Great, she thought, me with a bum ankle and Hans and Fritz won’t t get their lazy fannies back to work. She‘d bet that grave-robbing Lady Hay didn‘t have problems like this on her airship. She pulled herself up to a sitting position and inspected her ankle. She unlaced the boot and pulled the sock off. She rubbed her ankle and then decided to test it, standing up and trying to put weight on her right foot but the pain was intense. She sat back down and pulled a first aid kit from her camera bag. She took a roll of adhesive tape and began crisis-crossing the tape under her foot and around her ankle. Then she slipped the boot back on and laced it tightly.
Mattie crawled over to the side of the crate and began her descent. Left foot first, inching its way along one side of the two wood braces which formed an X, until she reached the point where they joined together, no weight yet being placed on her right foot. She winced when she did so but the ankle held. She reached the top of the second crate and rested there on the horizontal brace at the top of the X. It happened moments later. She reached out with her right foot for the top of the first crate, leaning all her weight on her left foot. But when her right foot found the top of the first crate, it could no longer take her weight as it had done just a moment before. This is not going to be good she thought as she fell eight feet to the concrete floor below, landing on her back, a moment before her head also hit the floor and left her mind in darkness.
33.
Leave The Woman Here
Chicago
Wednesday, 14 August 1929
11:15 p.m.
Kurt von Sturm knelt beside the unconscious woman and felt for a pulse. Her hat had come off, leaving her red hair visible. She was exceptionally attractive.
“We found this camera around her neck, Herr von Sturm. I sent for you immediately.”
“You did well, Bruno. This time. Did you check for identification?” Sturm asked.
“No, not yet. I immediately sent Franz to find you and then I took the film out of her camera,” Bruno said, holding up an exposed roll of 35 millimeter film.
The woman seemed familiar, he thought, as he reached inside her vest looking for identification. Whatever she had been doing was not harmless. And she certainly had no business being this close to the bays where they were loading weapons.
Bruno and Franz had heard her fall. It must have been a good 18 feet to the top of the crates. If she had been up there, she could have easily seen everything. As he inspected the woman’s press card he found in the left breast pocket of her vest, it identified her as Martha McGary, a correspondent for The World’s Business and for the International News Service, both of which Sturm knew were owned by Hearst.
Sturm wondered about the coincidence of a Hearst reporter being here tonight and taking photographs. Manhattan had been vague in responding to Sturm’s concern about using the three Hearst art acquisition accounts to launder the IRA funds. He left the impression that Hearst knew nothing but, if that were true, why was a Hearst person here tonight? The world voyage of the Graf Zeppelin proved that Hearst was willing to buy news stories. Was he doing the same here? The inside story of an IRA arms deal? Had it been a mistake to use the Hearst accounts? He hoped, for Manhattan‘s sake, that it wouldn‘t prove to be a problem. In Sturm‘s experience, the Geneva Group showed little tolerance for mistakes. Neither did Kurt von Sturm.
In any event, working for Hearst was going to save this woman’s life. They still had to use one more Hearst bank account and it would not do for a Hearst employee to wind up dead in this warehouse or even missing. After all, someone in the Hearst organization knew she had been here tonight. Good. Kurt von Sturm did not like to kill helpless women, especially one so beautiful.
Sturm stood up. “Here, Bruno,” he said, handing over six more rolls of film. “ Leave the woman here. Her pulse is strong. The boxcars are all loaded, are they not?”
“Yes, Herr von Sturm. They are locked and sealed.”
Sturm looked up and saw the bulky figure of Tommy McBride approaching.
“Nice looking broad,” McBride said.
“Keep your focus, Herr McBride,” Sturm replied. “I want this woman followed until the shipment safely leaves Chicago. I want to know where she goes and who she sees. I don‘t believe she‘s from around here so she may be staying at a hotel. If so, search her room.”
McBride smiled. “My pleasure. I‘ll see to her personally.”
34.
