The DeValera Deception

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The DeValera Deception Page 18

by Michael McMenamin


  “I never met him before today. But John Devoy said he was a man whom you could trust with your life. That’s good enough for me.”

  “That’s not good enough for me, Mr. Cockran. Not by half. Not when it comes from a man whom we had ordered shot on sight if we ever found him in the United Kingdom. For the life of me, I can’t fathom how an old Fenian like John Devoy would turn on his old comrades and help the Free State against the IRA. Mr. Churchill may think he’s a reliable source. He may even think the same of you. But Churchill’s an amateur when it comes to operating like we do in the shadows, in the backwaters of the Empire. From Cairo to Dublin and now in Chicago.”

  Cockran didn’t know why Smythe was trying to bait him. But two could play that game. “If I’m not mistaken, Mr. Smythe, America is no longer part of your empire. Dublin still may be, but no more than Canberra or Ottawa. Words on paper. Isn‘t that what Michael Collins said?”

  “That well may be, Mr. Cockran. I can’t help thinking, however, that people of the caliber of the IRA are more reflective of the true character of the Irish people than your dead friend Collins. They killed Collins, didn’t they? Snatched defeat from the jaws of victory, eh?” Smythe smiled and then his face grew somber. “Even your wife was killed by those brutes as I recall, God rest her soul. What does that say about the Irish?”

  Cockran didn‘t reply.

  “I’m just a member of His Majesty’s Secret Service. I do what I’m told. So, if they tell me to go out and save the damned Irish Free State from their own kind, I’ll do what I’m paid to do. But I can’t help thinking how it would simplify things if Ireland were exposed as the true enemy she is. Your friend Mr. Churchill once knew that. Then he went soft.”

  Cockran narrowed his eyes but, again, he didn‘t reply.

  “Don’t misunderstand me, Mr. Cockran,” Smythe replied smoothly. “I don’t like any of the Irish, the IRA least of all. No offense intended.”

  Cockran didn‘t reply.

  “I believe that concludes our business. Do you have anything more for me?”

  “One more thing. Do you have any information on an IRA man named McBride?”

  “McBride? No. Why do you ask?”

  Because I intend to kill the bastard, Cockran thought. “McBride is leading the IRA team in the US. Someone overheard a conversation in Cleveland. McBride said he had a meeting set up here in Chicago at the direction of the Army Council. With someone named Blackthorn. If you find out anything about McBride’s whereabouts, I‘d appreciate your letting me know.”

  Smythe pulled a notepad from the inside pocket of his suit coat, opened it and began to write. “Blackthorn, you say the name was? Can’t say that it rings a bell, but I’ll pass it on Thank you, Mr. Cockran. Every detail helps. I‘ll contact you if we learn anything.”

  Smythe rose and ushered Cockran to the door. “Look, Mr. Cockran. I meant what I said earlier. I’m a professional and I’m here to do my job. If my comments a few moments ago sounded harsh, I apologize. Most of the Irish are kind and peace-loving. Like your wife. Nora was a delightful young woman, so irreverent and full of life. Her death was a tragedy to all who knew her. Please accept my condolences for her as well as your father. He was a fine man.”

  “Thank you,” Cockran said, unhappy to hear that voice once more speak of Nora.

  2:00 p.m.

  Cockran was ushered into the large wood-paneled office of Andrew Sinclair, publisher of the Chicago American, introducing himself as James O’Malley, a detective with the Chicago Police Department’s Bunco Squad, briefly flashing his badge and ID which, in the event, had cost $750. The real Jimmy O’Malley was 62 and recovering from a heart attack.

  “I appreciate your taking the time to see me today, Mr. Sinclair. ‘Tis a major investigation that we have going, and we’re managing to keep it out of the newspapers.”

  The publisher smiled. “I’m happy to help one of Chicago’s finest, Detective. Especially someone whom my good friend, Chief Corcoran, speaks of so highly. Who are these criminals?”

  Cockran was careful to maintain his composure at the reference to Corcoran. Fitzgerald had only arranged a bribe for the Bunco Squad captain and had made it clear that almost any copper in Al Capone’s Chicago was for sale. But Police Chief Corcoran was not one of them.

