The Ghost in Roomette Four Page 11

  A bar made of scarred and stained oak extended along the left wall. Benches ranged along the right wall, and there were small round tables set up on the right side of the room. The space between the bar and the raised platform served as a dance floor, Jill guessed. There was a lot of noise in the club, even though the music hadn’t yet started, with customers’ voices competing with the clink of glasses and bottles.

  Mike steered Jill toward a small table with two vacant chairs. They sat down and Jill draped her cardigan over the back of her chair. Mike asked Jill what she would like to drink.

  “A beer would be fine,” she said. Then she looked past him and smiled at the young couple who were sitting at the next table. “Hello, Mr. Nathan. I almost didn’t recognize you in civilian clothes.”

  Frank Nathan did look different out of his porter’s uniform, dressed tonight in a dark brown pinstriped suit with a white shirt and a blue bow tie. “I thought that was you when you walked in, Miss McLeod,” he said. “I wondered if you might be here tonight. I heard someone say the guitarist’s name was McLeod and I remembered that your brother likes this kind of music.” He nodded in the direction of the stage.

  “Yes, the guitarist is my brother. His name is Drew.”

  The woman sitting next to him was about Jill’s age, with short dark hair and a round face. She wore a rose pink cotton dress with white eyelet trim. Frank Nathan made the introductions. “This is my friend, Bea Simmons. This is Miss McLeod. She’s one of the Zephyrettes on the train.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Miss Simmons,” Jill said.

  The young woman waved at her from the other side of the table. “Likewise. I know about Zephyrettes. My uncle is a railroad cook. He travels on the California Zephyr all the time.”

  “No doubt I’ve eaten some of his cooking. What do you do, Miss Simmons?”

  “I’m studying to be a nurse, at the Kaiser Foundation school over on Piedmont Avenue. I just finished my first year.”

  Mike introduced himself to the other couple. “Mike Scolari. I was a passenger on the train last December, when we had that memorable incident in the canyon.”

  “How could I forget,” Frank Nathan said. “That was a mess for sure.”

  “Do you come here a lot?” Jill asked.

  “I know the owner, Mr. Osgood.” He pointed at a gray-haired man behind the bar. “He and my father are friends.”

  “I’m going to get our beers,” Mike said. He headed for the bar.

  “How is your mother?” Jill asked. The porter’s mother was a housekeeper, working for Navy families who lived in officers’ quarters at the Naval Air Station in Alameda.

  Frank smiled. “She is just fine and keeping busy.”

  Mike returned a few minutes later with two bottles of cold beer, no glasses. Jill took a sip. She preferred wine, but every now and then she liked a beer. They talked for a few minutes, Jill checking her watch. It was after nine. Finally the band started, appropriately enough playing “Mercury Blues,” the song Drew had been playing a couple of days before. The music was loud, driving, with Drew, his mouth close to the microphone, providing the vocal.

  “He sounds good,” she told Mike.

  “Yes, he does. The whole band is good. C’mon, let’s dance.” Mike stood up and held out his hand.

  They maneuvered their way onto the crowded dance floor, swinging into a Lindy Hop. They danced through several songs Jill didn’t know, but she did recognize “Night Train.” After that, the music slowed into a bluesy version of “Cry.” With so many people packed together on the floor, the room got very warm.

  “Let’s sit down,” she said, fanning herself with her palm.

  Frank and his girlfriend had also returned to their table. As Jill and Mike sat down, Bea stood up and waved to someone out on the sidewalk, visible through the bar’s grimy front window. “I see Wanda outside,” she told Frank. “I’m going to say hello. I need to talk with her about something.”

  Mike pushed his chair back from the table and stood. “I’m going to the men’s room. I’ll be back in a minute. Do you want another beer?”

  “I’m still not finished with this one,” Jill told him. She had been nursing the beer all evening. After Mike had left, heading toward the back of the bar, Jill turned to Frank Nathan. “Do you remember that day in May when we got into the Oakland Mole and I found Mr. Randall dead in roomette four on the Silver Gorge?”

