The DeValera Deception

by Michael McMenamin

  “They weren’t far away. They must have heard me fall and then stole my camera bag.”

  Mattie turned to Rankin. “So, Robert, you’re the professional. What’ s next? You have identifying numbers from the boxcars. I say we track down the destination of those railcars.”

  “I think we ought to be checking into Hearst’ s role in all this.” Cockran said.

  “That’ s ridiculous,” Mattie said. “Hearst has nothing to do with this.”

  “I didn’ t say he did.” Cockran replied. “But if someone is using his bank accounts without his permission or knowledge, I think he’d damn well like to know that. Look, I can appreciate your reluctance to snoop into your employer’ s business...”

  “Nonsense,” Mattie said, “that has nothing to do with it.”

  Rankin stood up. “It’s late. We all need some sleep. I agree with both of you. I would be shocked if a man of Mr. Hearst’ s stature were involved in something like this. But it would appear someone close to him is. For the sake of his reputation, we need to check this out. Let’ s meet back here tomorrow morning in Miss McGary’ s suite at 9:30. Agreed?”

  Both Mattie and Bourke nodded affirmatively as Rankin continued. “I could use your assistance, Mr. Cockran, in tracking down the destination of those four box cars. After she finishes developing her film, I believe it would be a good idea if Miss McGary would do some digging into the background of this Cromwell fellow.”

  As Rankin opened the door, he paused, turned his head back to Cockran. “By the way, I believe I know where this McBride fellow is staying. The Congress Hotel. I’ll take you there tomorrow if you wish after we visit the rail dispatchers.”

  “Thanks.” Cockran said, his pulse quickening at the thought of finding Tommy McBride.

  2:00 a.m.

  Rankin’s hotel was only six blocks away. He decided to walk and started off down Michigan Avenue. The streets were deserted and a light mist was falling. Fifteen minutes later, Rankin was surprised, only two blocks from his hotel, to see two men approaching, the first he had seen since leaving the Drake. As Rankin approached within five feet of the pair, the taller of the two raised his hand and said in a clear English accent, “I say, old chap, would you possibly have a light?” Rankin was bone tired but he stopped and instinctively started patting his pockets, searching for his matches. The one behind him was good, really good, Rankin thought later. He never heard the man approach. Rankin had absolutely no warning when he was struck from behind. Rankin gasped in pain and the two men in front of him now joined the one behind in a barrage of punches and kicks. The big Scot was soon forced to his knees and then to his side.

  The three attackers continued their kicks into Rankin’ s unprotected body. He knew he was on the verge of losing consciousness when the man to his front silently crumpled to the ground beside Rankin, his eyes wide open, dark blood flowing from a small hole between them. The kicks stopped and Rankin rolled onto his back and saw two more bodies there.

  Before he lost consciousness, Rankin saw two men approach him wearing long dark coats, hats pulled low over their heads, each holding a silenced automatic pistol straight down at his side. Rankin heard the taller of the two men say, in what Rankin recognized was a Northwest Ireland accent, Donegal if he was not mistaken. “There’ s an alley two doors down where I can dump these fellas. And shouldn’t you be getting the big one to hospital? He doesn’t look too good.” Rankin noticed as the man bent over to look at him that he had dark hair beneath the hat, bright blue eyes and a prominent nose which had been broken. Then, his world went black.

  36.

  You’re Not An Angel

  Chicago

  Thursday, 15 August 1929

  9:00 a.m.

  Robert Bruce Rankin woke up and knew he was in heaven. Everything was white. The sheets. The bed. The walls. The angel beside him backlit by the sunlight.

  “Good morning, Detective Sergeant. Nice to have you back with us.”

  Rankin was puzzled as he tried to clear his head. The angel had a mild upper-class Dublin accent with, he thought, faint echoes of an American accent. He thought he recognized her face from somewhere but he couldn‘t remember. But he had seen that face before. Large brown eyes, aquiline nose, high cheekbones. Yes, he knew that face.

