Ticket To Shadowland: From The Case Files Of Tom Hale

By Tim Craig

What’s it take to trap a fiend ... and stay alive? Ticket To Shadowland reveals the answer ...

San Francisco 1941—World War II Looms for the U.S.... Missing husband cases are always messy, and the one private detective Tom Hale accepts in Ticket To Shadowland is the worst. The missing husband happens to be a naval officer, and his wife, Hale’s newly minted client, is strangled within hours of begging for Hale’s help. Desperate to find her killer, Hale collides with a top-secret murder investigation pursued anxiously by the White House and FDR’s fledgling spy agency, the OSS. Hale unravels one murder after another and finds they’re linked to a terrifying secret. Now a player in a life-or-death spy game, Hale knows the only way for him to survive is to expose that terrifying secret and unmask the shadowy killer who’s getting help from the strangest places. No one’s who he seems in Ticket To Shadowland, not even the dead.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tim Craig
• Release date: Mar 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311002624

Tim Craig

Tim Craig is the owner of a multimedia communications company located in the San Francisco Bay Area.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

***

The White House, October 1940

"How did he die?" The President was still digesting the news just given him.

We don’t know with certainty, Mister President.

Franklin Roosevelt looked at the two naval officers seated in front of him. The look, as usual, was hard to read. His eyes left the officers and moved about the oval room. The sun was now behind the State Department building, immediately to the west. The light was quickly fading as Roosevelt concentrated, as if alone.

The silence began to pile up, but the men across from the President knew better than to say anything at that moment. Then the President rubbed his left eyebrow with a trembling index finger, signaling displeasure. His eyes were hot and unfocused.

"Why did he die?" the President finally asked.

The two advisors were suddenly uncomfortable. They understood the meaning of the question.

We don’t know that either, Mister President, the senior man replied softly.

The President looked down at the buttons on his vest, asserting patience. More silence. But this time it was a silence that made the President’s men slump into their chairs, the weight of it great.

When he finally looked up, Roosevelt said with a calmness he did not feel, What are your opinions?

The two officers glanced at each other and then focused back on FDR.

Come now, gentlemen, the President goaded. Questions must sometimes be decided even though they cannot be answered. The last several words shot out like gravel from under a speeding car.

The senior man bowed his head and replied, We believe Mister Bywater was murdered by Kempeitai agents… the man’s eyes rose and met the President’s, and Roosevelt’s expression urged him on, because he learned something of Yamamoto’s plans.

I fear Hector’s death means ‘something wicked this way comes’. The President’s voice was more a whisper. His eyes narrowed, and he nodded just perceptibly. I’d surely love to know what he uncovered. I trust Naval Intelligence is eager to accommodate me.

Yes, Mister President. This time the junior advisor spoke. The senior man was looking off, thinking about the importance and difficulty of the task that loomed.

Ignoring the speaker, Roosevelt leaned forward over the papers on his desk and reengaged the attention of the senior officer. You better alert Colonel Donovan. He’s on the best of terms with his British counterpart, so we may need him on this.

Yes, Mister President.

***

PART ONE

***

The Hunted

San Francisco, December 1941

1.

Jean Victor

I gave the telephone my coldest stare, but like the rain attacking my office window, the bell wouldn’t quit. On the sixth ring, I answered.

I shouldn’t have.

Hamilton and Hale Investigations, I said.

Very impressive, Thomas. With you answering the telephone, Hamilton must be the brains of the outfit.

He is, and God help our clients. John’s dying of cancer, Father.

I could almost see the grimace on Father Donlan’s face. The good Father was nothing like Pat O’Brien in Angels with Dirty Faces, gently guiding a pack of juvenile delinquents through harsh times and cruel temptations with nothing more than a basketball and a coach’s whistle. Instead, Father Donlan’s unshakable manner and ferocious resolve left nothing to chance—keeping acolytes in line and Satan at bay. I’d known and loved him since I was a child, but we hadn’t spoken in quite awhile and the reason made us both awkward.

