The DeValera Deception

by Michael McMenamin

  “The jacket and shirt. Take them off. First, you‘ll give me a little preview. Then, you‘ll give me the film. After that…well, I‘m sure you can figure out what you‘ll give me next.”

  Mattie sat up and slowly took her jacket off, stalling for time. He waved his gun impatiently. “The top. Off with it. I know how they feel. Let‘s see how they look. I saw you with Cockran last night. The two of you have a little thing going, do you? You won‘t be the first woman of his I‘ve had. His wife and I once had a little fling. Sexy bitch. Left her moaning for more I did. I‘ll do the same for you. All women end up enjoying what they can‘t avoid.”

  Mattie paused and slowly began to unfasten her buttons. He outweighed her by a lot. She needed a plan. The first button. Her Walther, in the other room, was no help.

  The second button. Then it came to her. She smiled at the man and he actually grinned back. Men were stupid.

  The third button. The spare development chemicals were in the new canvas bag beside her luggage. She pulled her blouse out of the waistband. He began unbuttoning his fly.

  The fourth button. Yes, the acid bath, the final step in the developing process, would be a nasty surprise. She stood up from the bed. He didn‘t move. She knew exactly where his attention was focused and she planned to keep it there.

  The fifth and last button. She did it slowly and provocatively, pushing her blouse aside, inviting him to look at her now uncovered breasts.

  “T‘is a lovely pair you have, my pretty. Now find me the photographs and the negatives.”

  “They‘re in the closet.” Without waiting for an answer, Mattie moved toward the closet, making no effort to hold her blouse together, her breasts bobbing as she walked. Once there, she turned around to give him another view. “Bring me that chair. The shelf‘s too high to reach.”

  He kicked the chair over to her, his eyes barely leaving her. She picked it up and placed it just inside the closet door. He would have another distraction when she leaned over. She stepped up onto the chair and arched her back as she leaned toward the canvas bag on the top shelf. As she did, she could feel the fabric of her trousers pulled taut, outlining her backside.

  “Beautiful ass, Martha. Just made for giving me a nice ride. It won‘t be long now. Don‘t tarry up there.”

  Damn right it won‘t be long now you bastard, Mattie thought, as she groped in the canvas bag. Her right hand found the familiar square bottle of the acid bath chemicals. She unscrewed it with her left and picked up blank photographic paper. Stepping down, she turned, her right hand clutching the unseen bottle tightly to her waist, her left hand holding the paper. She thrust the photographic paper at him, making sure her hand did not obstruct his view of her breasts which were bobbing once more. He reached for the papers almost absent mindedly, his eyes never leaving the target she intended. He never saw her right arm sweep up in a wide arc, splashing the contents of the bottle directly in his face. He howled in pain, brought his hands to his face, dropping his gun on the floor as he sank to his knees, crying, “My eyes! My eyes!”

  Mattie never wore high heels, except on formal occasions. She‘d photographed enough industrial sites that one minor accident had been enough to persuade her to take a grizzled old foreman‘s advice that she invest in several pairs of steel-capped workman‘s boots. They turned out to be so comfortable, once she had broken them in, that she wore them everywhere except on those rare occasions when she dressed up. Unfortunately for her intruder, she wasn‘t dressed up now and, as he knelt there in front of her, head on the floor, hands clutching his face, she stepped behind him and delivered a vicious steel-toed kick between his legs. The man froze, sucking for wind and curled into a fetal position, the pain in his eyes eclipsed by the new agony in his groin.

  Mattie moved quickly. The acid bath would not inflict permanent damage and she wasn‘t sure how long her kick would keep him down. She picked up his pistol and tucked it into the waistband of her trousers in the small of her back and sprinted out of the bedroom. Her shoulder purse and Walther were laying on the floor by the suite‘s entrance. She stooped, picked them up, and opened the door. Every second counted. She didn‘t refasten her buttons. That would come later. She sprinted down the hall towards the fire stairs. An elderly couple exited their room and stared in wide-eyed astonishment as she ran past them, shouting back over her shoulder, “There‘s a man after me! Call the house detective! Call the police!”

  Mattie reached the fire stairs and pushed the door open with one motion and lunged inside. She took the stairs two at a time, not pausing to catch her breath until she reached the fourth floor. She stood still and listened. There were no sounds of pursuit. She stuck the Walther into the front of her waistband. With the other weapon at her back, it was a snug fit. She then buttoned her blouse, leaving the tails out, concealing both weapons. She ran her hands through her hair, took a deep breath, and walked out into the hall. Moments later, she was back at her darkroom and pushed the key into the lock. She gave a sigh of relief as she went into the room and closed and locked the door behind her.

  39.

  How Long Have You Known Mattie?

  Chicago

  Thursday, 15 August 1929

  4:45 p.m.

  Cockran opened the door to his room and froze at the scene before him. His bag was open, clothes flung from drawers and papers strewn everywhere. Cockran had started the process of repairing when the phone rang.

  “Yes?”

  “Bourke!” Mattie exclaimed. “Thank God you‘re back. Someone broke into my room! “

  “Yours too? I‘ve had the same on this end.” He paused, eyeing a green enamel earring on the floor. “What were they were looking for?” he asked, still staring at the earring.

  “The film, of course, but it was down in my darkroom.”