  The angel was seated beside him now, placing her hand behind his head, offering a sip of water. As she leaned closer, he noticed a green enamel pin on the collar of her white dress. A circular pin with a cross in the middle, on top the words “Royal Dublin Hospital”, and underneath, “Volunteer”. “You‘re not an angel,” Rankin said.

  She laughed, a high gentle sound that reminded him of Christmas bells. “No, I‘m not.”

  “Where am I?”

  “Chicago Mercy Hospital.”

  “How did I get here?”

  “A good samaritan found you in the street and brought you here for comfort.”

  Rankin winced as he felt pain for the first time since awakening. He groaned.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “Look at my chart. Tell me my condition.”

  “I don‘t need to do that,” she said softly. “The doctors told me last night. You have three broken ribs, a deep bruise above your kidneys, your left wrist is badly swollen and you have a mild concussion. I woke you up every hour to make sure you didn‘t go into coma.”

  The door opened and a short, middle-aged nun in a black habit with white trim bustled in. “Well, how is our patient doing?” Before Rankin could respond, she answered her own question. “You seem to be getting some color back. My name is Sister Mary Ellen. Here, let me have your wrist,” she said, grabbing his arm with one hand, her time piece in the other.

  “Good for you,” she said, “Not nearly so elevated a pulse. Here, open wide.” Rankin obeyed as she took a thermometer from the stand, shook it down, and thrust it in his mouth.

  “I‘ll be back in a few minutes,” she said and smiled sweetly before scurrying out of the room, only to return five minutes later and liberate the thermometer from under Rankin‘s tongue. She frowned. “Not too good. Under 100 but just barely.”

  “How soon before I can leave?” Rankin asked.

  “Not until the doctor says so,” the nun replied. “But based on my experience, not until your temperature‘s back to normal and that swelling on your temple goes down.”

  Rankin picked up a white-framed mirror on the side table and winced at what he saw. The entire left side of his face from the forehead down to his jaw was swollen and discolored.

  “I‘ll pop in after lunch, then,” Sister Mary Ellen said, “and see how you‘re doing.” Rankin put his fingers tentatively on his face and winced when he felt the pain.

  The nurse left the room and the Dublin volunteer returned to the chair beside his bed. “What‘s your name,” Rankin asked.

  “Hush,” she said, putting a finger to her lips. “We‘ve no need for names, Detective Sergeant. There‘s no time. Are you feeling better?”

  “A little,” he allowed. “At least until I saw my mug in the mirror.”

  “I know from the identification in your wallet that you‘re with Scotland Yard and I conclude that you‘re here on official business. Am I correct?”

  Rankin was wary. He didn‘t talk about official business to strangers. Not even Irish angels. Rankin stared at her for a moment and then said, “I‘m sorry, Ma‘am, but....”

  She interrupted. “I understand. But I‘ll bet you‘re not investigating a robbery, are you?”

  “Well, no.”

  “So that means you must be here preparing for the visit of an important British public figure. And since the Prime Minister is not due until October, it must be Mr. Churchill.”

  “As I said, Ma‘am, I can‘t...”

  The volunteer ignored him and continued, “Never mind. Let me ask you about an American. I am informed that you know one named Bourke Cockran. Correct?”

  Rankin paused. How could she know about Cockran? He decided to
say nothing but knew he hadn‘t kept the surprise from his face when Cockran‘s name was mentioned.

  “Fine. I thought so. There‘s an urgent message I need you to deliver to both of them, in person. Not on a telephone, you understand? Tell Winston his life is in danger. Tell Cockran also. Be careful around open spaces with high buildings. Rifles. A cross-fire. Do you have that, Detective Sergeant?”

  “Yes, ma‘am, I do.”

  She leaned over and kissed Rankin on the forehead. “Now you, dear boy, should get some rest.” She quickly stood up. “Winston‘s going to need all the help he can get.”

  37.

  Mr. Capone Sends His Regards

  Chicago

  Thursday, 15 August 1929

  2:00 p.m.

