Conned: A Bureau Story (The Bureau Book 6)

by Kim Fielding

  Conned

  A Bureau Story

  Kim Fielding

  Copyright © 2020 by Kim Fielding

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  www.kfieldingwrites.com

  Cover Art: Reese Dante http://www.reesedante.com

  Cover content is for illustrative purposes only. Any person depicted on the cover is a model.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  About the Author

  Untitled

  1

  San Francisco

  November 1928

  The cold, damp air wafted in, smelling of rotting fish, but Thomas Donne didn’t close the window. His back to the murky glass, he laid a cigarette paper on his desk and sifted tobacco onto it. His fingers shook slightly, causing some of the flakes to go astray, but he ignored those, rolling and licking and pinching the cigarette into shape. The lighter flame flickered. Thomas inhaled, closed his eyes on the exhale, and leaned back in his chair to stare at the high ceiling.

  One more month’s rent on the office, he calculated. Two weeks more than that if he gave up his flat and moved in here. The loo down the hall would suffice for washing up, but he’d have to sleep on the floor. He’d slept on worse.

  He heard the footsteps first, weighty and confident, so the heavy knock didn’t surprise him. Out of caution—or maybe just habit—he kept one hand on his desk, very near the center drawer.

  “Come in.”

  The man who strode through the outer office and into Thomas’s inner sanctum was too big for his expensive gray suit, the waistcoat buttons straining and his neck overflowing the collar. Mid-fifties. Rings on his sausage-like fingers, a florid drinker’s face, and when he removed his fedora, thinning hair the color of old wool. He smelled of whiskey.

  “Thomas Donne?” he demanded, as if someone else might be sitting in Thomas’s office at Thomas’s desk.

  “Yes. And you are?”

  “Where’s your girl?”

  Thomas lifted his chin. “My girl?”

  “Secretary.”

  “I gave her the year off.” Thomas allowed his mouth to stretch into a feral smile.

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “You’re English.”

  “I was English. Now I am American.”

  “Huh,” the man grunted. “Herbert Townsend.” He didn’t put out his hand for a shake but instead hung up his hat and overcoat before settling with a loud sigh into the chair across from Thomas.

  Something about this man didn’t feel quite right, and Thomas wanted to send him away. Wanted, in fact, to retrieve the gin stashed in the desk and drink until he’d forgotten about everything except the taste of juniper berries. But one month—plus two more weeks if he slept on the floor.

  “How may I help you, Mr. Townsend?”

  “How long have you been in the States?”

  “Is that pertinent to our business?”

  “Yeah.”

  Thomas shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “I arrived in Boston in 1923. I moved to San Francisco this February.”

  “Five years.” Townsend scrunched up his face thoughtfully. “Were you a copper back in Jolly Olde?”

  Instead of answering right away, Thomas rubbed out his cigarette in an already overflowing ashtray. He would have liked to roll another but was afraid his fingers would be unsteady, and he didn’t want this man to see it. “I was a member of the London Metropolitan Police.”

  It was hard to tell from Townsend’s expression what he thought of that, but he didn’t get out of the chair and walk away. He wore a diamond on his tie, bigger than the ones on his rings; a gold watch gleamed at his wrist.

  “It’s a strange thing for a man to do,” Townsend said at last. “Leave a position in his own country to travel here and become a private dick.” He waited a moment as if expecting a response, and when he didn’t get one, he pulled out a silver cigarette case, chose a cigarette, and lit it with a gold lighter. He didn’t offer a smoke to Thomas, who shoved the ashtray closer to him, spilling the newest butt onto the desk’s scarred surface.

  If Thomas listened carefully, he could hear the foghorn calling from Alcatraz. Some people said it was a mournful sound, but he liked it. It was a badly needed reminder that, sometimes, someone might care whether others lived or died. On occasion he was tempted to call back to it, but not today.

  “What are your credentials?” asked Townsend.

  An attempt to distract, although Thomas didn’t know why. Townsend wouldn’t have come here if he hadn’t already learned of Thomas’s qualifications—such as they were—and been satisfied with them. So Thomas shrugged again and watched the smoke eddy away from the window as if it feared the fog outside.

  Townsend still didn’t leave. He smoked his cigarette down to a stub, eyeing Thomas the entire time, and then pressed the stub into the ashes. “I need to find a boy.”

  “A boy?”

  “A young man. He’s disappeared and I’m worried about him.”

  Disappeared could mean a great many things. Thomas hoped he looked sympathetic, but that wasn’t a familiar expression for him. “Have you contacted the local police?”

  Townsend barked a laugh. “You haven’t learned much about your new hometown yet, have you? Not too promising for a snooper. Maybe that’s why you can’t afford a girl.”

  Thomas knew better than to let this man get under his skin, with his expensive suit and his diamonds and a demeanor that said he was used to getting his way. Still, Thomas couldn’t help but shift angrily in his chair. “I’m a quick study” was all he said.

