The Chinese Jars (3 page)

In the autopsy folder, in addition to the examiner's findings, was a one-page police report that indicated Rockwood had suddenly appeared in front of a trolley bus right by General Hospital, and the driver couldn't stop.

He went back into the medical examiner's office and told him what he had learned. “I'll go over to the printers and let you know if I find out anything new. Thanks for sharing,” said Samuel, as he left.

* * *

Engel's was on Sacramento Street a few blocks east of Montgomery, close to the Embarcadero, which ran next to the bay. Samuel pushed open the door and found himself in a nicely furnished waiting room with Piranesi engravings of old Rome on all the walls. There was no one at the reception desk, so he rang the bell. Almost immediately an attractive young woman dressed in a severe two-piece suit appeared and asked if she could be of service.

“My name is Samuel Hamilton. I work for the local newspaper,” he said, surprised at his own audacity. “We're doing a story on a young man by the name of Reginald Rockwood. Do you know who I'm talking about?”

“You'd better talk to Mr. Engel.” She dialed the phone. “Someone's here inquiring about Mr. Rockwood.” Then she turned back to Samuel. “He'll be right with you.”

A distinguished elderly man soon appeared, elegantly dressed in a dark three-piece suit but with a wide and bright tie. He greeted Samuel with professional courtesy. “You're inquiring about Reginald Rockwood? He worked here, but we haven't seen him in several days.”

“You apparently haven't heard the news,” responded Samuel.

“What news?” inquired the old man.

“He died on Saturday.”

“Oh, my goodness. How unexpected. He was young and apparently healthy,” Engel commented.

“Can I talk with you in private?” asked Samuel.

He was ushered down an endless hallway to an office decorated with photographs of Engel alongside prominent social and political figures. The man offered him a seat. He seemed upset by the bad news.

“I didn't want to discuss the details of his death in front of your employee.”

“How did he die?”

“Looks like he committed suicide on Friday.”

“Good Heavens! Why would he do that?” he asked searchingly. “You know, he was here on Friday as usual, and then didn't show up again. We were wondering what'd become of him.”

“What did he do for you?” asked Samuel.

“He was our night janitor.”

“Janitor?” Samuel asked, in disbelief. “I always saw him dressed in a tuxedo.”

“A tuxedo? That explains it,” said Engel. “Here he mopped the floors and took out the trash for almost four years.” He was about to continue but Samuel interrupted him.

“Do you have an address for him or his kin?” asked Samuel.

“We did have an address and a phone number, but when he didn't show up on Monday, we called the number and it was out of service. We sent a man out to the address. It turned out nobody lived there; it was a vacant lot. Then we started to worry because we thought that he'd left town for some mysterious reason, so we changed the locks on all the doors.

“That's when we had a big surprise. We opened the broom closet where all the supplies are kept, and we found four tuxedos, a mini dresser full of his undergarments, and a shaving kit. There was even a sleeping bag tucked in one corner. He must have been sleeping in there.”

“Did you have any idea this was going on?” asked Samuel.

“None whatsoever.”

“If I understand your business, Mr. Engel, you do a lot of engraving for the socially prominent in the city?”

“That's correct. For four generations we've taken care of the upper crust, and we do so with pride,” he answered.

“Is it possible that Mr. Rockwood was taking an invitation from each of the engravings your company made and attending the corresponding social events, pretending to be an invited guest?”

“Well, anything's possible,” said Engel. Samuel could see that he was disturbed by the possibility that if this were made public, it would damage the prestige of his firm.

“Let me show you what I mean,” said Samuel, taking out the obituary clipping and handing it to him. Engel read it quickly and turned even paler.

“It's beginning to make sense now. In the closet we also found a box of invitations from the past four years. They were filed in alphabetical order and had notes and phone numbers on them. It was as if he were making some kind of a record for reference purposes.”

“So the guy was actually living in your broom closet and feeding himself at your clients' parties? No wonder his liver was shot,” said Samuel. “Did you find any plane tickets to Morocco, by any chance?” he asked.

