The Hidden Man (9 page)

FEBRUARY 19TH—AFTERNOON

J.D.
PACED BACK AND FORTH
on the sidewalk across from The Sea Mist restaurant, even though it was only a few hours before curtain time. He kept his eyes on the front door. He was expected inside, and had called the meeting himself. The only thing to do was to go on in and get to it.

But he had taken all of the elixir that he dared to that morning, since there was an evening show—he was reluctant to try pulling off another onstage miracle like that last one—and the beneficial effect was not strong enough. Was he getting worse? He could not tell, not really. At times when he felt depressed, his mind seemed to be coming apart. But when his spirits were back up again, then all his symptoms seemed like things that he could overcome, if he just summoned enough willpower.

The only thing he remained certain of today was that this time, the elixir had failed to clear the cobwebs or to give him back his reliable memory. He could feel the powder coursing through his system, rushing his heartbeat, but the positive effect on his abilities was nil.

Because he could not remember what he intended to tell them at the meeting. Why did he call the damn thing?

Focus,
he ordered himself.
Breathe deeply. It’s just a security meeting of some kind. Detective Blackburn is going to meet you here. It’s close to the theatre, and the young Nightingale fellow works there. You told them to meet you there, but that you wanted to have the actual meeting while walking along the sidewalk, to avoid eavesdroppers.

But why were they meeting in the first place? Something about security, yes, but what?

It was time. He crossed the street hoping that it would come to him, once he was in there with the other two. He could usually manage a smooth stream of small talk in such situations, until his memory clicked back in.

So when he arrived at the front of The Sea Mist, in spite of his trepidation he pulled open the heavy brass door and walked in holding his posture straight and his chin high. Experience had long since taught him that every once in a while, sheer force of attitude can save the day when all else around you is failing, provided that you remain utterly committed.

He prepared himself with a reminder straight out of his personal toolbox:
You may meet with resistance—you already know that. And since it is expected, you will show no surprise if you encounter it. Half of an opponent’s confidence can be stomped out in that very first second, if you don’t flinch. If you can stare them down. If you can smile…

The nondescript man followed Duncan from his hotel at a safe distance, then hung back while the showman stopped outside The Sea Mist restaurant and paced the sidewalk for a while. His presence was well camouflaged by the clang of the Market Street trolley and the clopping draft horses that competed for space with backfiring automobiles and trucks.

Once Duncan finally disappeared inside the place, the nondescript man moseyed over close enough to the restaurant’s front window to take an elaborately casual look inside. He got a glimpse of Duncan seated at a table, talking to the tall young waiter. It did not tell him enough. Was Duncan about to walk back out and head toward the nearby theatre, or would he dig in and stay awhile?

To buy time, the nondescript man bent and made an elaborate ritual out of finding a pebble in his shoe and getting it out. By the time he was finished and stole another peek, he saw Duncan being joined by a big man in an inexpensive three-piece suit. This was a grown man in the full sense, quite fit looking. A soldier, maybe, or a cop of some kind.

The nondescript man was almost at the end of his time-wasting routine when the door opened and Duncan came out, accompanied by both the big man and the young waiter.

A cop, then, judging by the way he moves.

The three slowly walked away, engrossed in their conversation. He could not make out a word of it at that distance.

Still, he made no attempt to follow. There was no further need. His reconnaissance was a success because he now knew that Duncan was safely occupied with these two, and thus the coast was clear over at the theatre. It would remain so for a while yet, driving a nice little wedge under this window of opportunity, holding it open. For how long? Say thirty minutes, at the least? Half an hour was several times more than enough.

With the frenzy of last-minute preparations going on at the fairgrounds, he had encountered no trouble in remaining nondescript while he posed as a deliveryman and wheeled a dolly with a crate strapped to it straight out of the Hall of Science and across the fairgrounds. The situation had called for moving unnoticed across an area filled with workers. For a man of his natural anonymity, it was a casting call from Fate.

Once he reached the main gate, whatever force that had been helping him helped him again. Taxi carriages had already begun to hover at the new fairgrounds, and so hailing one was easy enough. For a few extra coins, the eager driver helped load the crate and the dolly right into his taxi. Then the cab took him all the way to Market Street and dropped him two blocks away from the Pacific Majestic Theatre—San Francisco’s Finest.

After assisting him in unloading the crate, the satisfied taxi driver moved on to his next fare. He would quickly lose any detailed recollection of a nondescript man dropped off at no particular location.

The nondescript man had risked leaving the sealed crate outside the theatre’s backstage door while he followed Duncan, so he hurriedly made his way back from the restaurant, moving along at a quick dog trot.

He was there within two minutes. His property had been respected. Then it was a simple slip into the deliveryman persona, and onward through the theatre’s receiving entrance with the dolly and the crate. His research had already showed him that the theatre had no guards on duty in the backstage area before showtime.

Like the finest background player, he flowed onto the scene, blended in, and moved through it without drawing attention. His character projected the perfect attitude: casual, bored, impatient, a working man who radiated the potential for the kind of annoyed and annoying conversation that nobody wanted to hear. Others would avoid his company without even thinking about it. He knew that because the master had known it—in a distant past, he had observed James “J.D.” Duncan pulling that particular slight on various marks, plenty of times.

Randall and Shane said goodbye to Duncan at the restaurant’s front door ninety minutes after leaving The Sea Mist together. He proceeded on to the theatre to prepare for that evening’s show while they went inside and ducked into a booth.

