The Sepia Siren Killer. Richard A. Lupoff
was Berkeley paranoia. Lindsey was spending too much time on the western side of the Caldecott Tunnel. He belonged in Walnut Creek.
Lindsey and Ms. Wilbur were strolling on the Robeson Center’s unkempt lawn. They halted. Lindsey said, “Look, Ms. Wilbur—”
“You may call me Mathilde.”
The world never stayed in one place. “Mathilde, do you have anything solid to go on? Any evidence, any theory? Did Mr. MacReedy tell you anything you can use to figure this out? Because if not, I think the police are going to send you packing. You and me both. What are we doing here? Why are we playing cops-and-robbers? Or cops-and-arsonists?”
“Because Mr. Hendry told me something that your Sgt. Stromback was apparently too dense to think of, so he didn’t even ask.”
Lindsey drew a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. From the front lawn of the Robeson Center the whole city of Berkeley spread out. He could see the famous Campanile rising from the UC campus, and in the distance San Francisco Bay. This was really a beautiful town. If only it didn’t have so many ugly people in it.
“Well?” Ms. Wilbur dug a bony finger into Lindsey’s arm. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I found out?”
“All right,” he sighed, “what did you find out?”
“Mr. Hendry told me that there are storage rooms under the Robeson Center. The building was originally a mansion. It was built as a pied á terre by a millionaire vintner from Sonoma County. There are huge cellars dug into the rock, where the owner kept his private stock.”
“Which of course is long gone.”
“Of course. Once the old guy died, his heirs couldn’t wait to sell off his wine collection and invest in something more lucrative.”
“And?”
“And the Robeson people—they’ve operated the building as a retirement home for forty years. They divided the main cellar into storage areas. There are dividers, chain-link fences, and locks. Every resident has the use of a storage room. It’s too grim down there to use the cellar for anything else, and they don’t have the money to spruce it up. So they store their belongings down there to keep from getting the sleeping rooms too cluttered.”
“Swell,” Lindsey said. “Good detective work. And I suppose the ghost of the original owner lurks in the gloomy subterranean vaults and chops off the heads of unwary visitors. Or is it a beautiful woman in a white dress? I love ghost stories.”
Angrily, Ms. Wilbur said, “I warned you, don’t be nasty. This is serious business.”
Lindsey shrugged. “I still don’t see where you’re going with it.”
“Hobart, how in the world did I ever carry you through all those years at International Surety, and how are you ever going to get along without me?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Instead she said, “Whatever the arsonist wanted to destroy—maybe he didn’t get it. Maybe it’s in Mr. MacReedy’s storage area in the cellar. And if the arsonist knows about the cellar—if that’s how he got in and out, of course he must know—he’s likely to come back. In any case, we need to get in there and find the thing first.”
Lindsey grimaced.
Mathilde Wilbur said, “Besides, have you noticed that Mr. MacReedy looks a little bit familiar?”
“No.”
“And I thought you were such a news junkie, Hobart. And a movie maven, too. There was a TV feature about MacReedy on the evening news a few months ago. He’s a retired movie director, and his wife was once a movie star. She was called the Sepia Siren. Made movies in the 1930s and ’40s. Some reporter discovered they were still around and they did a nice little story on them for the local station.”
“Nope.” Lindsey shook his head. “I missed that one. If it was just on the local news, it must have run while I was in Denver talking to Richelieu.”
“Oh yes, dear Ducky Richelieu. Well, it was a cute story. I recognized Mr. MacReedy. Must have been just a few weeks before poor Mrs. MacReedy died. So sad.” She squared her shoulders. “Well, to business. We still have those storage lockers to investigate.”
“You want to bypass the police and go searching in this cellar, right? For—for something.”
“Putting it bluntly, yes.”
“And putting it bluntly, we don’t know what we’re looking for.”
“That is correct.”
“Well, putting it bluntly, I think this is absolutely insane. Not to mention dangerous.”
“All right. Come along with me or don’t, as you choose. I am going down there and have a look-see.”
Lindsey ground his teeth. He thought, at least she doesn’t wear those dreadful hats that Hildegarde Withers did.
* * * *
Mr. MacReedy had a key to his personal storage area in the cellar. They led him away from his place on the circular couch, away from the friends who still came by to offer condolences. The Berkeley police officer had apparently taken a moment’s leave for a pit stop and Lindsey didn’t want to get into an extended dialog with him.
The cellar was reached by a staircase in the back of the Robeson Center. Lindsey fumbled for a light switch. The temperature dropped with each step as they descended into the old, carved rock.
The only lights were dim incandescent bulbs. If Lindsey had had more notice he would have brought a portable lantern or at least a couple of strong flashlights for them to use. But he hadn’t, and so the feeble bulbs would have to do.
Mr. MacReedy’s storage area was roughly fifty feet from the foot of the staircase. MacReedy handed his key to Lindsey, and Lindsey turned the key in a surprisingly heavy padlock. If a thief wanted to break into the storage room, he would do better to bring a pair of heavy wire-cutters and clip the metal links themselves.
The room contained two more file cabinets like the one that had been destroyed in MacReedy’s room upstairs. There was a trunk and a standing wardrobe. Lindsey ran his hand down the side of a file cabinet. Beneath a thick layer of dust, the burnished wood felt like silk. He’d seen reproductions of old wooden file cabinets selling for hundreds of dollars. These originals would be worth a fortune to an antique dealer. The wardrobe might bring even more.
He turned to MacReedy. “What’s in these?”
MacReedy stood silently for a long moment. “It’s been so long,” he said at last. “I haven’t been down here since—I think, since we moved into the center. Since Lola Mae and I—”
Lindsey examined the file cabinets, the wardrobe and the trunk. The cabinets were secured with locking rods, the locking rods with padlocks. But these, unlike the lock to the room, were combination locks. And the trunk was secured by straps and latches; they could be opened, but not without a struggle.
But the wardrobe had no lock. He decided to tackle that first. He asked MacReedy if it was all right to open the wardrobe. Again, MacReedy stood silently before answering. It was as if the old man slipped away into the past each time he was left to himself. It took him a moment to return to the present when he was called, but eventually he returned.
“Surely,” MacReedy said. “I would like to look at the old things once again, myself.”
Lindsey worked the wardrobe’s ornate handles. They were of cast metal; in the dim light it was hard to tell what kind of metal it was. Possibly brass, long since tarnished beyond recognition. The handles were stiff, but they yielded to pressure. The wardrobe’s hinges were equally stiff but they must have been oiled long ago, and with enough pressure they worked silently.
Inside the wardrobe were clothes that Lindsey hadn’t seen except as costumes in period pictures. On one side were rigid-looking men’s suits, an ancient broad-brimmed fedora, a heavy—it had to be heavy—bowler hat, even