It had grown darker in the apartment and the rain had increased in intensity. Cockran walked back into the kitchen where he searched through a large ring containing an assortment of skeleton keys until he found one which fit the door to his unmarked office at Western Reserve University‘s law school. Unless the IRA searched there as they had in New York, he would pick up the Collins journals at the law school before he left town.
Cockran stopped at the front desk of the Alcazar to retrieve his room key and was given a message to see Hasim. Upon knocking and entering Hasim‘ s office, he saw that his friend‘ s face held a worried look. “You wished to see me,” Cockran said.
“Your jealous husband must have friends in very high places,” Hasim said. “Shortly after you left for your walk, we received a visit from two men who demanded to know if a Mr. Cockran was registered here. We told them no and showed them the guest register. But they weren‘ t private detectives, Bourke. My desk clerk is still learning English, but he swears they were government agents. Federal agents.” Hasim paused. “She must be very beautiful.”
“She is, Hasim. Very beautiful. I appreciate what you have done. Thank you, my friend.”
Once back in his suite, Cockran picked up the telephone from the desk in the sitting room. He gave a number to the switchboard operator who placed the call for him. “Mr. Greene? Johnny Greene? This is Bourke Cockran. We spoke yesterday.”
“This is Greene. I remember you, Cockran,” a gravelly voice replied. “As I told you yesterday, if you‘re a friend of John Devoy‘s, you‘re a friend of mine. What can I do for you?”
“I‘d like to meet, Mr Greene. I‘m on the assignment which Devoy gave me before he was murdered. I intend to complete it. I hope you have information for me which will help.”
“Call me Johnny. It‘ s not that easy for me to get out in public much right now. Nor safe, either. Tell you what. Come on down to the warehouse district tonight. The Flat Iron Café. One of my people will pick you up and bring you to me. How‘re you going to be dressed?”
Cockran told him and Greene responded. “A trench coat is fine, especially if this rain don‘ t let up. But it would be better if you didn‘ t wear no tie. Draws too much attention.”
“I understand, ” Cockran said. “How will I identify your man?”
“Don‘ t worry, Cockran, we‘ll find you. Just be there by half past eight.”
Cockran rarely ate lunch and it had been a long time since breakfast on the train. He called down to room service and ordered a light supper. The hotel kitchen specialized in Middle Eastern cuisine so Cockran ordered a small lamb kebob, roasted squash and lemon cous cous. Cockran would have liked a half bottle of Bordeaux but the Alcazar didn‘t have a wine cellar whose stores it could draw upon for favored guests while waiting for America to awake from the nightmare of Prohibition. Ever his father‘ s son, Cockran knew it some day would. Republicans couldn‘ t stay in power forever.
Speaking of Republicans, Cockran thought as he pulled the bottle of Johnnie Walker Red from his suitcase and fixed a drink, it was time to check in with Wild Bill Donovan.
“Colonel, sorry to bother you at home.”
“Where are you, Bourke?”
“It ‘s better you don’t know.”
“I agree. You jumped bail. You can’t expect me to defend you with one arm tied behind my back. With you on the run, it’ s only going to make things worse.”
“I‘m not on the run...” Cockran began, but Donovan interrupted.
“It sure as hell looks that way. Ed McCracken himself told me he saw you running.”
“I can’ t help that. Hagan was shooting at me, for God‘s sake. Look, I‘ve had my bank send you a check for $10,000. Use it to cover the bond and keep the rest as a retainer. I have to do what Devoy asked before he died, before McBride killed him”
“You‘re letting your emotions cloud your judgment.”
Cockran paused and softly replied, “I really don’ t think I am, Bill. I wanted to go after McBride with every fiber of my body but I didn‘t. I was only going to help Devoy. His plan would have shone a bright spot light into the dirty little corners where McBride operates. But the bad guys were one step ahead of me. And of John. Now he’ s dead. It’ s my fault. I owe him.”
There was a long pause from Donovan before he replied. “All right, Bourke, you win. For now, you‘re only a material witness. But if an indictment for murder is issued, all bets are off. You‘ll have to come home. Watch yourself. Make sure those guys aren‘t one step ahead.”
