Bindlestiff (The Nameless Detective) Read Online Free PDF Page A

for letting me stop by,” and the tone of her voice was different, too, with the sex bleached out of it—a kind of just-between-us-girls intimacy.
    For Christ’s sake, I thought, she thinks I’m gay!
    It struck me funny and I almost laughed out loud. San Francisco has the largest, most outspoken and well-publicized homosexual population in the country; a lot of people who don’t live here, who only come to the city occasionally or not at all, seem to think just about every other male or female is of the lavender persuasion. I hadn’t reacted to Hannah Peterson the way she expected, ergo I must prefer boys. It was ridiculous—but the world is full of ridiculous people.
    I managed to keep a straight face, so to speak, and decided not to say anything to alter her misconception. Let her think I wore lace panties and kept a male harem; what the hell. If she knew the truth she would only turn the sex on again. And I did not want to have to deal with that.
    I said, “Sit down, Mrs. Peterson. I’ve got some coffee in the kitchen if you’d like a cup.”
    “No thanks. I won’t stay long.” She sat on the couch, crossed her legs, and got a pack of cigarettes out of her purse. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
    “Go right ahead.”
    She lit up, letting her eyes wander around the room as she exhaled smoke. “You have a nice apartment,” she said. “It’s so, um, masculine.”
    I said, because I couldn’t resist, “An interior decorator friend of mine designed it.”
    “He’s very good.”
    “Yeah,” I said. “He’s a sweetie.”
    “All those old detective magazines are a nice touch. Do you actually read things like that?”
    “Oh no, they’re just for decoration . . . because I’m a private eye myself. But I’m going to get rid of them one of these days; they collect dust.”
    “I imagine they must.”
    “Besides, they’re full of stories about murder and violence and human fiends doing all sorts of disgusting things to women. Detective work isn’t really like that, you know.”
    A faint frown line appeared on her forehead, as if she might be tumbling to the fact that I was putting her on; but then it smoothed away and she nodded seriously. She may not have been a dumb blonde, but she sure as hell was a credulous one.
    But the joke had gone far enough; this was supposed to be a professional discussion. I said, “What was it you wanted to talk to me about, Mrs. Peterson?”
    “My father. That photograph of him in the paper and my sister hiring you to find him.”
    “You saw the photograph, did you?”
    “Yes. I came into the city to do some shopping—I live in Sonoma—and I stopped for a drink afterward at the St. Francis. There was a copy of the Examiner in the lounge. Well, I called Arleen right away, and she told me she’d hired you to go up to Oroville and look for Dad.”
    “And?”
    “I think she made a mistake. I’m here because I’d like you to reconsider doing what she wants.”
    “You mean you don’t want your father found?”
    “ He doesn’t want to be found,” she said.
    “Oh? How do you know that?”
    “He told me as much himself. The last time I talked to him, before he went off to ride the rails.”
    “I don’t think I understand.”
    “You have to know Dad. Up until he lost his job with the government, he led a very uneventful life. I guess Arleen told you he’s always been fascinated by trains and by the hobo life. Well, losing his job gave him the chance to go ahead and do what he’d always dreamed about doing.”
    “Being a hobo,” I said.
    “Yes. Spending the rest of his life around trains. He doesn’t really care about money, you see. Not at all. Uncle Kenneth’s twenty thousand dollars wouldn’t matter to him if he knew about it; he’d go right on being a hobo.”
    “He’s still entitled to it.”
    “But he wouldn’t bother to claim it, that’s the point. He’d want Arleen and me to have it.”
    “Your sister doesn’t seem to think so,” I