That’s bitter news, Thomas. I’m sorry, Father Donlan responded in a softer voice. But the Lord works in mysterious ways.

I’ve heard that, Father. It always sounds like a dodge.

Father Donlan ignored the provocation and shifted gears. We’ve noticed over here in our part of the world that you’ve ceased visiting.

Not since Maddy died.

"Madeleine was special, Thomas. I understand how you feel."

Then you also understand that I’m angry.

Your anger’s unhealthy, Thomas, Father Donlan replied. Hold onto it and it’ll eat at what’s good and important inside you.

Father, anger is the only thing that’s kept my heart beating for the last three years, I said, and I could feel my voice tighten. I looked at the framed photograph of a smiling couple resting on the corner of my desk.

"If you don’t let the Wheel turn, Thomas, you’ll never know where He wants it to stop."

I won’t argue that with you, Father, I replied. But I get a feeling of power, knowing He and I are at a standoff.

There was a long pause. The Wheel didn’t budge.

Father Donlan switched gears again. The Monsignor would like a favor, Thomas. It was a declaration, not a request.

I’ve already contributed canned goods to the Christmas Drive. What more can I do?

Sarcasm from a Stanford man? Thomas, I fear you’re sinking, Father Donlan replied.

At that, I made a sound deep in my throat, studied my thumbnail, and waited.

The Monsignor wants to see you, Thomas. How soon can you stop by?

I’m finishing up some files, Father. I’ve got two trials next week. I’m loaded.

Thomas, he repeated in a voice sounding just a bit tired. How soon can you stop by? He was starting to draw out his words now, so I knew it was time to give in.

Wednesday, after lunch, I said.

Around three o’clock?

Around then, I said, smiling to myself over my last bit of rebellion.

Three o’clock then, on the tenth. We look forward to seeing you. The Monsignor’s favor has been waiting nearly five-hundred years. With that, the line went dead. Father Donlan always did know how to wrap up a conversation.

I listened to the rain pelting my window, adding to the gray stain that was creeping toward the floor from just beneath the sill. I’d have to call the building people… again.

Newspaper in hand, I moved over to the client’s chair, the comfortable one. Instead of reading though, I thought about what I’d said to Father Donlan, and how I’d felt saying it. I started to get angry again and decided the Monsignor’s five-hundred-year-old favor could damn well keep for another six days.

I turned away from the window and checked my wristwatch. My letter service was supposed to call right after lunch, but I wasn’t hungry, so that left the newspaper. A lingering recession was still the big story nationally. Hitler was pushing everyone around in Europe, but according to the latest Gallup polls most Americans were thinking, So what?

I’d read it all before, so I flipped to the sports page. Mickey Rooney was up from Hollywood to help open the winter horse-racing season at Bay Meadows. There was a nice picture of Mickey smiling up at a horse, just like he smiled up at his pal, Judy.

Cal and Stanford were getting ready for a weekend home-and-home basketball series. I enjoyed basketball and loved shellacking Cal, but I knew I couldn’t go.

I turned to the city page, where the paper was hinting at the mayor’s involvement in what started out as a two-bit land scandal in San Mateo County but was now getting larger. On top of that, some of his opponents were asking questions about a school-milk contract the city had signed with a dairy the mayor’s cousin owned. You could already tell that next year’s election was going to be a classic.

Then my eye fell on another interesting piece. Seems a body had been pulled from the Bay, wearing a sailor suit and everything. I’d just gotten started reading it when I heard the outer office door open. I turned and quickly forgot about the dead sailor, hizzoner the mayor and Mickey Rooney.

Hello, we said at the same moment, I with a smile and she with a nervous glance around the empty office. She didn’t tell me her name, but she asked me mine.

Are you Mr. Hamilton or Mr. Hale?

The latter, I replied. Thomas Hale. How can I help you?

You’re the one she told me to see.

She had to be nearly six feet in heels. Even bundled as she was in a London Fog raincoat that nearly reached her ankles, she was luminous. She was quite a woman, but even from twelve feet away I could tell she was also quite a lady, the kind who was at home on Nob Hill. She removed her rain-soaked hat, revealing glossy black, shoulder-length hair. Her eyes were almost violet, and worried.