She Needed A Drink
Chicago
Wednesday, 14 August 1929
11:40 p.m.
Mattie shook her head as the smelling salts took effect and the pain returned. She sat on the concrete floor, her back against one of the crates, her head supported by the hulking red-bearded figure of Robert Rankin.
“What the hell is going on, Rankin?”
“You appear to have fallen, Miss McGary.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” she said, rubbing her head and the back of her neck. “Damn, that hurts! Where the hell have you been? Why weren’t you on time?”
“I’m sorry, Miss McGary. I was unavoidably detained by a task for Mr. Churchill”
Mattie sighed. “Fine.” She froze. Something was wrong. She reached over her shoulder and knew. “My bag! Have you seen it?”
“I saw no bag.”
“Help me look!” Mattie said, bracing herself on Rankin’s shoulder, looking about her in all directions. “What about my other camera, the Graflex?”
Rankin shook his head. “I’m sorry, Miss McGary. All your cameras were destroyed. The plates. The tripod. Everything left in a pile.” Rankin paused and then continued. “We really must be leaving. You’re in danger. There were two men around you when I came up and they ran off.”
Mattie shook her head. “No, I don’t think we’re in danger. They took my two camera bags. If they wanted to kill me, they had every opportunity.” Wait a minute, she thought. Maybe they didn’t get it after all. Mattie routinely put the film she had shot in a deep pocket centered in the back of her vest, all four buttons of which were still securely fastened. As she had done when sitting on the girder, she undid two buttons and reached around with her right hand and groped deep into the vest’s rear pocket, sighing with relief when her fingers identified all four rolls.
“You’re right, Robert, let’s get the hell out of here. I’ve got film I need to develop.”
Once settled in the front seat of Rankin‘s motorcar, Mattie shivered and held herself as they headed back to the hotel. Once at the Drake, Rankin helped her from the car, her ankle throbbing with every step. She shivered once more and huddled close to the big Scot. She was still in pain. She needed a drink.
35.
Cockran and I Are Old Friends
Chicago
Thursday,15 August 1929
12:15 a.m.
Cockran had taken a long walk along the Lake Michigan shore after talking to Churchill and placing another call to Donovan who had agreed Churchill’s plan stood little chance with the President. Worse, Cockran thought, he was no closer to finding Tommy McBride or the warehouse. Smythe had come up with nothing after checking out Fitzgerald’s list of five likely candidates. That was what prompted Cockran’s long walk. What to do next?
Cockran was a block away from the Drake when he saw a motor car pull up. Two people stepped out. A giant with red hair, red beard and five inches over six feet tall. A woman limped beside him, his huge arm around her back and under her shoulders for support. He only caught a fleeting glimpse, but Cockran was certain he had just seen Mattie McGary. What the hell was she doing in Chicago and how had she been hurt?
Cockran followed them into the hotel’s lobby. The big man’s attention was focused on McGary whose face was creased in pain. By the time they reached the desk clerk, Cockran was only ten feet behind and clearly saw the key from room 907 leave its box before it vanished inside the man’s large hand. Had it really been less than a week since he had met her at the Dawsons’ cocktail party? It seemed so long a
go..
“Mattie!” Cockran said, his voice easily carrying over the sounds of the crowd.
Mattie turned and a bright smile emerged as she saw Cockran. “Bourke. How delightful to see you. Whatever are you doing in Chicago?” her lips softly brushing his cheek.
“You‘re hurt. What happened?”
Her smile vanished and her face darkened. “That‘s a long story and right now I need a drink. Will you join me in my suite?”
Before Cockran could answer, Mattie turned to the red-haired giant and gave him four spools of film. “Robert, be a dear and take this film up to my dark room. You know the floor.”
Once in her suite, Mattie went into her bedroom while Cockran took his bags to his own room. When he returned, Mattie McGary was sitting on a sofa in the sitting room, her right ankle wrapped in a wet towel elevated on the coffee table in front of her. It was quite evident to Cockran that all she was wearing was one of the hotel’s thick terry cloth robes and while her ankle was covered, the rest of her long and exceedingly attractive right leg was not.