  “Sure,” Townsend said dismissively. “I’m not contacting the local police because I am the local police. Or near enough. I was Assistant Chief of Police.”

  “Was?” Thomas had had mixed experiences with the SFPD. A lot of them were good blokes doing their best. Others were little more than thugs, on the take and eager for violence. He didn’t know which camp Townsend had belonged to.

  “I’ve retired in order to pursue other career opportunities. Next year I’ll be running for mayor.”

  “And the boy?” prompted Thomas, who already had a hunch where this was going.

  “An acquaintance. One of those youths who’s taken steps down the wrong path. I’ve been trying to guide him toward more righteous living, but I’d prefer not to let word of that get out. I like to engage in these small projects outside of public notice.”

  Sure. And Thomas would go home to discover his one-room flat had transformed into a castle. But it was neither his place nor his desire to judge another man’s proclivities. Besides, Townsend’s wallet was undoubtedly considerably fatter than Thomas’s own.

  “And now you can’t find this boy?” Thomas asked.

  “No. He hasn’t been seen at his usual lodging for several days. As I said, I’m concerned.”

&nb
sp; “And you want me to find him?”

  “Discreetly, yes.” Townsend reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a bill, which he placed on the desk. One hundred dollars, crisp and new. “This is an advance, for expenses. Bring me his current address within a week, and I’ll have two more of these for you.”

  Three hundred dollars would be enough to keep the wolves at bay for another three months—maybe four if Thomas skipped a few meals. And he wouldn’t have to sleep on the office floor. “That’s all you want—to know where he’s staying?”

  “Yes.”

  “Three hundred is a lot to pay for an address.”

  “Ah, but I’m paying for more than that, aren’t I? I’m paying for silence as well.” Townsend’s eyes lit with a strange intensity and he leaned forward, his body seeming to increase in size until he hulked like the statue of a mad god. “Today I’m eyeing the mayor’s office, but that’s not the end of it. Not by a long shot. I’ll be governor next, and after that… well, after that the White House.”

  “You seem pretty certain of a long shot.” Thomas kept his voice steady but moved his hand closer to the center drawer.

  “But it’s not a long shot at all. I have certain methods at my disposal. A little magic, let’s say.” Townsend’s wink was terrifying.

  “Magic that might fail if certain rumors about you begin.”

  Townsend leaned back with a satisfied smile. “You show signs of intelligence. Good. Yes, I’d prefer to keep certain matters out of the public eye. And Mr. Donne, as my star rises, I’ll be needing a certain type of man around me—the type who can do his work and keep his trap shut. If you prove to be such a man, well, we may find ourselves in a long and lucrative relationship.” He moved his hand slightly, perhaps deliberately making the diamonds flash in the light.

  Thomas eyed the money as if he were considering the offer carefully, as if there were a chance he’d send this man away. Nodding almost imperceptibly, he took the bill, folded it in half, and put it in his pocket, fancying he could feel the weight of its promises. A comfortable bed. A hot shower. A cup of good tea instead of the coffee-like swill they served at Bianchi’s.

  These images were fortifying enough that Thomas trusted his hands to remain steady. He rolled another cigarette and lit it, feeling the drag sharp in his lungs as he inhaled. “What can you tell me about this boy?” He pulled a small notebook and pen from a side drawer, opened the notebook, and prepared to write.

  With an expression of smug satisfaction, Townsend settled more deeply into the chair, making it creak in protest. “He calls himself Roy Gage, although I don’t know if that’s the name his parents gave him. He was staying at the Embarcadero YMCA, but he’s moved out.”

  “Embarcadero.”

  Townsend’s lips quirked into a smirk. “Yes. Of course. You know the area, I presume?”

  It was a pointed question. Even if Donne had lived in the city only a few months, Townsend must have known that he’d be familiar with the zone near the ports. It was only a moderate walk downhill from his office. But Townsend clearly meant something more by it. The stretch from the Embarcadero up Lower Market was where men exchanged knowing looks; where the speakeasies admitted everyone, even women in suits or men in dresses; where a boy like Roy Gage could be temporarily employed for a dollar or two.

  “Describe him,” Thomas said.

  “I can do better than that.” Townsend reached into his breast pocket again, and for a fraction of a second Thomas was certain he would pull out a revolver, even as Thomas’s hand remained on the desk, twitching uselessly.

  It was fortunate that Townsend simply produced a photograph. He set it on the desk, oriented so Thomas could see it properly.

  Two men stood in front of the arched arcade of the Ferry Building. Perhaps unaware of the camera, they stared into the distance as if waiting for a streetcar. The younger one—Roy Gage, Thomas presumed—looked to be about nineteen or twenty, with a sulky expression. His flat cap sat at a rakish angle and his jacket was too big on his lanky frame. It looked as if he’d borrowed someone else’s clothes.

  “Who’s the other fellow?” Thomas asked.

  “His name’s Abe France. He employs Roy on occasion.”

