The PI Who Knew Too Much Ch. 02

I asked Wilkes if I could take a look at whatever they found in Bezier's office. He said sure, but it was evidence, so I couldn't take it anywhere. That was fine, I just wanted to see it. There wasn't much to see: A bunch of papers that didn't have anything to do with gangs or funny money, the usual junk from desk drawers, an appointment book with no entries for the week he was killed, a half-empty bottle of gin. Or maybe it was half full; depends on whose bottle it was, I guess. The only thing mildly interesting was a pack of Trojans; maybe Mrs. Bezier was right about the affair.

"Not much here, Wilkes. Mind if I check out his office?"

"It's still a crime scene, Spector, so I can't let you have a key." He knew I'd jimmied the lock on the back door and didn't need a key, so I took that for permission.

"Yeah, sure, I understand. Lemme know if you learn anything interesting, okay?"

He grunted a goodbye. I drove to Bezier's office and parked around back again. I didn't care if anybody in the beauty parlor or pawn shop saw me, they'd probably figure I was just another cop. This time I had the door open almost as quick as if I'd had a key.

I started in the main room. Between the mugs who killed Bezier and the cops, the place was pretty well torn up. All the drawers from the desk and filing cabinets had been emptied and stacked up against the wall, even a couple of floorboards were pried up. Part of the desk was taken apart, apparently in search of hidden compartments. The toilet tank was empty, the doors and drawers of the vanity scattered on the floor.

The storage room at the rear was a mess. Somebody riffled through the stationery and typing paper before tossing it on the floor, along with envelopes and pencils and paper clips. The cleaning supplies fared no better. Bottles of window cleaner and floor wax were tipped over, a box of rags torn open and tossed about, a can of Bon-Ami spilled.

Deciding I'd seen enough, I absently brushed some of the cleaning powder off the shelf. Before I could turn away, I noticed that some of the fine particles had filled an almost invisible scratch on the shelf. The scratch formed part of an arc. Another quick sweep of my hand filled out the rest of the arc. It started at a nearly invisible seam in the wall paneling and extended to the edge of the shelf. Maybe the crime scene boys looked for a secret compartment in the wrong place. My search for a switch or lever under every shelf turned up nothing.

Four stout brackets fastened the shelf unit to the wall. All the shelves except the one with the faint scratch were about a quarter of an inch shy of the wall, but this one was flush. More because I was frustrated than clever, I gripped the shelf and tried to pull it back. It moved a quarter of an inch, there was a soft click, and a piece of the paneling swung open.

The hidden space wasn't very big, maybe a foot high and three inches deep. It spanned almost the full width of the shelf, big enough to hide quite a few smallish things. I moved all the cleaning supplies to the shelf above and took the stuff out one thing at a time.

Some were more interesting than others. An unopened pack of Pall Malls, a deck of Bicycle playing cards, a picture of a woman naked above the waist, two ticket stubs from the Geary Theater, and a half dozen swizzle sticks from the Top of the Mark were odd, but not particularly interesting. More interesting were a passport for someone named Samuel Barlow who looked exactly like Bezier, a bundle of C-notes (I didn't bother to count them), a .38 revolver, and a box of ammo. Most interesting was a small journal, about the size of a pocketbook novel, filled with page after page of precise handwriting, just the sort you'd expect from an accountant.

Carefully wiping each item with my handkerchief, I put back everything except the journal and the money, which I tucked into my coat pocket. Still using my hanky, I cleaned the telltale powder from the scratch and replaced all the cleaning supplies just as I found them. I went back and wiped off everything I had touched in the main room, then let myself out.

Resisting the temptation to look through the journal, I drove back to my office, told Lupe to hold my calls (another running joke), sat down and started reading.