The Chinese Jars Read Free Page B

The invitation was engraved at Engel’s of San Francisco, an upscale printing establishment on Sacramento Street in the financial district. There was an RSVP number on it, so Samuel interrupted his search and called the number. They’d never heard of Reginald Rockwood III, and they had no idea why he would have an invitation. He certainly wasn’t invited.
    In the autopsy folder, in addition to the examiner’s findings, was a one-page police report that indicated Rockwood had suddenly appeared in front of a trolley bus right by General Hospital, and the driver couldn’t stop.
    He went back into the medical examiner’s office and told him what he had learned. “I’ll go over to the printers and let you know if I find out anything new. Thanks for sharing,” said Samuel, as he left.
    * * *
    Engel’s was on Sacramento Street a few blocks east of Montgomery, close to the Embarcadero, which ran next to the bay. Samuel pushed open the door and found himself in a nicely furnished waiting room with Piranesi engravings of old Rome on all the walls. There was no one at the reception desk, so he rang the bell. Almost immediately an attractive young woman dressed in a severe two-piece suit appeared and asked if she could be of service.
    â€œMy name is Samuel Hamilton. I work for the local newspaper,” he said, surprised at his own audacity. “We’re doing a story on a young man by the name of Reginald Rockwood. Do you know who I’m talking about?”
    â€œYou’d better talk to Mr. Engel.” She dialed the phone. “Someone’s here inquiring about Mr. Rockwood.” Then she turned back to Samuel. “He’ll be right with you.”
    A distinguished elderly man soon appeared, elegantly dressed in a dark three-piece suit but with a wide and bright tie. He greeted Samuel with professional courtesy. “You’re inquiring about Reginald Rockwood? He worked here, but we haven’t seen him in several days.”
    â€œYou apparently haven’t heard the news,” responded Samuel.
    â€œWhat news?” inquired the old man.
    â€œHe died on Saturday.”
    â€œOh, my goodness. How unexpected. He was young and apparently healthy,” Engel commented.
    â€œCan I talk with you in private?” asked Samuel.
    He was ushered down an endless hallway to an office decorated with photographs of Engel alongside prominent social and political figures. The man offered him a seat. He seemed upset by the bad news.
    â€œI didn’t want to discuss the details of his death in front of your employee.”
    â€œHow did he die?”
    â€œLooks like he committed suicide on Friday.”
    â€œGood Heavens! Why would he do that?” he asked searchingly. “You know, he was here on Friday as usual, and then didn’t show up again. We were wondering what’d become of him.”
    â€œWhat did he do for you?” asked Samuel.
    â€œHe was our night janitor.”
    â€œJanitor?” Samuel asked, in disbelief. “I always saw him dressed in a tuxedo.”
    â€œA tuxedo? That explains it,” said Engel. “Here he mopped the floors and took out the trash for almost four years.” He was about to continue but Samuel interrupted him.
    â€œDo you have an address for him or his kin?” asked Samuel.
    â€œWe did have an address and a phone number, but when he didn’t show up on Monday, we called the number and it was out of service. We sent a man out to the address. It turned out nobody lived there; it was a vacant lot. Then we started to worry because we thought that he’d left town for some mysterious reason, so we changed the locks on all the doors.
    â€œThat’s when we had a big surprise. We opened the broom closet where all the supplies are kept, and we found four tuxedos, a mini dresser full of his undergarments, and a shaving kit. There was even a sleeping bag tucked in one corner. He must have been