  “That’s just it, sir, we don’t know who they are. They are scam artists with a lot of money at their disposal. Their M.O. is to wire large sums of money into the bank accounts of wealthy Chicagoans. These people are then approached by the bunco artists and, if they’re successful, they persuade the mark that they are investors from back East who are using the bull market to drive up the price of a particular stock and then make a fortune selling it short. ”

  Cockran stopped, pretended to consult his notebook, and continued. “They claim they have to move quickly and they typically use the name of a big banker on Wall Street, whom the mark doesn’t know, as the one who suggested utilizing the mark. Then they offer the mark the opportunity to participate in the scheme, typically promising a 500% return. But the brokerage house where the mark sends his money is only a front and the mark never sees the money again.”

  “Very interesting,” said Sinclair. “But it‘s not for publication? Sounds like a good story.”

  “Oh, no, sir,” said Cockran, “this is strictly off the record. My Captain said to promise that you would be the first to know once we make an arrest. But please, nothing until then.”

  “Very well. I gave you my word. But, again, what does this all have to do with me?”

  “Well, the Chicago banks have been cooperating with us in this investigation and each week they send us a report of any unusually large deposits. Most of them, we can clear up with phone calls. But the really large deposits, we like to check out and warn people personally.”

  The publisher nodded his head. “I understand but I still don’t see where I come in.”

  Cockran pulled out a sheet of paper from inside his suit coat and read from it. “Sir, we’ve been informed that you have an account at First Union Trust which received a wire transfer of over $1 million on Monday. It fits the M.O. of the scam artists and we’ve got to check it out. The reputation of the Chicago Police Department is bad enough. We‘d be remiss if we didn‘t do everything we could to make sure a prominent citizen like yourself isn’t swindled.”

  Sinclair laughed. “I appreciate your concern, Detective. And it is gratifying to know that some members of your department take their job seriously. But you don’t have to worry about me. I’m not being swindled. I wasn’t even aware that over $1 million had been transferred into that account I have at First Union. But I’m not surprised.”

  “Why is that?” Cockran asked.

  “It’s not my money. I’m only a trustee. The beneficiary of the account is my employer, Mr. Hearst. He uses that account, and others like it in various cities, for all the art treasures he is forever acquiring. He thinks the dealers would cheat him if they knew that he was the one doing the buying. I’m well off, mind you, but no one in Chicago is going to cheat me. Besides, I don’t have any real control over the account. I never even look at the bank statements. I simply forward them every month to my co-trustee in New York. Hearst’s investment banker.”

  “And who would that be?” Cockran asked.

  Sinclair paused and frowned. “I’m not sure why that should be of concern to you, Detective, since neither I nor Mr. Hearst are in danger of being defrauded. But it’s certainly no secret that Mr. Hearst’s leading investment banking firm is Wainwright & Cromwell.”

  “So your co-trustee is...”

  “Philip Cromwell, of course.”

  31.

  I Have Ample Resources At Hand

  Canadian Pacific Railway

  Wednesday 14 August 1929

  3:05 p.m.

  Churchill picked up his fountain pen and thought back to yesterday‘s telephone conversation. He had been wrong about Cockran. Bourke was a good man. Reliable. His father�
��s son. He took a sip of champagne and began to write.

  Dearest Clemmie

  I intended to begin this letter while we were still running along the north shores of Lake Superior, but we have been traveling so incessantly…

  I had a long telephone conversation with our young American friend today. I won’t bore you with all the details, but he is making remarkable progress in the small assignments I have delegated. He will soon be leaving for the West Coast…

  I received your last letter and appreciate your tender concern for my well-being. But never fear. My safety is secure. I have ample resources at hand, and even more in reserve. All will be well.

  Tender Love, my darling,

  From your somewhat harassed

  But ever devoted

  W

  Churchill put his cigar down and looked out across the Canadian prairie which stretched for miles. He thought ahead to his meeting with Herbert Hoover. It had been nearly fifteen years since that misunderstanding in London. Surely he wouldn‘t still remember. Would he?

  32.

  Winston Was Right

  Chicago

  Wednesday, 14 August 1929

  9:00 p.m.