The tall dark-haired man with the cold blue eyes and a crooked nose who had followed Cockran from New York sat in a corner of the Alcazar’ s spacious lobby, a newspaper in front of him, attempting to remain as inconspicuous as his six foot two inch height permitted. He was positioned to give himself a clear view of the elevators and he had been waiting patiently for the past two hours for Cockran to appear.
The Alcazar lobby‘s level of activity had picked up in the early evening. The man heard the bell of the elevator and saw Cockran emerge in casual clothes, tan pants and a navy blue blazer with a trench coat over his arm. As he watched Cockran , he saw two other men rise from their chairs and follow Cockran, no more than ten feet behind. He smiled. Luck was with him. One of them was McBride‘s man Sean Russell. Revenge was coming closer.
The tall man saw the valet pulling up with a motorcar for Cockran. It was dark emerald green on the sides, shiny black on its long hood and tapered tail. While Cockran tipped the valet, the man asked the doorman to hail a taxi. The doorman blew his whistle and the taxi at the head of the long yellow queue which curved to the right around the building‘s corner began to move forward. Before the taxi could pull in under the hotel’ s awning, a black four-door Buick pulled in front, cutting it off. Sean Russell and his companion quickly hopped in and the Buick accelerated, taking a left at the same corner as Cockran’ s motorcar had done.
The taxi now in front of him, the tall man entered. “Would you be up to following that small green roadster and the large black motorcar behind it?”
23.
Sheila Greene
Cleveland Heights
Monday, 12 August 1929
8:00 p.m.
Cockran peered through the Auburn’ s windscreen, stuck his arm out the window, and signaled a right turn onto Cedar Hill, keeping an eye on the two cars which, trailing in his wake, appeared to be following him. The Auburn was faster and many turns and twenty minutes later, he arrived at Public Square where he valet-parked the Auburn at the Hotel Cleveland and hailed a taxi. He gave the cabbie the Flat Iron Café‘s address and they headed down a hill to the warehouse district on the banks of the Cuyahoga River. Half the street lamps were out. The nondescript Flat Iron Café was the lone beacon of bright light in a scene punctuated by a series of ill-disguised speakeasies and small groups of sailors who stumbled along in the young night.
Cockran sat at a booth in the rear of the Flat Iron Café nursing his second cup of coffee. The café had a long counter on the left with eight stools, half of which were filled, a short-order cook behind the counter working on the grill. Booths lined the right-hand side of the room.
Cockran looked up as an attractive young woman in her early twenties with short dark hair framing her face entered the room. She wore a white cotton sweater, a short plaid skirt, and white socks with sport oxfords. She looked as out of place as Cockran felt but she knew half the customers, greeting them all by name before she slid into Cockran’ s booth, extending her hand.
“Hi, Mr. Cockran. I‘m Sheila Greene. Daddy sent me.”Cockran returned her infectious smile. “I was expecting one of your father’ s men.”
She laughed. “No, Daddy just said he would send one of his “people”. I was there when he took your call.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Besides, I’ve always been one of his boys.”
“So, I understand you‘ll be taking me to your father?”
“Not exactly. He’ s sleeping now and I persuade
d him that I can handle this.”
Cockran was confused. “I‘m not sure I understand.”
“It‘s simple,” she said. “he’ s in a wheelchair. He was hurt in a strike this spring. He heads one of the largest Teamster locals in Cleveland and the company guards and some off-duty police had more baseball bats than the pickets. They broke his legs. He’s had two operations, but the doctors say he won’ t be able to walk again for another month or so. Mom died after the war. The flu. I‘m his only kid. I was in college back east. When he got hurt, I dropped out and came home right away to take care of him. I‘ll probably skip the fall semester, too.”
“So exactly how do you intend to handle this? Do you know what information I need?”
“Sure, let’ s get down to business,” she said, shoving papers across the table’s surface.
Cockran read the papers. “Who is this Charles Westwood and who is he trustee for? The account shows receipt of over $1 million today. Yet there is barely $50,000 left in the account.”
“Charles Westwood used to be the publisher of the Cleveland Chronicle. Owned by Hearst. He retired six months ago.”