  “Of course I do.” He hesitated, his hand wrapped around the beer bottle in front of him. “That’s the third body you’ve found on the train.”

  “I know. My father reminded me of that fact last night. He thinks it’s getting to be a habit, but I’m sure it’s just a strange coincidence. Yesterday I spoke with Mr. Randall’s fiancée, Miss Vennor.”

  “The young lady that came to meet the train that day. You talked with her outside the car.”

  “I had to tell her he was dead,” Jill said. “When I talked with her yesterday, she told me that she’s convinced Mr. Randall was murdered.”

  He frowned, considering this. “I heard, second or third hand, that he died of some kind of heart condition. He was awfully young to die that way.”

  “I wonder what else you might have heard.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.” He looked past her, out the window where Bea stood on the sidewalk, talking with her friend.

  “The ghost,” she prompted.

  He looked at her and took his time answering. “You know about the ghost?”

  “I saw—and heard—something odd, on my last run. It was late and I was walking through the Silver Gorge on the way to my quarters. I saw a strange light in the passageway. It seemed to float into the roomette, which was empty at the time. When I went inside, it was very cold, and it got colder. Then I heard a rapping sound, four distinct knocks. I didn’t know what to think. When I went through the next car, I ran into the porter, Darius Doolin. He told me about the ghost. That was the first I’d heard of it. I’m not sure I believe in it, though Mr. Doolin told me several of the porters have seen things.” When Frank didn’t say anything, she added, “Have you?”

  He nodded. “Seen it, and heard it. But my experience was different from yours. It happened about three weeks after Mr. Randall died. I was on a run from Chicago to Oakland and the Silver Gorge was on the consist. It was late on the first night out, and I’d just settled down to see if I could get some sleep. Then the porter call bell from roomette four rang. I knew there was no passenger traveling in that roomette. I thought somebody was playing a trick on me. I went to check, though. Nothing there. So I turned around to leave, to go back to my quarters. Then I heard that noise. It sounded like you say, someone knocking on the wall. When I turned back to look, I saw a light, outside the roomette door. I thought it must have been a trick of the light.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Jill said.

  “I went into the roomette,” he continued. “And I felt that chill. Just then another porter call bell rang. This time it was a real passenger, in another roomette. I just figured my imagination was playing tricks on me, so I let it go out of my mind. Until now.”

  “Getting back to the sounds you heard, did it sound like four short knocks?”

  “I didn’t count the knocks,” Frank said. “Short knocks? Are you thinking Morse Code?”

  “Yes. I heard four short knocks. That’s the letter H in Morse Code. Of course, four blasts on a train whistle means—”

  “A request for a signal to be given, or repeated,” Frank said.

  “Or four taps meaning roomette four.” Jill sighed. “Maybe it means nothing at all. Maybe I’m imagining things.” She took a sip of her beer and looked around for Mike. He’d returned from the rest rooms at the back of the club and now he stood at the bar, talking with another man.

  “Would both of us be imagining the same thing?” Frank asked. “You mentioned Mr. Doolin. I talked with him, and some of the other porters. People told me several porters have seen things on that
car, ever since Mr. Randall died a couple of months ago. Miss McLeod, I don’t believe in ghosts. But something strange is going on.”

  “There must be a logical explanation,” Jill said. “It’s possible Mr. Randall died of an overdose of that prescription medicine. You know I found a bottle of Digoxin next to the body. He could have taken too many pills. Or someone could have given him the pills. Who would be able to get close enough to him to administer something like that?”

  “Somebody he knew?” Frank asked.

  Jill nodded. “There were two other men who got on the train in Portola, the same time as Mr. Randall. Both of them boarded the chair cars. One was big and bulky, with a long nose. The other was tall, with a mustache.”

  “I saw both of them,” Frank said. “The one with the mustache was outside the roomette. It was while we were in the Feather River Canyon, before we got to Oroville. I asked if he was looking for Mr. Randall. He said no, he just wanted to see what a roomette looked like. Then he left the car.”