  Mattie McGary was impatient. Sgt. Rankin was over thirty minutes late and all she could do was sit there in the elaborate lobby of the Drake Hotel with a tripod, a Speed Graflex, two 35 millimeters and two canvas bags. Mattie‘s bad mood was enhanced by an Extra edition of The Chicago American at her feet. The Graf Zeppelin had lifted off from Friedrichschafen at 3:00 a.m. that morning and passed over Berlin by noon, the occasion for the Extra edition.

  CHEERING MULTITUDES FILL BERLIN STREETS AS SHIP PASSES BY

  LADY HAY RADIOS

  Nine days to go, she thought, nine days to California if God and the prevailing winds were with them. The next four days, she knew, were the most critical for the Graf. On to Moscow, then across the vast emptiness of Siberia to Tokyo. The most dangerous part of the passage. Not for the first time did she envy Lady Hay-Drummond. She should have been the reporter on that ship. Winston had bloody well better be right about this story. Her godfather wouldn‘t steer her wrong, would he?

  Mattie was wearing her trademark tailored khaki pants and a battered, photographer’s vest over her white silk blouse, her hair covered by a canvas baseball cap. The Drake was hosting a charity affair that evening and the elegantly-gowned women and their tuxedoed escorts cast sidelong glances at her as if to say, whatever are you doing, my dear, mounting a safari in the middle of the Drake lobby?

  That‘s it, Mattie thought, she‘d waited long enough. She left word with the concierge for Rankin as to where he could find her and then slung the two bags over her shoulder, picked up the tripod and walked with long, athletic strides across the hotel lobby. Outside, the doorman hailed a taxi for her.

  Mattie sat back in the taxi and relaxed. Action suited her so much better than waiting. She trusted the source of her information. The telegram from “H” had been quite specific. The street address for the warehouse along with explicit instructions to take her photographs of the weapons undetected. The letter of introduction she had from the New York corporation which owned the warehouse would not stand much scrutiny even though she really was doing a multipart photographic essay, “The Sinews of America”, two parts of which had already appeared in The World’s Business, the title of Hearst’s pre-emptive strike in the monthly business magazine competition with that upstart, Henry Luce, and Fortune.

  A large four-story warehouse loomed high above them to the left, the Chicago River to the right, the pavement still glistening from a recent shower. Lights blazed from the high windows on the warehouse’s first two stories. Mattie moved quickly across the road and approached the glass door stenciled in black paint “Superintendent’s Office”. She tried the handle, but it was locked. A light was on so Mattie banged loudly on the door’s window.

  “Hello! Anyone there?”

  After a few minutes of banging on the window without success, she heard a voice behind the door, “I’m coming, I’m coming, keep your shirt on!”

  The door opened and a bulky figure in oil-stained overalls barred her way. Mattie pushed the door the rest of the way open and brushed past the man who had to stand aside to avoid a collision. Just what Mattie intended.

  “Hey! You can’t just walk in here like that.”

  “Of course I can, dear man. I‘m late starting the photo shoot as it is.”

  “Nobody told me nothing about that.”

  “That’s not my problem now, is it?” Mattie said sweetly. “Here, it’s all been arranged,” handing him the letter that would not bear close scrutiny.

  “I’m Mattie McGary.” she said, extending her hand.

  The man took it, mumbled, “Pleased to meet ya,” and continued reading the letter. Finally, he looked up and said, “Well, I guess it’s okay. But you can’t go near Bays 8 through 12 on the first floor. My boss made that clear to me. They got cops, foreigners and all kinds of stuff . My men can’t even use the john there. They’ve got to go to the second floor.”

  “My, oh my,” Mattie said. “That does sound serious. Don’t you worry. The loo on the second floor will be fine. But show me where Bays 8 through 12 are so I can avoid them.”

  The illumination in the warehouse was poor, as if they were saving money on electricity. The ceilings were high, a good thirty feet, but the aisles were barely ten feet wide, one dangling light bulb for each aisle. The man pointed toward the police officer at the end of one aisle. “Right there. See? Where that cop is standing? That‘s where you ain’t t supposed to go.”