“Does your father know him? Is there any way he could arrange for me to see him?”
“Oh, Daddy knows him, all right. Daddy knows everyone. He’ s made you an appointment for tomorrow. Nine a.m. at the Westwoods‘ home in Shaker Heights.”
“Please thank your father for me,” Cockran said. “Did you find out where the money went after it left the trust account?”
Sheila reached inside her purse and pulled out another sheet of paper. “Here. Five checks in amounts anywhere from $76,000 to $325,000, all payable to Great Lakes Art Brokers.”
“Art brokers,” Cockran asked. “What do you know about them?”
“Nothing, I‘m afraid. Cleveland’s a nice place. Lots of culture. Lots of art brokers. But no Great Lakes Art Brokers. Nothing in the phone book. Nothing in the city directory. Sorry.”
“Don’ t be sorry, Sheila,” Cockran replied. “You‘ve been enormously helpful. Please tell your father how much I appreciate this.”
“Wait, ” she said brightly. “It gets better. Daddy thinks he’ s found where those weapons you‘re looking for are stored.”
“Really? ”
“Yep. Not more than half a mile from where we sit. That’ s why we‘re meeting here.”
Cockran listened as Sheila explained. It was an old warehouse. Still bonded but vacant up until two weeks ago when someone leased it for a month. Nothing happened in Cleveland with a warehouse that her father didn’ t learn of immediately. Her father talked briefly to the landlord who agreed to insist that Teamsters be hired to perform the work.
“Daddy says the lease is up next week. He talked to the foreman who heads up the crew that’ s been working there. The place is almost full. Daddy says there’ s enough guns and ammunition in there for a small army. The manifests alone are near a million dollars.”
“I need to get inside the warehouse,” Cockran told her. “I want to see those manifests. Verify what’ s in there. Can you arrange that for me?”
“Why, Mr. Cockran, I thought you‘d never ask,” Sheila said, playfully batting her eyelids. “Of course I can. Are all these weapons really going to be used in Ireland?”
“Call me Bourke. Yes, the arms are headed for Ireland. How soon can I get in?”
“Soon, but not right now. The warehouse is working late tonight and the swing shift doesn’t end until 11:00 p.m. There‘s no overtime scheduled this week. So if we wait until, say midnight, there shouldn’t be a problem. Here,” Sheila said, giving him a set of keys. “I’ll meet you there. This one opens the rear door; this one opens the inside office where they keep the manifests; and this little one opens the file cabinet where you’ll find the manifests.”
Cockran hesitated. “But if you’re going to meet me there, why give me the keys?”
“As soon as we’re done here, Bourke, I’ve got a hot date. You don’t think I normally dress like this to visit the Flats, do you?” she asked, referring with a gesture to her collegiate clothing. “Anyway, midnight should give me plenty of time but, just in case I’m late, you go ahead. I’ll catch up later. If you go in without me, leave the door unlocked. I won’t be long.”
“Are you certain it’s safe for a girl like you to be down here alone in such a rough area?”
Sheila laughed again, shaking her head. “I‘m not a helpless young thing. Appearances to the contrary, I can take care of myself. Besides, there shouldn’t be a problem when I‘ve got a big, strong man like you to take care of me.”
“These are ruthless men we‘re dealing with, Sheila.”
“Well, not to worry, Bourke. So is Daddy. Everyone down here on the waterfront and in the warehouse district knows who my Daddy is. And I am,” she said proudly, “the apple of my Daddy’s eye. No one messes with Daddy’s little princess,” she said with a grin.
“Come on. I’ll give you a ride back to your car and take you past the warehouse and show you where we’ll meet.”
Cockran followed Sheila and held the door open for her as she slipped behind the wheel of a deep maroon Cadillac convertible. “Nice. Too nice for this neighborhood.”
Sheila laughed again. “Everyone knows it belongs to Daddy. It’s almost as precious to him as I am. I kid him sometimes that he pays more attention to her than me, but then he always reminds me of how much tuition he pays Vassar every year.”
She pulled the Cadillac to a stop on the far side of the street across from a faded brick building with high windows. “That’s the swing shift now,” said Sheila. “Once they finish tonight, the warehouse should be deserted for the next eight hours.”
