The Chinese Jars Read online

  Samuel walked into the medical examiner’s office. He was a tall, shabby-appearing man, with the melancholy air of a turtle, dressed in a white medical jacket with a nameplate. There were anatomy charts displaying different parts of the human body, and in one of the corners stood a real skeleton, on which he’d placed a French beret.

  “The clerk tells me you’re inquiring about Reginald Rockwood,” the examiner said.

  “He’s the one. Some things about this guy just don’t make sense,” Samuel confessed. “You know, he planted his own obituary a few days before he died.”

  “Well, the body we’ve got here is him, all right. The fingerprints check out.”

  “What was the cause of death?” asked Samuel.

  “Suicide. He jumped in front of a trolley bus. But he needn’t have bothered; he was a pretty sick young man. The autopsy showed that he had a liver the size of a football. I guess he knew what was coming and took a shortcut.”

  Samuel shook his head in disbelief. “I went to the address he left as his own, but the maid said he never lived there.”

  “Really? We haven’t found a home address yet. Did they know who he was?”

  “Only that he went to a party there three months ago,” answered Samuel.

  “We called the Haskell woman, the one he claimed was his sister, but she never heard of him,” said the examiner.

  “I’ll cross her off my list,” said Samuel. “Do you know if and where he worked?”

  “Not a clue,” said the examiner. “He was admitted to San Francisco General on Friday night, but he was in a coma, according to the records. He died on Saturday morning without regaining consciousness. No one’s claimed the body yet. And from what I gather, no one will.”

  “You have his body here?” asked Samuel, surprised.

  “This is the morgue. Where else would it be?”

  “Can I see it? He was a special friend of mine, and it would mean a lot to me.”

  The turtle face expressed doubt for a moment. “This is a little out of the ordinary, but I suppose we could use a physical ID for the record. Follow me.”

  Together they walked down the hall, through some swinging double doors, and entered the morgue. They went through another door on the right side of the hallway into a room full of what looked like stainless steel boxes stacked four high along three of the walls. Each was eighteen inches square and had a number on it. On a desk right next to the entrance door was a ledger book and a notepad. The examiner looked up the name Rockwell and wrote a number on the pad, then ripped it off and walked down the row of squares until he reached number twenty-five. He rechecked the number.

  “You’re not suffering from heart trouble or anything like that, are you?” he asked Samuel.

  “No, sir. I admit, though, I haven’t seen a dead person since my parents died a few years ago.”

  “You’re sure you want to see it.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s important to me.”

  “Okay, you asked for it,” and he opened the drawer.

  Samuel saw a white sheet covering the outline of a body on a metal tray. He felt the cold air from the open box. The examiner stopped pulling when the drawer was about three feet out, then slowly peeled back the sheet to expose the head and shoulders to just below the nipples.

  “That’s him,” said Samuel, when he was able to speak after a long pause. He expected to see Reginald’s smiling face as he remembered it, but the violent death had smashed that face to bits. Samuel supposed that he’d fallen in front of the trolley bus and been dragged along the asphalt. His nose was flattened and one of his cheekbones was caved in; but it was his friend: the same black hair, well-defined eyebrows, and refined lips. He saw the autopsy stitches on his torso in between his breasts.

  “That’s awful,” he murmured.

  “What did I tell you?”

  “What do these bruises on his arms mean? They look like someone had a pretty strong grip on him.”

  “I wouldn’t put too much emphasis on those,” said the examiner. “He was in a coma for several hours before he died. Obviously, the nursing staff was moving him around.” He waited a few seconds then asked, “Seen enough?”

  “Yeah, thanks. You understand, don’t you? He was a good friend of mine.”

  “I understand,” said the examiner, covering the body and pushing it back into its place.

  On the way back to the office, Samuel asked, “What’ll happen to the body?”

  “We’ll hold it for a month or so; if it’s not claimed or there’s no other problems, we donate it to science. They always need cadavers at the University of California Medical School.

  “I have one more favor to ask,” said Samuel. “Can I go through his belongings?”

  “That’s sort of against the rules, too; but what the hell. We’ll say you’re helping to solve the mystery.”

  He picked up the phone and told the clerk to let Samuel see the property file. In a few minutes the clerk entered with a garment bag containing a tuxedo, a shirt, socks, and underwear; and a plastic bag with a wallet, watch, cuff links and studs for a dress shirt, an almost empty pack of cigarettes, a Zippo lighter, and seventeen dollars in cash.

  “Help yourself. You can use the evidence room right through there. Make yourself at home.”

  “Thanks. I’ll report back if I find anything that might help,” said Samuel.

  When he looked at the pile of stuff in front of him, tears welled up in his eyes. He didn’t cry easily, but it made him sad to think that this was all that was left of the poor bastard. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, realizing he just couldn’t turn and leave, as he had wanted to.

  Instead, he started methodically going through the wallet. There was no driver’s license, only a social security card and a photo of a younger Reginald in an army uniform. He had lieutenant’s bars on his shoulders, but Samuel couldn’t tell if they were silver or gold. Next, he searched the pockets of his tuxedo and found an invitation to a party for the night Reginald had apparently jumped in front of the trolley bus. It was to an exclusive cocktail bash in Pacific Heights at the home of a wealthy industrialist. The invitation was engraved at Engel’s of San Francisco, an upscale printing establishment on Sacramento Street in the financial district. There was an RSVP number on it, so Samuel interrupted his search and called the number. They’d never heard of Reginald Rockwood III, and they had no idea why he would have an invitation. He certainly wasn’t invited.

  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.

  2

  Camelot

  IF 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. Th
at 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.