Luckily, the woman I love (who’s just in the next room as I write these words and who—God help her—has agreed to review these pages when I finish my account of the innocent intrigue that became a personally harrowing mystery that revealed itself to be a deadly puzzle) has been able to help me make a most miraculous da capo, which for those of us who play jazz means “take it again from the top.”

Chapter 2

2

The Claremont

Less than an hour before we were scheduled to play, our band bus groveled its way up the wooded hillside near the border of Oakland and Berkeley, upon which is enthroned the genially aristocratic Hotel Claremont.

Usually when we had a hotel engagement, our band boy signed in for all of us, but a respectable dowager like the Claremont required each member of the band to register for himself. We hated this, as the trip had left us exhausted and we still faced a four-hour set on the bandstand that evening, entertaining a thin Monday-night crowd.

The hotel’s faultlessly tailored lobby had undergone many changes since I’d first played there in my teens, but all I was interested in was a quick washup in my room before heading to the ballroom.

“Ray Sherwood?” inquired the desk clerk, looking at my entry in the hotel’s registration ledger. He was a pleasant enough young man, although it was clear he had no close relatives who were dentists or cosmeticians.

“That’s me,” I answered, and he advanced me a key attached to a copper tag, which on one side read THE CLAREMONT, BERKELEY, CALIF., below which was my room number. On the other side were the words IF CARRIED AWAY, MAIL UNSEALED. POSTAGE GUARANTEED. I tucked the key into my billfold, under the flap where I always keep my room key until I inevitably find myself dropping it into a mailbox one city beyond the one I’ve just left.

The front desk clerk was searching some cubbyholes behind him. “Sherrrrrrrrrrrrr-wood, hold on, I believe there’s a—. Yes. A young lady left this for you late this afternoon.”

He laid down an envelope bearing my name, which I opened. A letter, written in a precise, angular hand, began:

Dear Mr. Sherwood,

I would be honored if you would meet with me to discuss a business proposal that I believe may be of interest to you. Rather than bore you with the details here, I am hoping to bore you in person tomorrow morning at nine-thirty, when I will try my utmost to weaken your resolve over a cup of excellent coffee. Since I make terrible coffee, could you meet me at the Café Lafayette at the Golden Gate Exposition on Treasure Island?