“Won’t there be any security?” Cockran asked.
“Only a night watchman. He’s a member of the union. Old Charlie Mahoney. I’ve known him since I was in grade school. He’s retired now, but Daddy thought he could use the money.”
She eased the big convertible forward until they were adjacent to the building’s edge. She gestured to a single bare light attached to the right side of the warehouse at the rear.
“Down there. Underneath the light. The big key opens that door. That’s where I’ll meet you later tonight, hopefully around midnight. Remember, if I’m not there on time, don’t worry, just go ahead without me. I’ll make sure Charlie knows we’re coming. Just tell him you’re with me.”
Five minutes later, Sheila dropped Cockran off in front of the Hotel Cleveland’s Superior Avenue entrance. Neither of them paid attention to the black Buick sedan which had been following them from the flats and which now drove past and turned right, stopping at the hotel’s Public Square entrance.
24.
Fair Game
Cleveland
Monday, 12 August 1929
10:00 p.m.
Cockran adjusted the Webley revolver in the shoulder holster he had not worn in seven years as he paused at the traffic light on Euclid Avenue adjacent to Severance Hall. Moments later he turned the Auburn right on Adelbert Road and slowed to a halt beside the No Parking sign in front of the darkened limestone building which housed Western Reserve University’s School of Law. Cockran knocked on the window of the Law School’s front door and caught the attention of the uniformed security guard, a tall, elderly, dark-skinned man, with a fringe of white hair forming a halo around his shiny black scalp.
“Mr. Cockran! A pleasure to see you. Didn’t expect you back so soon.”
“Just in town for a few days, George. I thought I would pick up some materials for my fall classes,” Cockran said as he signed the security log.
Once in his unmarked third-floor office, Cockran turned on the desk lamp and wheeled his worn wooden desk chair over to two wooden file cabinets adjacent to the window. He unlocked the one on the left and pulled the bottom drawer completely out of the cabinet. He reached inside and retrieved from the floor of the cabinet a package still wrapped in the oilcloth in which he had bound it over six
years earlier when closing down his father’s law office.
Cockran placed the package on his desk and untied the twine which bound it. Within were six worn leather notebooks, none of them alike, linked together only by the small, neat accountant’s longhand of Michael Collins. Cockran sat there for an hour, taking careful notes. At last, he stood up from the desk, and stuffed the notes deep into one trench coat pocket and the six volumes in the other. He would store them in Hasim’s safe tonight.
Back at the Alcazar, Cockran gave the notebooks to Hasim and took the elevator down to the garage. He walked over to the battered black Chevrolet sedan which Hasim had lent him. It would draw no attention. Cockran parked the Chevrolet two blocks from the warehouse and walked the rest of the way to the corner of the building and ducked into the alley, walking down to the light at its far end. He ducked into a doorway in the building adjacent to the warehouse and waited. Cockran again didn’t notice the black Buick drive past and turn into the next alley.
Cockran looked at his watch. 11:45 p.m. Cockran was rarely on time for anything and Sheila had been self-assured but he didn’t want her alone in this alley so he had come early. Thirty minutes later, Cockran decided he had waited long enough. He would leave the door unlocked, as she had asked, so she would spend no more time than necessary outside.
Cockran approached the door, keys in his right hand. He grasped the handle and began to insert the key when, to his surprise, the doorknob easily turned in his hand and he pulled it open.
Once inside, Cockran pulled out a hooded electric torch. He waited for his eyes to adjust to near pitch-black darkness before he switched on the torch and proceeded down the nearest aisle, stacked high above him with crates. He flashed the beam randomly at the stencils on the sides of the crates. Colt. Winchester. Thompson. Austin Powder. Sheila‘s information was solid. He turned left at the next aisle and headed toward the back of the building, along which ran a rail spur where the cargo bays for loading and unloading were located. Once he reached the wide area of the cargo bays, he turned to the right and proceeded toward the area where Sheila had told him the glass-enclosed office was located. Cockran pulled the keys from his pocket, unlocked the office and went in.
The DeValera Deception Page 15