  “Fine,” Mattie said, and pointed the other way. “How about I go over there?”

  “Yeah, that‘s okay with me,” he said as he headed off in the direction of his office.

  Mattie moved toward the sound of activity in the distance and occasionally glanced up. Some of the crates here were stacked high enough that someone standing on the top crate could reach up and gain access to the latticework of the twelve inch wide wooden beams along the ceiling on which a person could walk.

  Mattie arrived in the warehouse’s far corner, Bays 24 through 28, and set up a tripod for the Speed Graflex. She started work to establish her presence in the area. After she had set the time exposure and taken several shots, she noticed no one seemed to be watching her to see that she stayed put. She moved the tripod to a new location and loaded a fresh plate in the Graflex. Then, she put six rolls of 35 millimeter film in her vest and headed toward the forbidden Bays 8 through 12. As she walked, she took the leather strap on the canvas camera bag hanging over her shoulder and moved the bag around until it was behind her, positioned between her shoulder blades, her arms free for climbing. Most of the crates in the huge warehouse were stacked two or three high but as she neared Bay 15, they were stacked four high and looked to be not more than six feet from the broad wooden beams high above her.

  The crates were uniform, each one reinforced with wood slats forming a large X on the sides, affording her footholds as she slowly made her way to the top of the fourth crate. She reached up with her arms and easily grabbed the wooden beam above her. Hanging there, she swung her right leg upward and, in a moment, was stretched out lying face down across the beam. She felt safe enough up here until she looked down to the warehouse floor twenty-five feet beneath her.

  Ignoring the queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, she began to crawl forward on her hands and knees. Five minutes later, Mattie was in position between Bays 11 and 12. She carefully took the canvas camera bag from over her head placed it beside her. She sat there, legs dangling over the edge of the beam, opened the bag and pulled out her Leica. From within the bag she selected a telephoto lens and began taking a series of photographs. She watched the warehousemen as they stacked boxes on dollies for loading into the railcars, the names of the manufacturers clearly marked on their sides. Colt Firearms. Winchester. Marlin. Hercules Powder Company. Browning. My God, she thought, it was true. It
was really happening. Machine guns, grenades. Artillery shells. Hearst was swell to let her do this. Winston was right. This was going to be one hell of a story.

  After taking one roll of film, Mattie crept down to the rest of the bays and repeated the process. Four rolls of film in all. She had clear shots of the man in charge, a tall, good looking blond haired man who seemed to be directing all activity. She didn‘t have a good view of his face but the glimpses were enough. His movements were graceful, athletic, and he carried about him an air of command.

  Moving on her hands and knees, Mattie crawled back to where she had placed her camera bag. She took out the last roll of film and put in a fresh one. She closed the camera’s leather case and returned it to the canvas bag, fastening its straps and slinging it again over her shoulder and around her head so that it was once again positioned between her shoulder blades.

  Mattie began to retrace her route. When she reached Bay 14, she froze, the sound of voices directly beneath her speaking German, a language she knew. They seemed to be on a break, smoking and occasionally laughing. She couldn‘t climb down here. She figured she would have to move over another three bays before she could climb down undetected. When she crossed the third aisle between the stacks of crates leading to Bay 17, however, she noticed the crates in that aisle and beyond were stacked only two high. That made it an 18 foot drop, clearly too far. She would have to do it here even though the crates were stacked three high, 12 feet below the beam, not six.

  Damn, Mattie thought, why can’t those Germans live up to their national character and start working again? You’d think they were Liverpool dockworkers. No, she decided, she couldn’t go back. She would have to risk the 12 foot drop. She carefully pushed her legs over the side, the wood pressing against her waist, and eased herself back until she hung for a moment by her arms on the edge of the beam. She released her grip and attempted to land on the balls of her feet, her legs bent to absorb the impact. Her left foot hit the wood a bare fraction ahead of her right. The left foot hit squarely as she had planned but the right foot landed awkwardly, its side hitting first and severely twisting her ankle. The pain knifed through her right ankle as she suppressed a cry. Had they noticed? She lay there motionless. The voices had stopped. They must have heard her. She held her breath. Finally, they resumed talking.

 

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