My name is Jean Victor, and I can’t find my husband.

Just like that. Like she’d misplaced him somewhere.

"Who is your husband?"

I haven’t seen him since Tuesday morning, she told me, as if she hadn’t heard my question. He travels a lot on business, but he always lets me know when he’ll be gone. We’ve only been married three months, and he knows I worry.

I shifted a little in my chair, and then neither of us moved. The only sounds were the rain, heavier now, hitting my windowsill and an occasional horn from Montgomery Street, six floors down.

I offered to take her coat as I got up to close the window.

Jean Victor gave no sign she’d heard me. Leaving her raincoat belted and buttoned, she leaned forward, head down, her hands in a white-knuckled clench on my desk. When she looked up, I couldn’t distinguish the rainwater from her tears.

I was about to ask her to tell me more about her husband and why she thought he was missing when the telephone rang. She flinched as though she’d been slapped and glanced at the telephone as I picked up the receiver.

Hamilton and Hale, I said, perhaps a bit less courteous than usual. Fortunately, it was Rita Barlow, owner of the letter service I used. She told me they were running late on my job and asked if I’d like to come upstairs and play doctor with her behind the filing cabinets while I waited.

I turned away from Jean Victor.

How long before I can expect to see something, I asked.

If you get up here right now, you’ll see plenty, Rita shot back.

I lowered my voice. Rita, I have a visitor in my office at the moment. Besides, what would Eddie say?

Eddie’s been dead for nearly two years!

Rita, aren’t you Catholic?

It was Eddie who told me to start my life again.

How do you argue with that? I’d tried being formal and taken a stab at getting personal. That left begging.

Rita? I really need to pick up my file no later than three today.

It’s ready now, shamus.

Thank you. Now, please connect me with whoever’s in charge of customer satisfaction up there.

You’re talking to her. And now we’re back to the filing cabinets.

I surrendered.

Rita, I’ll be there in ten minutes.

You’re a lying bastard, she laughed, and cut the connection.

When I turned, Jean Victor was gone.

* * *

Her shoulders slumped, Jean Victor stepped onto the elevator car just as I rounded the corner of the hallway.

I ran and hopped down six flights of stairs, bursting into the congestion of the lunch crowd in the lobby. Almost immediately, I spied her standing stock still near the building directory. She was looking in my direction, but her eyes were flat and eerie behind the shadow from her brimmed hat.

I felt like a fullback again as I elbowed my way through the crowd. Still trying to breathe normally after my charge down the stairs, I took her arm and guided her toward the smoke shop off the lobby.

She came along wordlessly, staring at her shoes.

I bought the only two sandwiches that weren’t brown, plus a couple of Cokes. Hurriedly collecting my change, I ushered Jean Victor to the elevator, and up we went.

Back in my office, we started over.

I asked again if I could take her coat, and she thanked me this time as she shrugged it off. She settled in the client’s chair as I placed lunch on my desk, in front of each of us.

Her eyes darted about as we ate, and she listened politely but not too closely as I explained my telephone conversation with Rita Barlow.

Jean Victor’s best feature was her long and graceful neck. Her fine, blue-black hair framed a face that would have achieved perfection except for a just-noticeable bump on the ridge of her nose. She was beautiful and credible at the same time.

Topping it off, the sound of her voice had a balanced ebb and flow to it that made me think of my favorite adagio.

She took a few more small bites of her sandwich, and, except for the rain, there was silence.

I flicked on the radio behind my desk, turning the volume down, and we finished lunch listening to Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered.

Just as I got the feeling she was about to ask for her coat and leave, she began to cry softly.

I know David’s dead, she murmured. He’s dead. I just know it.

How could he be dead? Does he gamble?

She shook her head violently.

Does he owe large sums of money?

No, again.

Could he be involved in anything illegal, Mrs. Victor?

Absolutely not.