  It was a wasted day, Cockran thought, as he sat in a taxi on his way to the Congress Hotel where he hoped to pick up the trail of Tommy McBride. His eyelids were heavy, the adrenaline that sustained him earlier in the day having slowly seeped from his body. Only the occasional jostling of the taxicab prevented him from falling asleep entirely.

  The day had promised so much more at the outset, Cockran thought. He could hardly wait for it to begin. Rankin‘s unexpected offer the night before to lead him to McBride kept him awake for most of the night. But Rankin never showed up that morning and things went downhill after that. Cockran had been sorely tempted to spend the entire day staking out the Congress Hotel but he decided to visit the four rail dispatchers whose names Rankin had given him. They were of no help. A mid-day phone call to Donovan brought more bad news.

  The NYPD had now brought in the FBI which in turn sent out an APB to all its regional offices. While no more arrest warrants were imminent, Cockran was now officially a suspect in Devoy‘s murder. Donovan argued with him to stop by the FBI’s Chicago field office and clear everything up by answering a few questions but Cockran had refused. Finding a dead Commerce Department Agent lying next to Sean Russell‘s body in a warehouse full of IRA weapons did not increase his faith in federal agencies. Besides, Cockran was certain the FBI had inherited the dossier J. Edgar Hoover’s General Intelligence Division had compiled on him after the war. As a reporter for Hearst, Cockran‘s 1919 expose of the 200,000 dossiers the GID had developed on “radical activists”—including Hearst himself—had not endeared him to Hoover or to the FBI’s predecessor for whom he worked, the Bureau of Investigation. No FBI for now.

  Donovan had discovered little else about Commerce Agent William Miller, aside from the fact that he once worked for the Inquiry. Agent Miller‘s file, however, was illuminating only for his complete lack of credentials of any sort. Before the Inquiry, Miller had never held anything more than the occasional odd job, and had not even graduated high school.

  “If I didn‘t know any better,” Donovan had said, “I would think that bozo was only hired muscle. But I didn‘t think the Inquiry went in for that sort of thing.”

  “Neither did I,” Cockran replied.

  Cockran knew he was being followed. The tail had picked him up when he left the Congress Hotel. He had flashed his police badge only to learn that McBride had checked out that morning. His luck was no better now than at any of the rail dispatchers he had visited earlier in the day. The contraband story and his police badge weren‘t working. Most of the people he talked to seemed incredulous that a Chicago police detective was actually investigating crime.

  If there was contraband, one dispatcher had told him, Capone was behind it. “Neither you nor I,” he told Cockran, “want to be involved in any of that. Trust me. It‘s a lot healthier.”

  The man following him had a light olive complexion with a trim mustache. He was tall, well-dressed, a gray fedora, double-breasted pin-striped suit, expensive tie and two-tone black and white shoes. He didn‘t look Irish or German for that matter, either. Cockran wasn‘t overly concerned. His tail was a big man but the street was crowded and Cockran was only three blocks from the Drake. Still, he had learned enough about the arts of surveillance through his time with MID during the war that he wanted to find out whether he had a team on him rather than one individual. Unfortunately, the street was too crowded for the usual ploy to work—stopping to look in a store window. The man had stopped too, and done the same thing, something he couldn‘t do if there were only a few people on the street.

  Cockran tried Plan B. He came to a sudden stop, looked at his watch as if he had just remembered where he should be, shook his head in dismay, and started to cross the street. Once he reached the middle, he abruptly turned on his heel and walked directly back from where he had come, his eyes looking directly at his tail whom he had just burned. The tail kept on walking past him as if nothing had happened. Cockran would know if it was a team if there were another man on the other side of the street to take the place of the one he had burned. Upon reaching the sidewalk he turned and looked across the street, waiting to see if someone were reversing course. But there wasn‘t. Then he felt a large hand grasp him firmly by his left elbow.

  “Mr. Capone sends his regards. Let‘s go get a cup of coffee. You‘re in no danger…. Not yet. I could have quietly killed you five different times in the last two blocks, if that‘s what we wanted. This is our town. We can pretty much do anything we want.”

