poker face, and he maintained the same expression throughout. He had no idea why anybody would want to steal the sketch, it had looked like nothing more than a simple street-artist’s work to him-was I sure that whoever had broken into my flat was after that specifically? He had never heard of the Galerie der Expressionisten, he said; art galleries were definitely not his bag. And he echoed Elaine’s and Hendryx’s sentiments that the abandoned suitcase did not look very good for Roy Sands.
When I told him I was leaving for Germany the next afternoon, he said, ‘What do you figure to find over there?’
‘More than I’ve been able to find here, maybe.’
‘You’re the detective, baby. Locating Roy is the main thing, and if you think you can do that in Germany, you must know what you’re doing.’
I thought there might be some irony in his voice, but I wasn’t sure and I let the remark pass. ‘What can you tell me about a man named Nick Jackson?’ I asked him.
He had nothing to tell me about Jackson- at least nothing that I did not already know. Gilmartin knew of the trouble between Jackson and Sands-he made a couple of obscene references to Jackson’s sexual proclivities-and said that as far as he knew, the feud between them had ended with the capture of the men who had actually been responsible for the black-marketeering. Jackson had left the Presidio six months after that, and Sands had not mentioned his name since in Gilmartin’s presence.
I got out a fresh cigarette, and I thought of something I had neglected to ask Hendryx. Gilmartin could supply the information just as well. I said. ‘There’s a friend of yours-of Sands-still at Kitzingen, isn’t there? MacVeagh, something like that?’
‘Yeah, Jock MacVeagh.’
‘Will he give me a hand while I’m over there? I’m going in cold.’
‘If he can,’ Gilmartin said. ‘Jock’s a good cat.’
‘How do I get in touch with him when I get there?’
‘Just tell the main gate sentry you want MacVeagh, in the quartermaster’s office. He’ll get you there.’
‘It might be a good idea to send him a wire to let him know I’m coming,’ I said.
‘It probably would. If you’re leaving tomorrow, you won’t get into Germany until sometime Saturday. Could be Jock’s got a little piece lined up off Larson for the weekend.’
‘How would I address the wire?’
He told me and I went to the desk and wrote it down. He said, ‘It looks like you’ve got some work to do, so I guess I’ll shove off. Unless you could stand a belt or two.’
‘Some other time, maybe.’
‘Yeah, sure. Well, hang loose, baby.’
When he was gone, I sat down at the desk and composed a wire to Jock MacVeagh and called Western Union to have it sent off immediately. Then I put on my overcoat, locked the office, and went down to my bank-one that stays open till six on weekdays-to do something about the check Elaine Kavanaugh had given me…
CHAPTER NINE
When I got to my flat, there was no mail, no further evidence of illegal entry, and no beer in the icebox. The kitchen contained a faint odor, the origin of which turned out to be a bowl of stew I had cooked but not eaten four days previous. I had forgotten to refrigerate the damned stuff, and it had some kind of gray-green substance over the surface of it. I threw it into a garbage bag and took the bag down the stairs to the trash can, wedging the door shut again with the broom handle and the copper wire when I came back up.
You need a keeper, I thought, that’s what you need. To clean out this cage once in a while.
In the apartment, I called Cheryl’s number another time, and on this occasion I knew intuitively that she would be home. I sat on my unmade bed, listening to the circuit noises and looking at the soiled sheets and the piles of laundry strewn around the bedroom. A goddamn keeper, all right. I wanted a cigarette and gave in to the desire, and in my ear there was a click and her voice said, ‘Hello?’
‘Hi, Cheryl,’ I said. ‘How are you?’
I did not have to tell her who it was this time. She said, ‘Fine. And you?’ and her voice was soft and warm.
‘Fine. I got back into town earlier this afternoon and tried to call you then, but there was no answer.’
‘Doug and I were shopping at Stonestown,’ she said. ‘Did you find out anything about Roy?’
‘Nothing encouraging.’
‘It’s a terrible thing when someone you know just disappears like that, for no reason.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Listen, Cheryl, I’m leaving for Germany tomorrow. Sands’ fiancee seems to think there might be a clue to what happened to him over there. I don’t know when I’ll be back-just a few days, I think- and I was hoping you’d be free tonight.’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I have to work.’
I tried to keep disappointment out of my voice. ‘Tonight of all nights.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I work evenings three times a week, and this happens to be one of them. I wish it wasn’t.’
I liked the way she had said those last words. I asked, ‘Well, how’s the food out at Saxon’s?’
‘Fairly good, for a coffee shop.’
‘Maybe I’ll come out for a steak tonight.’
‘I’d like that, but… well, the owner doesn’t take kindly to employees having personal discussions while they’re working.’
‘I guess it wasn’t such a good idea.’
‘I hope you understand.’
‘Of course. Can I see you when I get back from Germany?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘It’s a date. Do you like Russian food?’
‘I’m not sure I’ve ever eaten any.’
‘I know a place. I think you’ll enjoy it.’
‘It sounds very nice.’
‘Cheryl-’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve thought of you often since Tuesday night.’
‘Have you?’ Her voice was softer.
‘Yes. I just wanted you to know that.’
There was a moment of silence that was not in any way awkward. She said then, ‘I think I’d better go now. I have to be to work at six.’
‘I’ll call you as soon as I get home.’
‘Please do.’
I paused. ‘Is your brother there, by any chance?’
‘Yes, he is. He’s been wondering about Roy, and I know he wants to talk to you. Just a moment.’
Doug Rosmond came on immediately and asked me about Oregon. For the third time that day I recounted my trip to Eugene and explained about the theft of the sketch of Roy Sands, and for the third time the reaction was typically innocent: dismay at my discovery of Sands’ suitcase in the transient hotel, incredulity at the theft of the sketch, which Rosmond said Chuck Hendryx had mentioned on the phone as being ‘a pretty good likeness, probably done by one of those sidewalk artists.’ He had never heard of the Galerie der Expressionisten and wondered where I had gotten the name.
‘It was on a piece of paper among Sands’ effects,’ I said. ‘It’s an art gallery in Kitzingen.’
‘Why would Roy have the name of an art gallery?’
‘That’s a good question, especially after the theft of the portrait.’
‘Do you really think his portrait has something to do with his disappearance?’