  “I also saw him outside the roomette. But when I spoke with him, he implied he was looking for Mr. Randall.” So the man with the mustache had lied to Frank. “As for the other man, he was back in the Silver Gorge, too. I came upon him with Mr. Randall, in the vestibule. They were having words. An argument, I’m sure of it.”

  “I remember that,” Frank said. “I was in roomette three, across the hall, making up the bed back into a seat for a passenger that got up late that morning. That big man in the suit, he showed up, standing in the doorway of roomette four, talking to Mr. Randall. I agree with you, it was definitely an argument. As they talked, they got louder and louder. So much so that the lady who was traveling in number five stuck her head out of the roomette and asked them to either quiet down or take their conversation somewhere else. At that point, Mr. Randall apologized to her, and he and the other man went out to the vestibule.”

  “I’d give anything to know what they were talking about,” Jill said. “I saw them briefly while I was walking through the vestibule, but I didn’t hear much. Did you hear anything when they were in the roomette?”

  “A bit.” Frank thought about it, as though trying to reconstruct the fragment of conversation he’d overheard. “I heard something about figures, and Mr. Randall saying, ‘I can’t do it.’ But that’s all. What did you hear?”

  “When I came upon them in the vestibule, Mr. Randall was saying something like, ‘The figures don’t add up.’ And I’m sure he said, ‘I know what you want me to do and I can’t do it.’ I wonder what the other man wanted him to do.” And whether it got Mr. Randall killed, she thought, recalling the night she’d seen the light in roomette four. At the time the roomette had been unoccupied, but later in the run a passenger had boarded, traveling in that roomette. The passenger had told her the next morning that her sleep had been disturbed by voices, two men arguing, she’d said. Two men. Mr. Randall’s ghost and—?

  She looked up as Bea Simmons came back inside the bar, heading for the table where Frank sat. “Wanda invited us to a picnic next weekend,” she said. “Are you going to be in town?”

  Frank shook his head. “I’m leaving on a run this coming Wednesday, so I won’t be back from Chicago till after the weekend.”

  “I was afraid of that,” Bea said. “But you’re a traveling man. I understand that.”

  Drew’s band swung into a hard-driving rhythm and Bea took Frank’s hand, leading him to the dance floor. Mike returned to the table, carrying his second beer. “Ran into a guy I know and got to talking.”

  “I know, I saw you.”

  “You and Frank Nathan were having quite a conversation. What about?”

  “A ghost. I promise I’ll tell you about it later. Come on, let’s dance.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Welcome. Come in.” Tidsy stood in the doorway of her apartment, opening the door wide for Jill and Margaret.

  Jill walked through the living room to the window. It faced north, toward Russian Hill, North Beach and Fisherman’s Wharf. Sunlight would soon give way to darkness on this summer evening. But there was enough light so that Jill could see, far below, a cable car making its way along Mason Street, heading for the wharf. In the distance, the dark blue water of San Francisco Bay glinted with gold as the sun made its descent to the west.

  “Your apartment is beautiful,” Margaret told Tidsy, who wore a dress in what was for her a subdued color, a deep burgundy red.

  “I agree,” Jill said. “What a terrific view.”

  Tidsy laughed, glancing around her home. “Yes, I’ve been fortunate. Little Gracie Ballew, the kid who grew up in a flat above a bakery on Guerrero Street in the Mission, living in a joint like this. Who would have thought it?”

  The apartment was at the top of Nob Hill, on the seventh floor of the Brocklebank Apartments, a ten-story building that had been constructed in the 1920s, at the corner of Mason and Sacramento streets. The building’s near neighbors were the Pacific Union Club and the Fairmont Hotel, both structures that had survived the 1906 earthquake that left much of the neighborhood in rubble and flames.

  Tidsy’s living room was simply furnished, with soft beige carpet, walls painted a light cream. Grouped around a coffee table were a comfortable high-backed sofa and two wingback chairs, all upholstered in a coppery fabric that complemented the russet drapes. The small dining area had a round oak table covered with a white lace cloth with scalloped edges, a crystal bowl in the middle.

  “Let me take your jackets,” she said.