“Nothing like that in his belongings. I would have noticed.”

“You've been a big help, Mr. Engel. Would you like me to let you know if I find out anything?”

“It would be greatly appreciated, young man. Mr. Rockwell was a pleasant employee. We'd like to know what happened to him.”

Samuel walked out of the engraving shop and confronted the afternoon traffic. The man was a cheapskate and probably a phony, he mumbled. His own dream of going to Morocco had gone to hell, and he'd lost the bet to Melba. He got on a bus, rode it up to Nob Hill, and walked to Camelot. He entered with his head hung low and took a seat at the bar in front of Melba.

“How did you know that Reginald was an imposter?” he asked.

“Did you ever look at his hands? They didn't go with tuxedos and that air of grandeur. They were the hands of a working man.”

Samuel took a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet; he slapped it on the bar and walked out.

The sound of Melba's laugh followed him.

I
F YOU LIVED
in San Francisco, you knew the place. Unlike any other neighborhood bar you've ever been in, it was right next to the cable car tracks on a corner that overlooked San Francisco Bay. With its steel colored waters, its slick sailboats, the sinister profile of Alcatraz prison on its lonely island, and one of its famous bridges, the view of the bay through the window from the front of the bar was breathtaking. When the sun was shining, the park's green lawns directly across the street glimmered softly and in contrast with the reflection of the water and the color of the sky. In summer the sun disappeared behind blankets of fog that rolled over the hills from the Pacific Ocean and engulfed the city and the Golden Gate. In winter there were days when the view looked like it was painted in gray watercolors.

Evening was the busiest time at Camelot. It filled up with locals and tourists alike. People had their own reasons for coming there, but it usually wasn't for the glamour of the place or the spectacular view. There was a mysterious bond that held a handful of the regular patrons together, and an unexpected kindness in the ambiance that excited those outsiders who decided to drop in, and motivated them to return.

Inside the front door was a round table that seated twelve comfortably. Further in, a semicircular bar fit another twelve, and the rest of the clientele could sit at the smaller tables. Behind the bar was a large mirror that went all the way up to the fifteen-foot ceiling and let one see the whole bar from any angle. Glass shelves going part way up contained exotic liquors, some with such suspicious colors that no one dared try them. Below them, and accessible to the locals, was the usual well stock, which Melba, one of the owner's, called the “rotgut trough.”

Standing in the middle of the semicircle was Mathew O'Hara, a silent partner in the establishment. He was making his nightly appearance. Melba guessed that he was coming direct from London and some big business meeting, dressed in a dark blue suit, a white linen shirt, and a silk tie with matching handkerchief in the upper left pocket. His full head of brown hair was closely cropped, which gave him a military air. His shaggy eyebrows accentuated his hazel eyes. Even though he could gain a stranger's confidence with his easy smile, he projected authority. He looked like the epitome of success. He was born into it. For him it was easy—all the money one could ask for, the best prep schools, association with the highest social class, and all the connections a good family could buy in California. He took his position in society for granted. He had a wife of equal pedigree, and three spoiled daughters in the best Catholic school in San Francisco. He appeared to be one of the pillars of the city's elite, at least on the surface; only a few suspected the dark side of his character.

He bragged of his good luck and skill in making money, which allowed him to increase what he had inherited. His great-grandfather had started the trend during the gold rush. Toiling in the streams of the foothills, he was different from the others and soon saw that it was more lucrative to supply the miners than to be one of them. His grandfather speculated in sugar and his father in petroleum exploration. All the men in the family had in common the talent to make money fast, the ruthlessness required for that pursuit, and a total lack of scruples about to how to spend it.