Cockran fixed drinks for them from the bottle of Johnnie Walker Red on the sideboard.
Mattie took a long sip of hers, her face still troubled. “Thanks. So, I didn‘t expect to see you until California.”
“California? I don‘t understand,” Cockran replied.
“With Winston. You are meeting Winston in San Francisco, aren‘t you?”
“Perhaps. But how‘d you know that? I still don‘t understand.”
Mattie forced a laugh but it was not the same throaty laugh that had so captivated Cockran the first time they met. “You will. Just wait. I’m going to need more than one drink ”
Mattie was wearing bright green enamel earrings which briefly caught the light as she leaned forward to place her drink on the low table in front of her, her terry cloth robe briefly gaping open. Cockran turned his head slowly away in what he hoped was a gentlemanly aversion of his eyes, but not so quickly as to deprive him of a clear glimpse of her freckled right breast. He could feel his pulse elevate at a distraction he didn‘t need. Before Cockran could ask a question, the red-haired giant returned and introductions were made and he learned that Rankin was one of Winston‘s body guards.
“Mr. Churchill didn’t t tell me that the two of you were old friends,” Rankin said.
“Obviously, there are lots of things Winston doesn’t tell a lot of people,” Cockran said, “but it would appear we all have been enlisted by Winston to engage the IRA.”
“Yes, but why are you here, sir? I was not informed you were to be in Chicago. Possibly in San Francisco, but even that was uncertain.”
“My plans changed. There‘s something I need to do here,” he said.
Cockran fixed more drinks and sat down in an arm chair placed at a right angle with the sofa on the side of Mattie which wouldn’ t distract him when she leaned forward for her drink.
“Since it looks like we‘re in this together against the IRA, let‘s fill each other in. I‘ll go first,” he said and proceeded to give them the complete story from the time he left Mattie at the Essex House, the attack in Central Park, the meeting with Churchill in Montreal, the attack on the train from Montreal to New York, Devoy’ s death and the suspicions cast on Cockran, as well as the violent skirmish in Cleveland and the murder of Sheila and the Westwoods.
“So, that’ s about it,” Cockran concluded, without mentioning his having jumped bail. “You talked about pooling resources. You have all that I know, what about you two?”
Mattie started to speak but Rankin interrupted. Cockran was surprised to see Mattie defer to the Scotland Yard Detective. “Mr. Cockran, I don’ t believe you’ve told us quite everything. What is it you need to do in Chicago? Does it perhaps involve an IRA man named McBride?
“He‘s the IRA team leader on the arms shipment. I assume you knew that. What‘s your point? If, in stopping the IRA arms deal, I come across Tommy McBride and he meets with a fatal accident, I‘ll shed no tears.”
“And why is that, Mr. Cockran?” Rankin asked.
Cockran shook his head. “It doesn‘t concern you. It‘s none of your business.” Revenge for Nora‘s murder was no one‘s business but his.
After a long moment of uncomfortable silence, Mattie abruptly stood up from the sofa, wrapped the robe tightly around her, and broke the somber mood. “Well, I, for one, am starved. You boys care to join me for an early breakfast?” as she limped to the phone and asked the operator for room service. “I like that about the Drake. Breakfast served 24 hours a day.”
Rankin politely declined, saying that he needed to return to his hotel and get some sleep. Cockran was tempted. Breakfast was fine with him. He needed it. He enjoyed Mattie’ s company and, before Devoy’s death, he had been looking forward to her next visit to New York.
“Sure, I‘d like that,” he said.
Upon hearing Cockran accept, Rankin amended his earlier answer and agreed to stay for coffee. Mattie ordered scrambled eggs, a rasher of bacon and hash browns with toast and marmalade for both of them, a pot of tea for her and coffee for Cockran and Rankin.