I leaned back and stared at her long enough for her to get the idea she should do some lifting of her own and offer me something. She didn’t.

Not many jobs are that dangerous, but maybe this is job-related. What does your husband do for a living?

He’s an officer in the Navy, she replied softly.

I let that one lie, and there was a queer silence while I waited.

She looked up at me, her despair evident. David wouldn’t act this way. He wouldn’t just disappear. I know he wouldn’t.

Ya know, I read this article in the paper about a body they found in the Bay.

She looked at me, her face so still it seemed unnatural.

Well, anyway, this body happened to be in a naval officer’s uniform.

Her face remained lifeless.

I waited.

Finally, she couldn’t hold back any longer. That wasn’t David. If it had been, I wouldn’t be here. Her lips were stern, remaining in a short, tight line as she spoke.

I nodded.

Well, will you help me?

Would David have known this man—the one they found in the Bay?

How would I know? Jean Victor’s stress level rose with every answer.

What does your husband do for the Navy?

She took a deep breath, her fingers twisting her wedding ring, and looked away again, this time at the stain under the window. The sound of the rain drowned out the radio music and dominated the room.

He’s an officer, she repeated. Annapolis, class of 1935. His work is everything to him. I know he loves it as much as he loves me. She said this with a soft smile, then nothing more.

He’s stationed here? On Treasure Island or over in Alameda? And he travels extensively? Is he on a ship and gone for long periods? What, exactly?

He’s not on any ship. She sighed, looking at me as though I were across the street. He doesn’t even wear his uniform when he’s working, not often anyway, and he’s stationed here in town.

In San Francisco?

Jean Victor nodded.

Have you been to his office, talked with his supervisor or someone there?

I tried, but they sent me away.

What do you mean they sent you away?

They sent me away!

What about the police?

I’m afraid of the police. I want you.

Okay, I said after fifteen or twenty seconds of silence. Let me ask you again. What does he do for the Navy?

I wish I knew, Mr. Hale. She was lovely in her helplessness, but I didn’t believe her answer much. We’ve been together a little more than a year, she continued, and I’ve learned never to ask about his work. But I do know he’s a courageous man. He’s even been through pilot training. But something—or someone—has frightened him a great deal, Mr. Hale. A great deal.

Billie Holiday was singing The Very Thought of You on the radio. I got up to turn it off. Neither of us needed any distractions at this point, as we were going nowhere well enough on our own.

Abruptly, Jean Victor straightened up. She seemed to find strength from somewhere, and now looked at me determinedly. She pulled an envelope from her purse and placed it on my desk.

Mr. Hale, I have this money. She said you would help me.

Who is ‘she’? I asked. Who said?

I have to get back to work now. My address and telephone numbers are in the envelope with the money. Jean Victor rose from her chair and retrieved her raincoat.

I felt a little dizzy.

Look, Mrs. Victor, I can’t take your money, I said, rising to my feet and returning the envelope to her reluctant hand. I don’t think I can help you. All you can tell me for sure is that your husband is an officer in the Navy, stationed here in the city, but isn’t here now. That’s interesting but not enough to crack an egg on. Besides, I don’t do missing-persons work.

She glanced away, and I expected more tears.

Mrs. Victor, I muttered.

I doubt she even heard me. Her face brightened momentarily, as if she were remembering something. Captain Newsome might know, she said to herself as much as to me.

She’d given me an out.

There you go, I smiled, I’ll bet he does. And I’m sure he can help you more than I can. Let me walk you down. No merit badge for me today.

The telephone rang at that moment. It was Rita, wondering what had happened to me. Keep your pants on, Rita, I growled into the mouthpiece, hanging up to exact a measure of revenge.

I turned back to Jean Victor and took her by the elbow. In the elevator car, I gave her the name, number and address of a colleague who handled missing-persons cases.

The lobby was nearly empty now, and we paused at the heavy, ornate brass-and-glass doors. Jean Victor stopped, looked at me for a moment, and after a deep breath, thanked me. Without another word, she turned and walked out into the rain.

I had no idea