arrived at Lopez’s lot at about ten minutes of nine, well after dark. I scrambled over the link fence and eased my way between the rows of cars toward the trailer, taking my time and staying in the shadows. About nine, I saw Lopez link a chain between two concrete posts on Lombard Street, then go inside his office. A half a minute later, the big lights on the back lot went out, though the small ones on the office stayed lit. And there she was, basking under a dim bulb behind the trailer, a ’49 Mercury coupé in dark purple.
There were no plates on the car. I could check for the serial number, which I had with me, but I had an easier way to find out in the dark if this was the heap I was looking for. I had the keys.
So I duck-walked between cars until there was no more cover, then I sprung across the open space the last fifteen feet, crouched by the passenger side of the Mercury, and slipped the key in the door. It worked. I got in, slid across, and put the key in the ignition. Pulling out the choke, I stepped on the clutch and pressed the starter. The V-8 roared to life and went into a fast idle. Don’t stall now, Swiver.
I had the touch with the clutch and I slipped the tranny into first and wheeled around the trailer, heading for the Lombard Street gate. I saw Lopez open the trailer door and come down the wooden steps. He grabbed at the back of his head, and I realized he was wearing a rug and losing it in the excitement. Then he pulled a short revolver out of his waistband.
I went over a curb to avoid the chain, spun right onto Lombard, and changed up to second. I’ll say this for that Merc — it took off like a goosed waitress. I swung left on Fillmore and pulled out the headlight switch. Easing in the choke, I took a sharp right on Bay. I swung right on Van Ness and started to cruise easy. No tail from Lopez’s joint. And it didn’t look like I’d awakened any cops. Grand theft auto. Two could play that game. I turned right on Pacific and headed back to Octavia and Lafayette Square. I pulled the Mercury up the drive, eased it into the garage, cut the motor, and had the garage doors shut before you could say Bonnie and Clyde. It was just nine minutes past.
7
In the quiet of the garage, I could hear my heart beating. First thing I did was pull the hood release to see the engine on this baby. It was a flathead V-8, like you might find in any Ford, but it had three Holley carbs lined up down the middle of the V, instead of the standard Stromberg. Each carburetor had its own little cylindrical air cleaner, like a miniature gun turret, on top. I took out my pocket flashlight and compared serial numbers. It was indeed Agustin Maldau’s bus. Next the trunk.
I found a man’s blue-jean jacket, a small black leather satchel, and a large canvas sack. I started with the jacket. ID in the breast pocket showed it belonged to Pacho Valdes of Oakland. Pacho had also left an envelope in the side pocket containing a small amount of marijuana and a package of Tip-Top cigarette papers.