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passed through the tunnel to Fort Baker. Although he would have had me in the
saddle, I could see no reason to perch on high while the corporal laboured at
my side, and in the end we walked together in front of the horse, which bore
the stained towel and the murder weapon as if bearing Raynor s body home.
Back at Fort Baker, I was disappointed to find the military police from the
Presidio in possession. I needed a conversation with the good major, but such
would not be provided this evening. Instead, I turned over the items my young
friend had recovered from the cliffside, and made an appointment for the
following afternoon.
The Army launchEl Aquario was busy shuttling back and forth across the
passage, and after retrieving my unnecessary brief-case from Morris s office,
I went down to the dock to await its next trip. As it happened, Lieutenant
Jack Raynor waited there as well, on his final voyage across to the Army
mortuary. I stood on the pier, and later on the tossing deck, contemplating
the wrapped form of the young officer and addressing him with my silent
questions. A promising young officer with secrets to keep: Why had he died?
The lieutenant did not say.
When I returned to the hotel, the desk-man handed me an envelope with the
hand-written initials BB at the upper left corner. I opened it as I rode up in
the lift, and found inside the dates of Lieutenant Raynor s presence in the
city over the last month of his life, both at the club, and when he had been
free during the daylight hours. At this juncture, I did not know that it would
do me any good, but I folded it into my pocket and walked down the silent
hallway to my empty room.
It was long since dark, and truth to tell, I was feeling my age. I should
have liked nothing better than a large and leisurely meal, a book, and my
currently solitary bed, but my day was far from finished. Instead, I called
for a hurried plate of sandwiches and descended to the hotel s Turkish baths,
which restored me sufficiently that I might consider the remainder of the
night without outright loathing. I resumed my semi-formal evening wear,
dropped my silk hat onto my freshly trimmed head, pulled a pair of thin
leather gloves over my abused hands, and set out for the Blue Tiger cabaret.
The man at the door tipped his hat to me, recognising instantly the generous
patron of the night before. I was guided up the stairs again to the balcony,
shown to a table overlooking the stage, and provided a bottle of champagne on
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ice. I was later than I had anticipated, and Martin Ledbetter gave a sour
glance at the sweating silver bucket.
They wouldn t bring the bubbly until you were here to pay for it, he said,
reaching for the glasses.
Still, they did allow you to sit down, I pointed out.
He did not deign to answer.
Billy Birdsong was already on the stage, half-way through the second of her
two evening s performances. I was interested to hear a different set of songs
from the previous evening, an indication that many of the audience were repeat
visitors. She also wore a different costume from those she had appeared in; I
wondered idly just how extensive her repertoire and her wardrobe were.
Again, we were summoned to her dressing room after the show, and seated
amongst the chocolate and flower tributes. She stripped off her stage face,
painted on her other face of less exaggerated femininity, and changed into an
embroidered frock of light wool.
When she emerged from behind the screen, I stood up, but instead of
accompanying her down the street to her bistro, I escorted the remaining staff
and hangers-on out of the room, placed Ledbetter outside in the hallway to
keep them from returning, and closed the door firmly.
Wordlessly, I held out the pearl necklace; the singer took it, with hands
that were uncertain with apprehension, and returned to me my stick-pin.
Sit down, I told her, and reached for the nearest bottle of an admirer s
wine, scrabbling through the debris atop the table for a cork-screw.
Hesitantly, frightened, she obeyed. She took the glass I handed her, drank
its contents as if it held medicine, and sat expectantly.
He s dead, I told her.
The green eyes closed. I knew it, she whispered. He d have come back,
otherwise. How?
Murdered.
The singer stared up at me in horror, and said, God. Because of me?
As yet, there is no reason to believe his death had anything to do with you.
The Army police are looking into it, but more to the point, I will continue to
investigate the matter.
The police? Oh no.
In my cursory search of your Lieutenant Raynor s quarters, I saw nothing
that would bring your name into this at all. The only thing I found was this.
I took from my note-case one of the two items I had removed from Raynor s
pocket, and placed it on the table in front of the singer. He had it in his
wallet. I thought you might want it returned.
She looked at the studio portrait of herself, which was signed,
With love and kisses from Billy
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No, I don t suppose his family needed to see that.
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