  The day had been warm, but as the sun went down, San Francisco had developed its usual chill. Both the living room and dining room windows were open slightly, a breeze coming through the screens, billowing the edge of the draperies. Jill had worn a lightweight blue jacket over her pastel blue cotton dress. Margaret, too, wore a jacket, pale green to go with her green-and-white shirtwaist. Now they removed their wraps and handed them to Tidsy, who hung them in the coat closet near the front door.

  “How about drinks?” Tidsy asked. “Booze, or not?”

  Jill shook her head. “Nothing alcoholic for me. If we’re going to communicate with ghosts, I need to keep my wits about me.”

  “I second that,” Margaret added.

  “I figured as much. So I made a pitcher of tea. Go on, sit down, both of you.” Tidsy waved her hand in the direction of the sofa and chairs, then headed for the kitchen.

  Jill sat down in one of the armchairs, while Margaret took the other. A moment later, Tidsy returned from the kitchen, carrying two tall glasses filled with ice and tea, each garnished with a slice of lemon. Jill took a sip and set the glass on the nearby end table, making sure to put it on the round coaster.

  Tidsy reached for her own glass, which contained ice cubes and a thin residue of golden-brown liquor. “I will have another drink. My wits are just fine, even better when lubricated with good scotch.” She went to the bar in the corner of the dining area and poured another shot over the ice.

  After taking a sip of her tea, Margaret asked, “What time will the medium arrive?”

  “I told her eight-thirty.” Tidsy glanced at the small brass carriage clock on a nearby bookcase. It was ten minutes after eight. Outside, the sky had darkened to blue-black, sprinkled with stars and city lights. “This time of year, it’s not going to be dark until about then. I suppose the optimum time to hold a séance would be midnight or thereabouts. But I couldn’t very well schedule it that late in the evening. I imagine you girls had to tiptoe around the truth as to why you were coming to the city tonight. Explaining a midnight visit to San Francisco would be more difficult. Anyway, Madame Latour said the timing of the séance wouldn’t be a problem.”

  “I told my family I was driving over to the city tonight to see you. I didn’t tell them why.” Jill had an excellent relationship with her parents, which was why, for the time being, she continued to live at home. They were fine with her going to Oroville with Mike tomorrow, since she would be staying with his relatives there.
But she had the feeling eyebrows would be raised at the mention of séances and mediums.

  “As far as Aunt Helen knows,” Margaret said, “I am meeting friends. By the way, Jill, you are invited to our party next Saturday. Tidsy will be there.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.” Tidsy sipped her scotch, then set the glass on the coffee table. She picked up a pack, shook out a cigarette, and lighted it.

  “Is there an occasion for this party?” Jill asked. “And may I bring Mike, the man I’ve been seeing? He and I are taking the CZ to Oroville tomorrow to visit his relatives, but we’ll be back on Wednesday.”

  “By all means, bring Mike. I look forward to meeting him,” Margaret said. “As for the reason for the party, it’s an annual thing my aunt and uncle do. Every summer they invite their friends and people from my uncle’s company, an open house sort of thing. They set up tables on the patio and lawn and a catering company provides the food. Aunt Helen has been planning it for months now.”

  “Helen and Dan throw quite a shindig, with lots of booze and good food,” Tidsy said. “Speaking of food, do you kids want anything to eat? I’ve had dinner, but if you’re peckish, I’ve got cheese and crackers.”

  Margaret shook her head. “Nothing for me, thanks. I had dinner not long ago.”

  “None for me, either.” Jill took a sip of iced tea. “Before the medium gets here, I should tell you that since I spoke with both of you last week, I’ve been making an effort to remember more about the trip, that day when Mr. Randall, Kevin, was on the train. I’ve gone over it in my head and I also went through my notes. I have to file a trip report at the end of each run, so I keep a small notebook of things that go on during the days that we’re out. I didn’t find much that was useful in my notes, except that I did write down what happened after I found the body. What I was hoping to dredge up were some details about what went on between the time Kevin boarded the train and our arrival at the Oakland Mole. And I did recall a few things.”