Bindlestiff (The Nameless Detective) (7 page)

I
went up after them. The Medford freight was just clattering into view from the west–a string of maybe thirty cars, most of them boxes and flats. The air horn shattered the hot morning stillness again.

The three hoboes headed into the yards, toward the siding the freight was shuttling onto. I followed them, but it wasn’t the freight I was interested in. The person I wanted to talk to now was Western Pacific’s day yardmaster.

I
found the yardmaster in his office, in the trailer I had noticed earlier near the entrance to the yards. His name was Coleman and he was about sixty, lean and sinewy, wearing an orange hard hat even though he was sitting at his desk. I was honest with him about who I was and what I was doing there; he seemed willing to cooperate. The only problem was, he had nothing to tell me.

“No,” he said when he was done looking at the newspaper photograph, “I’ve never seen this man before.”

“But you
were
here around three o’clock on Tuesday afternoon?”

“I was. Out by the freight storage shed, as I recall, discussing a shipment of wheel flanges with a local businessman. Nobody who looked like this fellow Bradford came to see me.”

“Well, maybe he talked to one of the yard security men . . .”

Coleman shook his head. “If he had, it would have been reported to me. Theft is a serious offense around here and we damned well don’t put up with it. We did miss a signal lantern and a tool kit two days ago; the lock on one of the sheds was forced. But no one owned up to seeing the man who stole them or I’d sure know about it.” He paused. “Who did you say told you about this?”

“Three oldtimers who live over in the hobo jungle,” I said. “Woody, Flint, and Toledo.”

“Well, they’ve been around a long time and there’s not much goes on that they don’t know about. They’re as reliable as tramps can be.” Coleman shrugged. “Maybe Bradford changed his mind about reporting the theft. Hoboes don’t want to get involved, as a rule.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe he did.”

I left the trailer and went back across the yards and the open field to where I had parked my car. I didn’t know what to think now. If Bradford had changed his mind about reporting the streamliner, where had he gone instead? And why hadn’t he hopped the freight for Pasco, as the newspaper article said he’d planned to do?

I wondered if he might have stopped by the rescue mission. That seemed as good a bet as any, so I drove back there and into the gravel lot. Off to one side of the mustard-yellow building were a couple of gardening sheds and a vegetable patch; drawn up in front was a battered old pickup truck. There was no sign of anybody in the vicinity. And when I got out and went up to the front door I found it locked; a hand-lettered sign taped to it said BACK AT 2:30.

What now? I thought as I returned to the car. I decided to try canvassing the houses that faced the rail yards, on the chance that one of the residents had seen Bradford on Tuesday and maybe had some knowledge of where he’d gone. I spent an hour doing that, but it got me nothing except a lot of blank looks and doors slammed in my face.

Was it possible Bradford had gone into town and taken a flop for the night? It didn’t seem likely. But he might still have gone into Oroville for some other reason—and so might the streamliner with his stolen loot; I remembered Toledo saying that the kid had probably done that to sell the stuff for the price of dope. I still had no proof that there was any connection between Bradford’s apparent disappearance and the streamliner, or that the two of them had had any further contact, but it was an angle worth checking out.

I drove back to Oro Dam Boulevard and then took Myers Street downtown. Oroville wasn’t a very big place; the downtown area was maybe a dozen square blocks of old buildings, some with turn-of-the-century false fronts, and narrow sidewalks that didn’t have many people on them. The part of it that catered to transients and local down-and-outers was a couple of sleazy blocks along Montgomery and Huntoon streets, near the river—and near a green cinder-block structure that housed the Oroville Police Department. It was almost as if the cops had established themselves close by in order to keep an eye on the town’s unsavory elements.

It occurred to me when I saw the police station that maybe Bradford had been arrested as a vagrant. Hoboes were always being rousted by cops in small railroad towns, particularly if they wandered in among the local gentry. If Bradford had been picked up he might have missed his northbound freight yesterday because he was in jail. I drove up to the green cinder-block building, parked the car in a slot facing the river, and went inside to find out.

The officer at the desk was a young, flat-faced sergeant with straw-colored hair who gave his name as Huddleston. You have to be careful in how you deal with small-town cops; some of them don’t like private detectives from the big city—a sort of professional hostility, because they think you’re there to stir up trouble on their turf. But Huddleston wasn’t like that. He was polite, if a little reserved, and when I showed him the photostat of my license his face registered nothing more than mild curiosity.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“I’m looking for a man named Charles Bradford,” I said, and spread the
Examiner
photo on the desk in front of him. “He’s the man wearing the perforated cap.”

“Yes, I saw this in the paper the other day,” Huddleston said. “Pretty good story, as these things go. Why are you looking for this Bradford?”

I explained it to him, briefly but without leaving out anything pertinent. I also told him about the streamliner and the rest of what I’d learned at the hobo jungle. “I thought maybe you might have picked Bradford up on a vag charge.”

He shook his head. “Can’t help you there. We’ve only booked one man in the past couple of days—drunk and disorderly—and he isn’t Bradford.”

So much for that idea. “I don’t suppose it was the kid, either?”

“Nope. Local fellow; railroad worker who likes his booze too much and picks fights when he’s in the bag.”

“Well, I guess I’ll just have to keep poking around. That is, if you have no objections.”

“None as far as I’m concerned. We’re interested in this streamliner, though; we don’t like thieves in Oroville. Or dopers. If you turn up a lead on him I’d appreciate you letting us know right away.”

“Sure thing. Thanks for your time, sergeant.”

“Good luck.”

I went outside, looked at my car, decided to leave it where it was for the time being, and walked across Montgomery Street. I still had my original idea to check out—that either Bradford or the kid, or both of them, had come into town on Tuesday and ended up down here in the transient area. Even if neither of them was here now, somebody might remember having seen one or the other.

