Calamity Fair

CHAPTER 1

SATURDAY, AUGUST 13, 6:00 P.M.

The tall man stopped running as soon as he had crossed the hot asphalt of Front Street, and skidded into the cool maw of the Greyhound Bus tunnel. With an effort, he forced his lean body to proceed at no more than a fast walk. Since no cry had been raised behind him, nobody paid him special attention. And, although his blue deep-set eyes darted from side to side, the rest of his gaunt hawk-nosed face remained set in impassive, almost bored, lines. He did not look like a fugitive.

The high concrete cave led through the city block behind the Pickwick Hotel. Passengers, porters, and drivers milled around the bus which would leave San Diego at six o’clock this afternoon but they each were intent on their own flustered affairs. They scarcely noticed the accused murderer who skirted that moment of their lives and kept going.

His name was Max Thursday. He rented an office — its glass door labeled Private Investigator — on the fourth floor of the Moulton Building, and a small duplex at the corner of Union and Ivy. He owned a car and a satisfactory bank account. But the maddening circumstances of this second Saturday in August had made it impossible for him to turn to any of these for rest or aid. He neither carried nor owned a gun.

Thursday hesitated as he reached the end of the Greyhound tunnel. The anger began to ebb from his mind, the fierce, blind temper that had led to his surprising assault on the law itself one minute before. He glanced both ways along First Avenue, trying to decide. He had constructed the trap for himself and he had escaped it momentarily. Foolishly or not, he was committed to a course of action all his own. What? Because any physical gesture was a balm, he fastened the button of his tweed coat, then unbuttoned it again, irresolute, wishing he could make himself think faster. Now that he was running away, he must run to somewhere.

He turned right simply because he noticed that Broadway — the honking neon-lit spine of San Diego — was filling with the beginnings of the Saturday evening trade. That struck a familiar note. The nebulous J. X. O’Connell had escaped earlier this week by vanishing into a throng on Broadway. He had escaped from Thursday who was now the pursued.

Two minutes gone. As he threaded among the slow-moving fun-seekers on the wide sidewalk, he became acutely conscious of passing time. He nearly could feel the watch spring expand and the minute hand advance over his left wrist. For the first time he noticed the innumerable clocks ticking away in the early-lighted store windows, and all their differing conceptions of time which was suddenly so important. He shook his head impatiently at the phobia and shoved ahead. Two minutes gone and it would take less than five minutes to get the man-wanted call on the police radio.

He longed to break into his sprint again. The absurd urge nagged Thursday, though he knew that no matter how fast he traveled he still was only wandering aimlessly.

Dodging around an arm-in-arm line of four marines, he teetered along the curb by the taxi stand at Second and Broadway. He hesitated again, then the readily opening door of the nearest car made him recall his instructions to Joaquin Vespasian the night before, … wide the bus but no taxis. You won’t be noticed on a bus and, besides, the bunch that’s gunning for you owns a couple hack drivers.

For the next block, Thursday lengthened his stride. With no new implications, his own old advice seemed good enough to follow. Ahead, across Broadway, was the Plaza, the little green park that served as a terminal for the city bus system. He had at least decided on a method if not a destination.

As if that minor decision had freed his whole mind, he became aware of the passers-by. At first, he slowed his walk because he thought his fast pace was causing all the stranger faces with their eyes to turn toward him. Then he realized that he was becoming sensitive to the presence of others, as he had become conscious of his inexorable wrist watch. Behind him and to either side, he imagined the chatting, laughing voices called his name. Three minutes gone.

The Third Avenue traffic signal clanged and recolored, and he suddenly had to turn right again and cross Broadway instead. The sudden change nearly panicked him, the small matter of having to cross Broadway before crossing Third when he had expected otherwise. He felt exposed in the middle of the vast street with the cars halted, waiting for him alone to pass — it seemed — and the faces veiled behind windshields watching and commenting on his progress. He didn’t dare hurry and he didn’t dare not hurry.

He reached the curb finally, his clenched palms sweating, and prepared to wait for the signal to change again so he could get across Third to the Plaza. The corner was an arena, all eyes upon him. He had never fled from the law before. With nervous irritation, he glared around at the others trapped by the same red light and at the elderly newsboy who took it as an opportunity to proffer tomorrow morning’s paper. Thursday muttered no, looked around again, and everybody’s eyes slid away from his knowingly.

Hi, Thursday! The prowl car crawled across Broadway, losing speed just so one of the two uniformed men could yell at him. The policeman was Hoover, and Thursday had fresh memories of him from two encounters during this last unlucky week. But the prowl car wasn’t going to stop, and Hoover merely grinned, so Thursday twisted his face into some sort of an expression in return. His name wasn’t yet broadcast.

Thursday turned, with Hoover still looking at him, and sauntered into the drugstore. He hoped that would leave an impression that he wasn’t vitally interested in the yellowish buses circulating around the Plaza like bees. By the magazine rack just inside the entrance, he spun and came out into the fading sunshine again and joined the pack that was walking into the green light.

