looked around for someplace to sit. It wasn’t a tough problem. He chose an elegant sofa with polished wooden legs and well-stuffed cushions. They must not let visitors sit on the furniture, though, or they’d be re-upholstering it constantly. He opened his pocket organizer on a low table and leaned over it. He said, “You mean to tell me—”
Jayjay Smith sat opposite him.
He had let his sentence trail away, hoping that she would pick up where he left off, but she left him hanging. A trick he’d used many times, and got useful information from difficult people. Now it was being used on him.
“You mean there’s actually a Mr. Kleiner?’
“Of course. They didn’t name this place for a Mozart ditty!”
She seemed to be waiting for something, but Lindsey didn’t know what she was waiting for.
“A play on words,” Jayjay Smith finally explained.
Lindsey still drew a blank.
“Never mind.” She crossed her legs. “You wanted to know about Mr. Kleiner.”
Lindsey held his pen poised over the organizer. He grunted his assent.
“Well, I don’t know very much about Mr. Kleiner. And I don’t know how much it would be right to tell you. I mean, there are privacy laws.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Besides, there’s a historical pamphlet about the mansion. Did you pick one up, Mr. Lindsey?”
“I didn’t know you had one.”
She found a brochure in a polished breakfront and handed it to him. He slipped it into his jacket pocket. “Thanks.”
“Well, you can read the brochure at your convenience. It doesn’t really tell you much—it was written by some bureaucrat. It has a couple of nice photos in it, and a little history of the mansion. Anyway, when the Kleiners lost all their money they couldn’t keep up the taxes on the mansion. There was quite a scandal. The Kleiners were supposedly the richest family in Oakland. Millions and millions of dollars. Nobody knows exactly how much.”
Lindsey scribbled notes, mainly reminding himself to check on the Kleiner family. Tax records should still be available from the 1920s, and records of real estate transfers. And there had to be a local historical society. They might have something.
Jayjay Smith was still talking. “I don’t really know all the details of what happened. All I know is what Mr. Kleiner told me. And some of the members of the Smart Set.”
Lindsey nodded encouragingly.
“Apparently Mr. Kleiner went to his lawyer’s office and had a paper drawn up deeding the mansion and all of its contents, as well as the garage and the Duesenberg, to the city in lieu of taxes. The city had to forgive any other taxes that the Kleiners owed, they had to give Mr. Kleiner lifetime residence in the mansion, and they had to employ him for life. As chauffeur.”
“And the city went for that?” Lindsey jotted down: Kleiner lawyer? Newspapers for ’29?
“Apparently they did. I guess they figured it was a good offer. Somebody was really foresighted. If this house were in private hands today the city would really miss it. They couldn’t afford to buy it. And then the owners would probably knock it down and build condos here. Great for the people who live in them, rotten for everybody else.”
“How much did the Kleiners owe the city?”
“I don’t know. Must have been plenty, to give up this house. Even by 1929 standards, it must have been worth a fortune. Today you couldn’t touch it for any amount. The lawns, Lake Merritt in the backyard—it’s priceless.”
“Looks like a good bargain for Oakland. How do they handle the use of the car?”
“That was a problem. If the city kept the car, they had to make it available to anyone who wanted to use it. Or else keep it for civic parades, special events, you know. It turned out to be more trouble than it was worth.”
“I can see that. So, what did they do?”
“The city sold the car to the club. Let somebody else worry about what to do with it. Let them worry about Mr. Kleiner, too.”
“Mr. Kleiner? You mean—” He paused and studied his notes. “I still don’t—”
There was a stirring from another room.
Jayjay Smith stood up. “I’m sorry. I have to see if he’s all right.”
“Can I help?” He expected her to say no, but he’d get some points anyway. And points might lead to information.
He was right. She disappeared through a dark wood doorway. He stood up and walked around the room, picking up porcelain figures and display china dishes with Eighteenth Century ladies and gentlemen painted on them, done up in their satin clothing and powdered wigs.
He heard Jayjay Smith’s voice, a pleasant contralto. He couldn’t hear her words, but the tone was warm, coaxing. She sounded the way a mother ought to sound, not the way Lindsey’s mother did.
And in the pauses, the hint of another voice. An old voice, thin and dry and weak. Mr. Kleiner. That had to be Mr. Kleiner. Mr. Kleiner, and the Duesenberg stolen from the Kleiner Mansion. The story of the house deeded over for taxes, and the clause about the chauffeur.
Why in the world had Mr. Kleiner insisted on that odd arrangement, living in cramped quarters in the mansion that he’d once owned, and caring for the Duesenberg and acting as chauffeur of the car that had been his personal property? Did he really love his lifestyle that much? Surely he could have found a better job and a nicer place to live, even after the Kleiner fortune was gone.
Did that make sense?
But the Dusie was the property of the New California Smart Set. Probably, Kleiner had been unable to interfere when the city sold the car, for all that he might have disapproved. But the club was also tied into the mansion. But, but, but, his mind was starting to feel like an outboard motor. Lindsey shook his head and tried again to get a grasp on what was going on.
It was like something out of an old movie. Good gosh, how many of the things had he seen since he’d bought the VCR and the cable started bringing in those old movie channels. But there was a particular one, he could almost see it. Yes, with Gloria Swanson and William Holden and the young Jack Webb. But who played the chauffeur? He had it!
Erich von Stroheim!
He ran back to his pocket organizer and scribbled: Sunset Boulevard!!!
Jayjay Smith’s voice still came from the other room. Lindsey heard the distinctive sound of a telephone hitting its cradle, and Smith came partway back into the room where he was. She stood in the doorway. She looked pale. “I just called for an ambulance. I hate to send the poor man to the hospital. He doesn’t want to go, but he has to.”
Lindsey stood near her and she put her hand on his cuff as if she could draw strength from him. He said, “What is it?”
She said, “Since Saturday. He’s been beside