There were two pawnshops, both on Huntoon Street. The guy who ran the first one had never seen either the streamliner or Charles Bradford, or so he said; but the proprietor of the second place admitted that yes, a young long-hair had come in on Tuesday afternoon, late, and tried to hock a railroad lantern and a box of tools.

“But I sent him packing,” the pawnbroker said. “Tramps bring stuff they steal from the WP yards in here sometimes. I don’t have nothing to do with ’em.”

“If you figured the stuff was stolen, why didn’t you report it to the police?”

His mouth got tight at the corners. “I didn’t know it was stolen. Hell, I got a business to run here. I can’t be calling the police every time somebody comes in with something they want to hock.”

Uh-huh, I thought. “Do you know any place where the kid might have been able to unload the lantern and tools? Someone who’s not as honest as you are?”

“No,” he said flatly. “There ain’t nobody like that in Oroville.”

He was lying; there’s someone like that in every town of this size, and especially a town with the transient population of Oroville. Maybe he didn’t want to confide in me because I was a stranger, or maybe he just didn’t want to get involved. In any case, he was firm about it so there was no point in pressing him.

The block of Montgomery Street north of Huntoon was jammed with cheap hotels, cafés, bars, and gambling clubs advertising low-ball and draw poker. I started at the near end and worked my way along, giving the newspaper photo and a description of the streamliner to bartenders, waitresses, desk clerks, cardplayers, and bunches of elderly men with vacant eyes and liquor on their breaths. A third of them wouldn’t talk to me, and I didn’t trust half of the rest to give me a straight answer. Nobody knew Bradford, nobody knew the streamliner. Nobody knew anything.

I had pretty much given up by the time I walked into the Miners’ Hotel—ROOMS BY DAY, WEEK, OR MONTH—near the end of the block. The lobby was small, gloomy, smelled of dust and disinfectant, and had some faded plush furniture that hadn’t been new at the time of the 1906 earthquake; a guy about ninety with a nicotine-stained white mustache was half buried in one of the chairs, unmoving, as if he’d died there and been stuffed as some sort of monument. Behind the desk, a middle-aged rheumy type in an undershirt was watching a soap opera on television. He looked like a character out of a 1930s detective pulp; all that was missing was a green eyeshade and a pair of suspenders.

Nothing happened in his expression when I showed him the photograph, but when I described the streamliner an immediate flicker of recognition came into his eyes. Then the eyes got crafty. He smelled the prospect of money; you could almost see his nose twitch.

“Well,” he said, “I dunno. I might know that one. Then again, my memory ain’t what it used to be ...” He shrugged and watched me, licking his lips.

There was no percentage in playing games with him. If I told him I was a cop he’d ask to see my badge. And if I told him I was a private detective he’d still want to get paid. So I took a five-dollar bill out of my wallet, laid it on the counter with my hand on it and enough of the numeral showing so he could see it, and said, “How do you know him? Did he come in here?”

“That’s right,” the clerk said. “Now I remember.” He wasn’t looking at me anymore. His eyes were all over the money; I could feel them like crawling things on the back of my hand. “Fella looked like that come in Tuesday evening and took a room.”

“Was he alone?”

“Yeah. Alone.”

“What name did he register under?”

The clerk did not have to consult his book. “Smith,” he said. “Mr. Smith, from Sacramento.”

“Did he just stay the night, or what?”

“No. Paid two nights in advance.”

“Then he hasn’t checked out yet?”

“Far as I know, he’s still up in his room. Far as I know, he ain’t been down since he registered.”

“What room is he in?”

“Six. Second floor, rear.”

“I’m going up for a little talk with Mr. Smith,” I said. “But you don’t know that. So you can’t call up and let him know I’m coming, now can you?”

“I don’t know nothing,” the clerk said. “I told you, mister, my memory ain’t what it used to be.”

I took my hand off the fiver and moved toward the stairs at the rear. I didn’t see him snatch up the bill, but I heard him do it and I heard him smack his lips. It was like listening to a carrion bird swoop down on the carcass of a small animal.

T
he second-floor hallway was dim and quiet and had the same dust-and-disinfectant smell of the lobby. The first door I came to was standing open, and when I passed it I glanced inside automatically, the way you do. A frowsy brunette in her middle thirties was sitting on the end of the bed, clad in an old Hawaiian muu-muu. One foot was propped against a chair, so that the muu-muu bunched up to reveal a lot of flabby white thigh; she was painting her toenails blood-red.

She saw me and paused, and she must have hopped up immediately as I passed. I had only taken a half dozen more strides along the hallway when I heard her call behind me, “Hey there, sugar,” in a voice that sounded as if it had been marinating in a vat of bourbon. When I turned she was leaning against the door jamb, one hand resting on an outthrust hip; the pose was as old as time, and so was the smile on her bright red mouth. “What’s your hurry?”

“I’m here on business,” I said.

She laughed. “That makes two of us, sugar. Come on in when you’re through and we’ll get acquainted.”

“I don’t have the time. Thanks anyway.”

“Special rate for big guys like you.”

“Uh-uh. Sorry.”

I pivoted away and went on down the hall, looking at the numerals on the closed doors. When I got to the one with 6 on it I moved up close and put my ear against the panel. There wasn’t anything to hear. I rapped on the wood and called out, “Mr. Smith?”

No answer.

I knocked again, waited through another fifteen seconds of silence, then reached down and tried the knob. Locked—what else? “Mr. Smith? You in there?”

“He’s in there, all right,” the pudgy hooker said. She hadn’t gone back inside her room; she was still leaning back there against the jamb, watching me. “But he ain’t gonna open the door.”