  Thomas’s eyebrows rose. “Employs?”

  “Mr. France is… a spiritualist and magician. He requires an assistant at times.”

  Picking up the photo, Thomas took a closer look. It was hard to judge France’s age, although he was clearly older than Gage. He was shorter, too, and carried a bit of muscle on his frame. He wore a Homburg and a dark suit that had been carefully tailored to fit. Whereas Gage was pretty, France was handsome, with a strong nose, generous mouth, and square chin. His eyebrows had a natural arch that suggested amusement, but sadness pulled at the corners of his eyes.

  “Anything else?” Thomas asked, setting the photo down.

  Townsend took the picture and returned it to his pocket with a grunt. “It’s been three days since he left the YMCA. I’d like to find him as quickly as possible.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “I don’t want you to talk to him. Might scare him away. Just find out where he’s staying.”

  “Right.”

  After staring at Thomas for several moments, Townsend grunted and heaved himself to his feet. He flung a business card onto the desk. “Call me at this number when you find him.” He retrieved his coat and hat, shot Thomas a final grin, and clomped through the outer office, slamming the door as he left.

  2

  Mrs. Coakley dabbed at the corner of her eye with a lace handkerchief. “He was so young, you see. Only twenty-two. He was engaged to be married to a lovely girl, and—”

  “Please. It is best if you do not tell me details now. The spirits vill speak for themselves.”

  Nodding, she allowed Abe to lead her to a vacant chair. His parlor was nearly full today, which meant he had fifty dollars in his pocket—forty-five after he gave Rosie Byrne her share. That wasn’t bad for an afternoon. He might even make a little more if some of his guests bought occult charms from him. And tonight he had a show at Café de L’Ouest. He was doing all right.

  If only his headache would go away.

  Pasting a smile on his face, Abe trotted to the front of the nearly darkened room, where a single lamp cast dramatic light and shadows on his face and body, making him seem mysterious. He couldn’t discern the faces in his audience very well, but he’d assessed them as they came in.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and velcome.” His voice was naturally deep, which served him well, but he had to concentrate to play up his accent. In ordinary life he did the opposite—squashing the remnants of his early childhood in Hungary as much as possible—but Emil had told him to use it when performing. It made him seem exotic, Emil said. So now Abe clipped his consonants, rolled his r’s, and changed his w’s to v’s.

  “Ve vill begin in just a few moments. But first I must ensure that nobody here is sensitive to shocks. Some people are quite overcome when they encounter the spirits.” This was an exaggeration, but it would get the audience members’ hearts beating a bit faster and set up the expectation to be astounded.

  As he’d hoped, the audience shifted in their seats. But when nobody said anything, Rosie cleared her throat. “O-overcome?” she stammered.

  “Last veek a man fainted. He is qvite all right now, of course.”

  “I-I….” She sniffed. “I’ll chance it, I guess.”

  His bow wasn’t false or ironic; Rosie’s acting skills deserved recognition. “Thank you, madam. I vill ask the lady and gentleman sitting nearest her to keep some attention on her, please. I vill be unable to assist her during the séance.”

  The audience members in question nodded eagerly. Nearly everyone relished the potential role of brave protector.

  “Very vell. Now, have I received a sealed qvestion from each of you?” He knew that he had, but it served as a reminder of their own contributions. He waited for them to s
ay yes before pulling the assortment of envelopes from his breast pocket. He set the pile atop the tall table beside him.

  He paused, took a few deep breaths, and began his patter. Although he kept the same framework, he changed the details depending on the audience and the particular tricks he intended to perform. This group was dead easy—eager to swallow whatever he fed them—and since his head was pounding, he kept things simple. He spun a tale about the mystical veil that separated the worlds of the living and the dead, and how some people were born with the ability to hear voices from beyond the veil. This gift could be enhanced via certain tools and activities.

  The men and women in his parlor listened eagerly. Emil had called them patsies, but Abe had compassion for them. They ached over their losses and were desperate for even the smallest chance to connect with their loved ones. He didn’t blame them for that.

  When his speech was finished, Abe lifted a metal rod from atop the table. About two feet long, it was nothing more than a length of decorative ironwork to which a metalsmith had attached a cage-like finial. Sometimes Abe told a story about how the rod came from the tomb of an Egyptian pharaoh, but he didn’t bother with that today. Instead he walked along the rows of chairs, giving each guest a donut-shaped magnet about the size of two stacked quarters.

  “Please rub this magnet upon your temple and over your heart,” he instructed. “And vhile you do, you must think of the loved one whom you vish to contact this afternoon.” He kept his expression solemn as they obeyed. Then he held the rod in front of each guest and waited as they affixed their magnets to it. Back near his table, he held the rod aloft and chanted quietly in an abbreviated and adapted version of the Haftarah reading from his bar mitzvah. Rabbi Weiss would have been horrified to hear the way Abe was mangling Hebrew, but none of today’s audience were likely to recognize the language.