Read Online The Chinese Jars by William Gordon - Free Book Online Page B

money?” she asked, taking a sip of her beer.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” asked Samuel.
    â€œWhere’s his stuff?” asked Melba.
    â€œSo far as I know, it’s at the engraving shop. All except the clothes he had on when he died. They’re still at the medical examiner’s,” responded Samuel.
    â€œIf he had money hidden away, there has to be some kind of receipt somewhere. It may be unconventional. It could be a checking account, but I doubt it would be in his name. More than likely, he had it stashed away in cash,” she said. “If I were you, I’d start in those two places. Look for a clue. It may be something totally innocuous.”
    Samuel had a couple more drinks while he pondered what she said, exploring with her the details of the avenues she opened for him. There was no trace of Blanche, but he didn’t have the courage to ask about her. When he got up to leave, Excalibur followed him with his nose almost stuck to his pant leg.
    â€œHe’s learning your smell,” she said. “Go home, you look tired.”
    But Samuel went to Chop Suey Louie’s, sat in front of the aquarium at the counter, and ordered a bowl of noodles. He watched the colorful tropical fish, especially the gold ones, swim slowly around the large tank. They brought luck to the establishment, according to Louie. His bowl arrived steaming hot. The smell was inviting, and he was suddenly ravenous, remembering that he hadn’t eaten in several hours, and his mouth was sour from the Scotch. He dug in, but he couldn’t catch a single noodle. Louie approached him with a fork.
    â€œOne of these days you’ll get it,” smiled Louie.
    â€œYeah, one of these days.”
    * * *
    The next morning Samuel arrived at the U.S. attorney’s office in the Federal Building at Seventh and Mission at ten o’clock. In order to get there, he took the Powell Street cable car from near his flat to Market Street, and walked up to Seventh.
    His friend Charles Perkins was dressed in the same suit. Samuel noticed that one sleeve was an inch shorter than the other, so Charles’s gold-plated cuff link stuck out against his white shirt.
    â€œWhere do you want to start this investigation, Samuel?” he asked.
    â€œWe should go to the medical examiner’s first, and see if there’s anything I missed. Then we should go to Rockwell’s employer. I remember seeing a whole box of engraved invitations there, and some of them had notes on ’em,” said Samuel.
    Charles stuffed a number of blank federal subpoena forms in his tattered brown leather briefcase with the Justice Department insignia on it. He threw on his gray overcoat and wrapped a blue wool scarf around his neck, then motioned with a finger for Samuel to follow him out of the office.
    They walked out of the Federal Building and hailed a cab right on Seventh Street. It was a cold, cloudy day in December and the streets were crowded with Christmas shoppers walking toward downtown. That year Jacqueline Kennedy made popular felt hats shaped like candy boxes, but most of the women in San Francisco seemed to be ignoring her fashion tip . Wearing their own fashionable hats and coats, they mixed with the grubby winos coming up from South of Mission and the out-of-towners and weary travelers pouring out of the Greyhound station directly across the street.
    Charles told the taxi driver where they wanted to go, and they soon found themselves in front of the office of the medical examiner, a one-story gray stone building. When they arrived, Samuel said hello to the emaciated clerk who had received him the time before and explained they needed to see his boss, because the feds had a subpoena and wanted to examine their files on Rockwood.
    The clerk took the document that the attorney had filled out by hand and disappeared behind a frosted-glass door. Within a minute the door reopened and the examiner appeared in his white coat