Photo © 2003 Richard F. Binder

Chapter 1

The woman on the phone was frantic. “They’re gone, they’re all gone.”

I was sitting in the office, a converted bedroom in my house on Morrison Avenue in San Jose, California, finishing a report to an insurance company. When she caught her breath and calmed down enough to listen, I asked, “Who or what is gone?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, “I must sound like a crazy woman. My name is Celia Warick. My garage was broken into and my husband’s fountain pens were stolen. My husband Howard and I owned Warick’s Stationery in downtown San Jose until 1946. When we retired and closed the store, he brought the unsold inventory home and stored it in the garage. There were a lot of fountain pens and pen and pencil sets, going back to the early Thirties.”

“How many pens are we talking about?” I asked.

She hesitated for a moment, “Over a thousand, and they were all new in their boxes.”

I was stunned. Who in the world would want to steal a thousand fountain pens? What do you do, sell one or two at a time for a buck each? Doesn’t make sense. Not worth a crook’s time. Of course, I was absolutely intrigued.

“Was anything else stolen?”

“No,” she said, “nothing else. The pens were stored in boxes in my detached garage, 25 or 30 sealed boxes.”

So, I thought, at least two burglars with a truck or a van, “Give me your address and I’ll come out and talk to you later today.” We made an appointment for 4:00 PM.

I suppose an introduction is in order. My name is Parker Dawson. I am a retired police lieutenant working as a PI, mostly with insurance companies. I own a house in a quiet part of San Jose, just off The Alameda , not far from Andy’s Pet Shop, if you know the area. I own a reliable car, a five-year old 1951 silver-gray Mercury that my mechanic found for me when my ’47 Plymouth drummer’s coupe conked out. I loved that Plymouth, you could store half a dozen bodies in the trunk. Not that I would, of course.

I rarely carry a gun but I keep a Colt Police Positive hidden in the trunk of the Merc. I do, however, carry a Parker “51” fountain pen, which seems appropriate, and a notebook full of names and phone numbers. I charge $50 a day plus expenses because I know a lot of people, I know how to listen, and I get results. In this business, it pays to make friends with a few part-time crooks because they know what the full-time crooks are up to.

My first call was to detective Don Weatherby, and I caught him finishing his lunch. Yes, Mrs. Howard Warick reported the burglary yesterday afternoon.

“We investigated, but don’t have much to go on. The burglars entered through the side door of the garage after breaking the window. Neighbors heard nothing. I told Mrs. Warick to contact her insurance company and gave her your business card. I said you were good at recovering stolen property. You know what, Park, if you can recover 25 boxes of stolen fountain pens we might forget the freight cars full of canned apricots and applesauce.”

“Thanks, Don, always happy to bring a little humor into your day. Let me know if you learn anything new. I’ll reciprocate.”

He said “OK,” and hung up.

The infamous San Jose Apricot and Applesauce Hijack Case does not bear repeating. It made all the major California newspapers, and I achieved dubious legend status. Cops and bartenders laugh and embellish the story. My client presented me with a generous cash bonus.

My second call was to George Richter, the owner and nighttime bartender at the Starlight Lounge on South First , a slightly seedy bar with Art Deco fixtures and a less than law-abiding clientele. He said he’d heard about the burglary and would see what he could find out. I told him I’d drop by later that evening. A lot of stolen property changes hands in bars. Ask any cop. Better yet, ask a canny bartender. What George Richter knew about the San Jose sub-culture of thieves and burglars would be hard to learn in two lifetimes.

Chapter 2

I drove out to Celia Warick’s house at 3:30 and arrived about 3:45. I wanted time to check the neighborhood before our appointment. It was just like I figured. A nice upper-middle class district, broad tree-lined streets, substantial front yards that served to set the houses back from the street for more privacy, detached garages at the end of long driveways, and easy access to major cross streets less than half a mile away. A burglar’s smorgasbord. Get in, get out, get away.