He paused by the iron chain that fenced off the grassy park and couldn’t locate a carrier that was going far enough to suit him. He wanted to go at least as far as one of the beaches or … Thursday began to run again — physically — toward the far end of the block. The sign on the bus idling there was the answer. It spelled out the one place remaining where he might be safe for a while.

But the bus doors were already closed and the driver shifted gears, ready to trundle off. Thursday yelled, Hey! and charged across Fourth Avenue against the light. The driver scowled but opened up and Thursday swung aboard. Four minutes gone.

Hat low over his coarse black hair, he slumped into a rear seat, anonymous. He caught his breath, and the engine vibrations, growling forward, made him feel temporarily free and better, as if in the little time he had left to him he might come up with something.

Since last Monday noon, two men had died by violence. He found it difficult to blame himself for that, no matter what the law said. But here he sat, hiding in awful aloneness, in flight from the law, and he knew he had himself chosen the tortuous route that led to this condition. Wearily, as he had before in the last six days, Thursday began to reconstruct. From the beginning. From last Monday noon when he had met Irene at the house in Loma Portal.

CHAPTER 2

MONDAY, AUGUST 8, 12:00 NOON

Max Thursday parked his Oldsmobile in front of the address on Azalea Drive, took the notebook from an inside pocket of his tweed coat and pretended to look up the number again, while he studied the house itself. He had a few minutes to spare before twelve noon. He had eaten an early Merchant’s Monday Special in order to be in Loma Portal on the appointed hour.

He smiled, slightly but sincerely. The house pleased him; the neighborhood pleased him. In his profession, Thursday allowed himself the institutional ad in the telephone directory, and word of mouth was supposed to accomplish the rest. Words from mouths in this neighborhood would pay off. Loma Portal, its well-to-do residences rising suddenly on the rim of the mud flats northwest of San Diego, was the gateway to Point Loma and some still higher income brackets.

The house on Azalea Drive sat far back on a lawn between two rows of cypress. Its two-story, brown stucco front was bisected by a square tower in which the front door opened directly on the grass. Somehow, while Thursday was musing pleasurably, it had been opened without his seeing it at once, and a young woman stood there waiting.

He gave a quick nod and got out of his car, tucking the notebook away. Since the flagstones rambled, he cut straight across the lawn to her, his business smile in place. He didn’t suppose she’d mind about the grass since it had evidently missed this week’s mowing. Halfway to her, Thursday caught his toe in a small rectangular hole and stumbled. He silently thanked her for not laughing. She merely looked him over gravely.

In a clipped New England voice she stated a fact, You’re Mr. Thursday, and then added, Come in, please do.

He took off his hat and said, I generally manage a more impressive approach, Miss Whitney, but your gopher hole — She was already across the tower foyer and one step down into the broad living room. He followed, trying to step on the scattered shag rugs rather than scratch her waxed floor. Two love seats confronted one another before the empty fireplace and she took the one which faced the bay-window view of the lawn. Thursday sat opposite her, looking as gentle and attentive as possible.

The woman was not as young as he had first thought, nearer his own age, thirty-five. She wore her slight air of arrogance like a perfume. She was poised and obviously well-bred, which pleased Thursday. She would have friends who might become worthwhile clients. Her small graceful body was dressed in a summerweight suit of powder-blue jersey and her dark blonde hair was drawn back tight to show off the lines of her face which was more patrician than pretty. Her one sign of any nervousness was the tensely drawn cords of her throat.

She said, in the clipped way he already liked, As I told you, my name is Irene Whitney. Catching his glance at the indentation on her ring finger, she felt the need to explain something. It’s Miss Whitney now. I’m no longer married. I’m an interior decorator. She smiled just a little. But neither of those points matter. I called you this morning because of — well, a gambling debt.

Thursday said, In case you don’t know, gambling debts aren’t legally binding. If it’s owed to you, I may be able to bluff the debtor into paying off. If it’s owed by you, I can probably make sure you won’t be bothered any more.

Irene Whitney shook her fine head impatiently. No, I pay all my debts, Mr. Thursday. You see, I — She took a deep breath for courage, her eyes, a paler blue than his own, still summing him up. He leaned back in the love seat so he wouldn’t seem to hover over her personal secrets. He respected her for getting down to business this swiftly.

She said, without any coy pride in minor wickedness, I’ve been doing some gambling over the past six months, mostly roulette. At first, I won a little but lately I’ve lost steadily. Quite a good deal. A thousand dollars. I gave him ten IOUs, a hundred dollars each. He —

Where’d you lose this money?

At a place called The Natchez. It’s that place built out over the water at Mission Bay Park that looks like a showboat.

I’ve been through it. Nightclub on the main deck. From there you take the elevator down for gambling or up for other accommodations. You went down.

Her pale-blue eyes glinted faint amusement. I assure you I didn’t know there was a choice until now.

George Papago thinks he’s quite a judge of character.

Papago — he’s the man who holds my IOUs. The cords of her throat tightened again. Then you know him.

Around and about. He wouldn’t be such a bad guy if he could forget about angles. And he’d be better off. Thursday pulled a copy of the morning Sentinel from his coat pocket. He sprawled open the front page and ran his finger down through headlines. The finger passed across pictures of the Perry Showalter funeral and stopped on some black type farther down the page. Gambling Ship Operator Indicted By Grand Jury.