The manager spotted Shane and came over scowling, ready to ask why an off-duty employee was in the restaurant. Blackburn calmly gazed at him and said, “He’s with me. We’d like a couple of beers.” He dropped a dollar coin on the tabletop.

The manager recalculated his attitude, offered a brief, tight little smile, then snapped up the coin and shuffled off to fetch the drinks. Once he was out of earshot, Blackburn muttered, “I don’t see how they can object, as long as you spend money here.”

“He’s on my back, anyway,” Shane quietly replied. “Wants to move me out of here, make me cover the extension restaurant they’re opening on the exposition grounds.”

“Really? Why not just play along? It would probably be a much more amusing place to work.”

Shane smiled and nodded. “First we’d better get through tonight’s show with Mr. Duncan. And I have to tell you right now, I don’t see anything with him.”

“Nothing?”

“It’s as if he’s covered in a thick coat of paint. No light shines through him at all, that I can see. That’s not a sign of something being wrong with him, necessarily. It’s just that I can’t tell if his story is true, half true, or some cooked-up fantasy.”

The manager arrived and dropped off their beers, sneaking a quick look of disapproval at Shane before quickly following with an obsequious smile to Blackburn. Blackburn caught his gaze and silently held it, blank-faced. The manager moved away.

“I’m sorry that I can’t do any better with this one, Randall,” Shane added.

“No need to apologize,” Randall replied, sipping at his beer. “I’ve never seen a man so close to outright hysteria for no particular reason.”

“Maybe this is a tendency, you know, with people who go into public life. Entertainers.”

“So someone is out to get him, but he either can’t or won’t tell us who it is. He’s sure that he’s being followed, but can’t say why. He got the city brass to make me follow him around and look for unknown assassins who could strike from any direction.”

“But he only needs security during performances.”

Blackburn exhaled through his teeth in frustration. “Just tell me. As far as you can tell, is he in his right mind?”

Shane took a slow gulp to cover for some thinking time while his impression of Duncan came into focus. “I don’t think he’s insane. He doesn’t seem delusional. With the exception of his conviction that someone wants to kill him, he speaks in a perfectly rational way. But something has him off balance.”

“Want to guess what it is?”

“I will, but only after stressing the speculative aspect of my answer.”

“Ah! Well, then.” Blackburn raised his glass to him. “Consider it stressed.”

“Whatever it is that troubles him, that’s the real source of his fears, not some remote assassin.”

“And of course,” Blackburn spoke for both of them, “if his fears
are
real, then the time when he’s the most vulnerable is right where I can’t do him any good at all.”

Shane completed the thought. “Any fool with a handgun can bring Mr. Duncan down when he’s all lit up on the stage.”

Blackburn drained his mug and dropped it with a thud. “All right, then. All I see here is an old-fashioned babysitting assignment. But I still need for you to come, at least for the big public appearances.”

“You mean until you can dump the assignment.”

“Amen.”

They stood up to leave. Blackburn turned to where the manager was leaning against the bar and nodded to him. The manager gave his standard gracious imitation of affability, and since Shane was right next to Blackburn, did not even attempt to slide in a threatening look.

“Come on,” Blackburn muttered while they walked out, “we’ve got just enough time to catch an early dinner before we report backstage.”

“At home?”

“That would take too much time. We’ll just stop in someplace where your manager doesn’t work. Vignette knows to bring Miss Freshell along with her to the theatre if we don’t get back on time.”

Shane grinned. “I know Vignette will get there on her own. She isn’t going to miss a good show just because we don’t turn up. But aren’t you worried that your sweetheart might take offense?”

Blackburn gave him a wry look. “Miss Freshell was not feeling herself that day, Shane. You know that as well as I do.”

“No, I wasn’t talking about—”

“What, you’re referring to her ongoing clashes with Vignette? She just needs time to—”

“Not Vignette.”

“Well what, then? She always seems to go out of her way to make a pleasing impression upon you.”

“She does, Randall. I’m not—”

“Has she said something?”

“What, to me? Hardly.”

“Well then, what are you trying to say to me? Why are we discussing this? They’ll meet us at the theatre. Can we go get some supper or not?”

“We can. Let’s go. I’m only admiring your fearlessness.”

“Shane…”

“You haven’t even specified to her whether you will meet her before the show?”

“She knows we’re working! She doesn’t expect me to sit with her.”

“No, she doesn’t expect you to sit with her.”

“What, then? Damn it, Shane!”

“Can we agree that Miss Freshell is a published author of romantic novels, and that in some circles she is something of a celebrity?”

“Get to the point.”

“Can we also agree that as your fiancée, she is likely to expect special treatment from you?”

“I arranged their tickets already!”

“Tickets. But such a woman, a woman who has read from her books in public, a woman who is engaged to marry—
she
won’t notice if you don’t show up to greet her before the show, though. Will she?”

They walked in silence while Blackburn absorbed the concept.

“The question of whether I meet her before the show or after the show—don’t you think that’s something of a technicality? Miss Freshell is a reasonable woman.”

“Miss Freshell is a proud woman.”

“Not proud in the wrong sense of the word.”

They continued on down the sidewalk.

“All right, Randall. I’m sorry I asked.”

“No need to apologize,” Blackburn said, looking troubled. “I know you mean well.”

“Thank you.”

“Certain things, in a private conversation, a man can ask.”

“That’s fair.”

“You think I should meet her and Vignette before the show begins, don’t you?”

Shane adopted an exaggerated nonchalance, just for fun. “I think Vignette will be fine, either way.”