Mrs. Warick opened the door before I had a chance to ring the bell. She was a tall, elegant woman with silver-gray hair and alert blue eyes. We introduced ourselves and agreed on first names. She escorted me into the dining room and we sat at the table in surprisingly comfortable chairs. Her house was furnished simply and well, fine oil paintings on the walls and an impressive collection of novels in two large bookcases. I liked her immediately.

“Help yourself to coffee.” I did, and took out my notebook and pen. “I see you have a Parker “51”. That’s a fine pen, well designed, reliable, and extremely popular. We sold hundreds of “51”s in the store.

“Parker, before you ask any questions, let me explain why I had over a thousand fountain pens in my garage. Howard and I opened Warick’s in 1927. We were the only stationer downtown and we were immediately successful. We sold pens, ink, paper, and supplies to every business, businessman, secretary, housewife, and student in town. The business grew and we prospered, despite the Depression.”

“Howard insisted on variety and selection, so we carried full product lines of pens from Parker, Sheaffer’s, Wahl, Conklin, Waterman’s, Moore, and Holland. We kept a few lesser brands, too, because Howard always insisted that everybody ought to be able to afford a pen. We had pens priced from a dollar to over a hundred dollars. Howard just loved selling pens. They were high-ticket items and the gift of choice, along with watches. Top line pens were packaged to reflect their status. Let me show you.”

She stepped to the sideboard and came back with four elegant leather-covered cases, accented with gold or bronze metal on the sides. Inside the cases, nestled in satin luxury, were brand new pens and pencils with price stickers around the barrels or price tags attached with strings to the clips. The pens gleamed at us in a swirl of multicolored glory, green, pearl, black, blue, and red.

“These sets are from the early Thirties, and they were luxury items at the time. In our best years we sold more than 3,500 pens and never fewer than 2,500. Well, model lines come and go and the public’s taste changes. Some pens, usually the most expensive sets, don’t sell through and eventually get moved to the back room. So, fifty pens a year times 23 years in business equals 1000 unsold pens. Howard was surprised but not shocked that the number was that high. When we retired, we sold the building, boxed up the unsold pens, and stored them in the garage.”

“They were insured but I don’t care about that. I know it’s crazy, but now that Howard’s gone—he died in ’48—I wanted my grandchildren to inherit those pens and think of their grandparents every time they looked at them. Who knows, someday those pens might have some value as antiques.”

“Celia, were you home when the burglary occurred?”

“No. I was visiting my daughter and grandchildren in Burlingame. The pens were in the garage when I left in the morning, and they were gone when I returned the next day, around noon. The police investigated, told me there was little hope that the pens could be recovered, and said I should file an insurance claim. A grumpy police detective gave me your card.”

Grumpy is an apt description of Weatherby, but harassed is more accurate.

“Tell me this, was your car in the garage until you left or was it in the driveway?”

“I don’t understand why that’s important, but it was in the driveway. I had to pack some things in the trunk to take to my daughter’s house—my overnight bag, makeup case, and presents for the grandchildren.

“Did you notice any traffic on the street?

No, I don’t think there was any traffic. Wait, yes. There was a repair truck parked across the street, three houses down. Electrician? Plumber? I can’t recall.

“Celia, I think I know what happened, and I think I know why they took the pens and nothing else. Strictly a crime of opportunity. The burglars were cruising the neighborhood, saw you leave the house with a suitcase and figured you’d be gone overnight. They came back after dark, broke into the garage to see what they could find, and stumbled onto the boxes of pens. Maybe they opened a couple of boxes and saw those beautiful cases and though they’d hit the jackpot, jewelry or watches, valuable and easy to fence. They were probably in and out in less than 20 minutes, and congratulating themselves all the way home.”

“Parker, do you think you can recover my pens?”

“I think so, but I have to move fast. Whoever took them is going to be mad when they open those boxes and find nothing but fountain pens.

I promised to keep her informed. We shook hands and I went to dinner at a little Mexican restaurant on South Tenth. Best Chile Verde in town.

To be continued...