  Cockran turned to face the man who had grabbed him. Up close, Cockran was surprised to see that the man was about the same age as him. “There‘s a coffee shop at the Drake and it‘s only a few blocks away. How would that be? We can talk on the way.”

  “Fine.” Capone‘s man replied. “We know that‘s where you‘re staying, Detective O’Malley, Mr. Andrews or whatever your name is today? Tell you what, let‘s just stick with ‘Cockran‘.”

  Cockran registered surprise at the man knowing his name.

  “Yes, Mr. Cockran, we know who you are. Room 1043 at the Drake. And you‘re wanted by the New York Police Department and the FBI in connection with a murder in New York.”

  “You‘re very well-informed, Mr…What did you say your name was?”

  “I didn‘t and yes, we are well-informed. My name is Nitti, Frank Nitti. Look, Mr. Cockran, let me make it simple. You‘ve been asking around, by our count, at four different railroad dispatch offices regarding contraband and rail shipments. Nothing like that happens in Chicago unless we know about it and we know nothing has happened. People pay us good money to see that bad things don‘t happen to them. Some of the railroads are our best customers. So, if you‘re planning something, I have one piece of advice for you. Don‘t.

  “I suppose,” Nitti continued conversationally, “that we could take you somewhere and, after a while, persuade you to tell us what you‘re up to but we‘re really quite busy with our regular operations. That‘s why I talked to Mr. Capone on his holiday in a Philadelphia jail and he decided I should tail you myself and give you this friendly advice. So, let me give you some final words to take with you. And they will be final if you don‘t take them. Leave Chicago. Now. Within twenty-four hours. Are we clear?”

  “Yes,” Cockran replied.

  Nitti gave Cockran a pat on the back as if they were old friends. But his hand also came in contract with the Webley revolver in Cockran‘s shoulder holster. “Good. I‘m glad to hear that. We won’t be talking if we meet again and, if we do, just remember this. Our guns are bigger and we have more of them.”

  The man peeled off and Cockran walked up the steps to the Drake‘s entrance, the uniformed doorman holding the door open for him and tipping his cap.

  38.

  You Won’t Be the First

  Chicago

  Thursday, 15 August 1929

  2:00 p.m.

  Mattie was tired but her ankle was a lot better. It had been a busy morning. A trip to the Chicago American offices, Cockran‘s room, and the darkroom. The photos were even better than she had hoped. She hadn’t eaten since 3 a.m. so she decided to return to her room and have lunch sent up. When Mattie turned the corner into her room‘s corridor, something didn‘t seem right. She couldn’
t quite place it. Then she realized. The maid was nowhere in sight yet she always cleaned this wing first thing in the afternoon and she never finished before 4 p.m.

  Suspicious, she reached underneath her jacket and removed the Walther automatic pistol from her waistband in the small of her back. Holding it in her right hand and her key in the left, she pushed the door open and waited. She advanced carefully into the room, sensed movement to her right and felt the sharp blow of a pistol barrel on her wrist causing her Walther to drop harmlessly to the floor. A second later, a large arm was thrown around her chest and she felt the barrel of a pistol jammed painfully into her right side.

  “Martha, my pretty little redhead. Wouldn‘t you be thinking that a pistol is not the friendliest way to be greeting a visitor?”

  “You bastard! Who are you? What do you want?”

  “Many things, Martha, my dear. But let‘s start with the four rolls of film you gave to that bearded man last night. You give them to me,” he said as she felt large fingers close over and dig tightly into her right breast, “and won‘t I be giving you a good time in return?”

  Mattie winced and struggled to free herself from his grasp but he only tightened his hold on her breast and pushed her into the middle of the room. Mattie struggled as he pushed her toward the door of the bedroom but he was moving her with frightening ease and literally threw her onto the bed. Flat on her back, she propped herself up on her elbows and looked into the face of a big man, six foot one , easily 220 pounds, she thought, mid-forties, curly gray hair, hard blue eyes, a belly bulging over his belt and a large, almost bulbous nose like W.C. Fields. He motioned at her with a pistol which had an ugly black silencer attached to its tip.