Matt, as he preferred to be called, had an additional quality, which his forbearers lacked and that gained him respect from his peers, even the shady ones. He was a man of his word. With him there was no need to sign papers: a handshake was enough; but anyone who crossed him would pay a huge price. He won fame for his honesty, thanks to gestures that didn't cost him much but left a good impression. When he ended up with more money than was his due on small deals, he sent his loyal chauffer back with the unearned extra and a word of apology. That kind of honesty was almost unheard of in those sub-worlds; it was appreciated though seldom imitated. As he saw it, it was good business. But for the big business deals that he carried out in other circles, he was pitiless.

O'Hara felt strong and healthy. He was in the prime of his life. His businesses were booming and his family wasn't causing him any problems. He and his wife led independent lives, each concentrating on their own interests, but he couldn't complain because she handled the domestic part with efficiency; she was a good social companion and she didn't ask questions. But he didn't, either. He could have been a contented man, but his greed got in the way.

On this particular day, Mathew was in deep conversation with Maestro Bob, a part-time magician, part-time notary seated next to him at the bar. Maestro was an old-fashioned gentleman. He had absurdly named himself Roberto, and given himself the title Count Maestro de Guinesso Bacigalupi, Slotnik de Transylvania, to further his career as a magician, even though only he could pronounce it. His real name was Robert Murphy. He was a black Irishman from County Cork. No one could remember his title or even wanted to, so everyone called him Maestro Bob. He spoke in a fake Slavic accent and wore dark pinstripe suits, which would have been considered stylish at one time but were now passé and a little tattered at the edges.

He was just over five feet tall, had unruly black hair and the waxed mustache of a lion tamer from the circus. His fingernails were professionally done and were so highly polished that the lights of the bar reflected off them.

Maestro had tried in the past to make a living as a magician and clairvoyant, but he failed due to his drinking. The adults in the Pacific Heights party world got fed up with him, so he was relegated to doing children's birthday parties on the weekends, where the grownups made sure there was no booze. He found his niche with the children and became a favorite on the kid's birthday-party circuit. They were attracted to his fantastic stories about witches and magic spells. However, he couldn't get by just doing that. Needing to make additional money, he studied for his notary license and opened a small office in the Flood Building at 870 Market. It was home to most of the foreign consulates in the city, and many patrons visited his small office to have official papers notarized to send to their home countries. But that never became his calling; he was interested only in exploring the frontiers of psychic phenomenon.

After five o'clock every evening, he frequented the bars of San Francisco, trying to fool loneliness. He had established himself as a favorite at Camelot, where his talents were fully appreciated. There, he would hold court, telling fortunes for a drink or two or, if the traffic would bear it, a ten-spot. But his instincts were good, especially regarding money, and the patrons returned with regularity when they had a pressing problem, especially concerning money.

So it was no surprise that Mathew O'Hara bought Maestro a drink and then another while describing to him in very general terms a deal he was working on. When he thought that Maestro had heard enough, he popped the question.

“What's your hunch, Maestro?”

“I need to see more of the picture before I can give you an answer,” responded Maestro.

“What else do you need to know?” Mathew didn't want to give too many details away. He liked to keep his cards pretty close to the vest.

“That's not up to me. You give me the information you want me to have, then I have a vision based on what you tell me. Sometimes I have the vision based on what you don't tell me,” he laughed. “So, for now, I see nothing and I hear nothing.”

“There's a lot of money involved in this, and the merchandise comes from outside the country. I want to know whether or not I should do it.”

“I think I see a lot of zeros.”

“How many?”

“Divining is an art, not an exact science, but I see between five and six zeros,” said the magician with great hesitation because he wasn't capable of imagining that much money. “But I can't tell if you're paying it or receiving it.”

“Thanks. I'll stew on that,” said Mathew.

Although he wasn't superstitious, he'd gotten the answer he wanted. He thought the maximum he could make on the deal was a million, and that was the figure that he was hoping would pop out of Maestro Bob's mouth. The strange little magician had a reputation for never being wrong; if he was right, Mathew was going to make a big profit. He gave Maestro a five-dollar tip and signaled Melba to serve the little man another drink. He said good night and walked out.