She barely glanced at it. I knew The Natchez had been closed.

Yes. It was closed when the state and our hard-working district attorney, Mr. Benedict, broke the syndicate. Papago thought he was smart enough to open it again. Now Mr. Benedict has broken him.

Irene Whitney eyed him oddly. Thursday smiled coldly, angry with himself. He realized some rancor had come into his voice when speaking of Benedict, and it wouldn’t do to let this woman know he was on the wrong side of the district attorney.

He folded the paper noisily and said, Well, I suppose the point is that Papago holds your notes, and you want me to find him. He’s out on bail. Have you tried his home? The paper gives his address as 709 Brighton Court, Mission Beach.

She shook her head again. I haven’t tried to find him. If it were that easy, I wouldn’t have called you. You see, I’m being blackmailed.

No, I hadn’t seen that.

Two days ago some woman telephoned me — it wasn’t anyone I knew — and told me that I would have to pay for my IOUs. Of course I was willing to pay what I owed and I still am. But I can’t afford to pay five thousand dollars to get my notes back. That’s why I want your assistance.

Go on.

She looked questioning.

You’ve only told me half of it, Thursday said. The woman must have said, ‘or else.’ She’d have to. Nobody would pay five thousand bucks to redeem a thousand-buck note unless there was a threat attached. What’s the threat?

She said blandly, But I can’t tell you that.

He shrugged. That makes it a standoff. It’s my job to respect your confidence and yours to supply it. Otherwise, I can’t help you, Miss Whitney.

Oh, come now. The arrogance peeped through her smiling disbelief. There’ll be a nice fee in it for you, Mr. Thursday.

He said abruptly, Why did you call on me particularly?

Well — I’ve read about you in the papers — and —

Uh-huh. That was two years ago. Despite the exaggerations, I’m no stick-up man, and it seems to me that’s what you’re out to hire. I don’t even own a gun, much less wear one. If you’re interested in knowing, I work within the law and often with the law. The difference in my job is that I perform private services which the cops don’t have the time or the right to perform. That’s all a private detective amounts to, Miss Whitney.

She embarrassed him then by smiling at his speech. She said softly and knowingly, I didn’t intend to insult you, Mr. Thursday, and I don’t ask you to act against whatever scruples you may have. But I would like you to see George Papago. I have reasons for not wanting to do it myself. Find out where my IOUs are and then redeem them for their full face value, no more. Is there anything dishonest in that?

Thursday grinned. He liked her while he condemned his dangerous impulsiveness in liking her. But he did want her class of business. He said, I’ll see Papago this afternoon and find out just where your IOUs are. What’s the number here — so I can call you about the money end?

I’ll call you. Tomorrow sometime.

Okay. My fee is twenty-five dollars per day plus unusual expenses, if they arise. The first day’s fee is payable in advance.

Oh, of course. She rose and went over to open the drawer of an escritoire. She returned, rummaging in her big purse for a wallet. Thursday saw the dark green of a checkbook.

A check will do.

She pretended she didn’t hear him. She held out two tens and a five and when he didn’t take them immediately, she dropped them on the love seat beside him. Thursday ignored the money. He asked, How are the Johnsons these days?

She looked puzzled. He explained. Your friends, the Johnsons. The people who let you use this house for our appointment. I checked Civic Center to see who owned this address. I also checked the registry of voters, the phone book, and the city directory. There’s no Irene Whitney listed. I’m getting a strong hunch that isn’t your name.

The woman let another five-dollar bill drip from her hand onto the love seat. She said, Does it matter?

Thursday picked up the thirty dollars. Call my office in the morning. I’m there by nine. She snapped her purse shut, smiling confidently. He looked up at her. You think you’ve got me tabbed, Miss Whitney. Don’t forget I can drop anything I feel burning my hands. I have my own reasons for playing along.

Fair enough. The cool assurance fled from her face as she stared past him, out the front window. Thursday twisted around. A portly, white-haired man had stopped part way up to the flagstones to the front door, his red face gazing benevolently around at the ragged lawn. Then he continued his advance on the house. I didn’t expect him, the woman whispered. Put him off, please. Tell him I’m not here. She pushed gently at his shoulder.

Thursday shrugged and ambled to the door. When he opened it, the portly man frowned with surprise, then tugged down his vest and beamed rosily. How do you do. I’m Bradstreet. How do you like it?

Fine. Thursday leaned across the doorway, indolently blocking it. Can I do something for you?

The other man blinked earnestly. Then his smile widened with tolerance. I’m Bradstreet — Bradstreet Realtors. I guess this place sold itself to you. See you’ve taken the sign down. He gestured at the grass, toward the hole Thursday had stumbled over.

Slowly, Thursday eased out of the way. Come in, I think there’s some kind of mistake going on. You say nobody lives here?

Not since the Johnsons put it in our hands sixty days ago. What —

A Miss Whitney called me out here to make an estimate on a car. I haven’t seen the car yet, but she’s right inside. Or she was.

The two men