The two of them sat there across from each other over the room service cart which served as their table, Rankin sitting in a nearby armchair. Mattie raised her fork in the air after having speared a small bite of scrambled eggs and hash browns. “You know, Bourke,” she said after she had finished the bite, pointing the empty fork at him, “you were right about one thing. Winston knows a lot which he doesn’t tell others. I’m sure you’ve figured out that Winston asked me to meet you in New York. Anne agreed to help arrange it. Winston hadn’ t seen you in seven years. He said you and your father were his close friends but he wanted independent verification of whether I thought you were up to a ‘small task’, as he put it.”
Cockran was annoyed at her and Winston‘s deception. “And how did I measure up?”
“I told him I found you to be attractive, obviously very fit, and reasonably mentally alert,” she paused, smiled and then added, “for an American.” Cockran smiled back as she continued. “But Winston never told me of the peril he’ s placed you in and he certainly had the opportunity to do so.”
Mattie gestured towards Rankin. “I knew it would be dangerous because. Rankin was supposed to be my bodyguard but Winston inexplicably had him doing something else when my cameras were smashed and stolen. Obviously, I can replace the cameras. It‘s the Chief‘s money, not mine but tonight could have turned out a lot worse than it did. Anyway, you’ve told me what you’ve been up to. It’ s only fair I do the same. Winston’s people had a lead for me on where the weapons might be located here in Chicago. He asked me to check it out and obtain some photographic evidence. I took four rolls before I fell. Tomorrow, I’ll go to the darkroom I‘ve set up on the fourth floor, develop the film and deliver it to Winston in San Francisco.”
Something she had said earlier had struck a chord with Cockran, but he couldn’t t quite put his finger on it. The reference to San Francisco jogged his memory. “You mentioned ‘the Chief replacing your cameras. You‘re referring to Hearst?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“Because both the Cleveland and Chicago bank accounts where the wire transfers from New York were received are controlled by Hearst.”
“That’ s impossible!” Mattie snapped. “Who are your sources?”
“They’re good enough,” Cockran replied. “I’ve seen the bank records.”
“Have you told Winston?” she asked.
“Yes, earlier today. I wasn’ t certain until I talked directly with Andrew Sinclair, the publisher of The Chicago American. He’ s the one who told me that the account was maintained in his name for Hearst’ s acquisitions of art and antiquities. He told me Hearst had many accounts like this across the country, probably in every city where he owned a newspaper. That’ s when it fell into place. The Cleveland account was in the name of the retired publisher of the Hearst paper in Cleveland. I don’ t know if Hearst is
directly involved. But there was a co-trustee on the Chicago account. Someone I know. Someone you’ve met.”
“Who?” Mattie asked.
“Philip Cromwell. That evening at Anne Dawson’s.”
“Cromwell? That pompous ass? I don’t understand,” Mattie said. “I assumed Hearst had accounts like this. We did a story earlier this year on his acquisitions and he told me in an interview that he used middlemen to front his purchases. But he buys art, not weapons.”
Mattie paused for a moment, learned forward and spooned some marmalade onto her toast. Her right leg was propped up on a stool beside the room service cart and in doing so, her robe fell away, exposing her right leg once again, this time with the curve of her hip clearly visible as well. Cockran caught a glimpse of this while she was preoccupied with the marmalade but he returned his eyes to her face once she sat back. Mattie didn’ t recover her leg. She looked at Cockran and said, “I wonder why Germans are involved. That’ s the angle I can’ t figure.”
“Germans?” Cockran and Rankin said almost in unison.
“You never mentioned any Germans,” Rankin said pointedly.
“I didn’t?” Mattie said. “Are you quite certain?” Rankin nodded that he was and Mattie continued. “I apologize. I guess that hit I took to the head was more serious than it seemed.” Mattie then relayed to the two of them, in more detail than she had previously told Rankin, what she had gone through prior to her fall and what the two Germans she heard only one bay over had been saying.
The DeValera Deception Page 19