  Suddenly, Cockran remembered exactly where he had seen that green enamel earring before. A laugh, the flash of a breast, a green earring in contrast to her crimson hair.

  “What were they looking for in your room?” Mattie asked. His mind raced. Why had she been in his room? Who was she working for? “Hello? Cockran? Are you still there?”

  “I‘m not sure,” he lied. “Maybe they thought you left the film with me.”

  “Oh.”

  The silence was building. Cockran couldn‘t think. “Look, stay there. I‘ll be right over.”

  He placed the receiver down and picked up the earring. It was Mattie‘s, no question. Then it occurred to him that he had never verified with Churchill that Mattie or Rankin were who they said they were. Rankin could have lied to him about McBride to get him out of the hotel so Mattie could search his room for the journals. Who knew what her real agenda was?

  Cockran quickly picked the phone back up and had the switchboard place a call to Churchill who confirmed that he had indeed enlisted both Rankin and Mattie‘s help. Cockran paused. How should he broach the subject of Mattie‘s duplicity?

  “Winston, how long have you known Mattie?”

  “All her life, my boy,” Churchill replied. “She‘s my godchild.”

  “But Mattie works for Hearst. Don‘t you think she may have conflicting loyalties?”

  “Not to worry, Bourke. I trust her as I do you.”

  “You didn‘t trust me enough,” Cockran replied, “to tell me about Mattie. Or Rankin.”

  Churchill took the rebuke in silence, so Cockran continued. “It‘s less a question of trusting Mattie than of trusting her employer. Remember when you covered the Cuban rebellion which Hearst and his papers soon turned into the Spanish-American War? Hearst may have opposed American involvement in the Great War but he has considerable experience in fomenting little wars. Not to mention twisting the English Lion‘s tail.”

  “Theoretically, there may be some merit in what you say,” Churchill replied, “but the possibility is remote. After all, Hearst has offered me a contract of $2,000 an article to write for him. Still, let me ponder these new developments and digest them. Much has happened tha
t you don‘t know. Much I must think about. I‘ll ring you back later.”

  40.

  The Plot Thickens

  Banff, Canada

  Thursday, 15 August 1929

  5:30 p.m.

  Winston Churchill put down his champagne flute and looked up at the Canadian Rockies surrounding the hotel terrace where he had just finished editing the typescript of a newspaper article he had dictated the night before. A broad-brimmed hat protected his fair, pink face from the glare of the evening sun as he unscrewed the cap of his fountain pen.

  Dearest Clemmie,

  The plot thickens, as Mr. Doyle would say. As I expected, Smythe and his men made absolutely no progress in Chicago in locating the weapons, a feat my people had no difficulty performing in Cleveland or Chicago. Imagine the expression on his face when I told him my own agents in Chicago were able not only to trace the money being used to buy the weapons but they also have photographs, hard evidence, of the weapons being loaded. Consequently, I will be well fortified for my encounter with President Hoover in California.

  My darling Cat, your faithful Pig is safe and secure and all will be well.

  Your loving husband,

  W.

  Canadian Pacific Railway

  11:00 p.m.

  The windows outside the train were pitch black as it rumbled through the dark Canadian night, the peaks of the Canadian Rockies soaring unseen above them, stars the only illumination as the train emerged from the second of the two tunnels through Kicking Horn Pass, each of which had a 270 degree turn inside the mountain. Churchill pushed his chair back from the table in the center of the private railcar‘s dining section. Across from him were his younger brother, Jack, and Inspector Walter Thompson of Scotland Yard, Churchill‘s longtime personal body guard.

  “Inspector,” Churchill said, taking a sip of brandy, “we shall soon be in America. Do you still have those important documents I gave you?”

  Thompson frowned. “The letters from your physician and the British Ambassador?”

  “Good fellow, Tommy, good fellow. Exactly what I meant. Guard them with your life. As we leave civilization, it will be our only defense against the savages.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Thompson said, “but do you really believe those letters will persuade the Americans to allow you to bring alcohol into their country for ‘medicinal purposes‘?”

  Churchill frowned. “Why ever not? The Americans may be savages but surely they would not dare to endanger my health.”

  “Are you quite sure,” his brother Jack said, looking up from his newspaper, “that we can persuade the American authorities that you need champagne for medicinal purposes?”

  “Of course, we can,” Churchill replied. “It has long been established by medical science that a single glass of champagne imparts a feeling of exhilaration. The nerves are braced, the imagination is agreeably stirred, the wits become more nimble. Now, mind you, a bottle produces a contrary effect but I learned quite early in my army days never to overindulge. As I‘ve told you on more than one occasion, Jack, I have taken more out of alcohol than it has taken out of me.”

  41.

  You’ve Been Swell and I Haven’t

  Chicago

  Thursday, 15 August 1929

  10:30 p.m.

  It was time to get out of Dodge. Rankin had disappeared but Churchill hadn‘t seemed concerned. Cockran had struck out trying to find where the railcars that Rankin had identified were headed. Al Capone‘s gang wanted him out of town. And, if you believed her, someone who looked and sounded a lot like Tommy McBride had ambushed Mattie in her hotel room.

  After what happened to Sheila Greene, however, he wasn‘t taking any chances. He had changed their rooms and bribed the desk clerk to alter their names on the registration forms. He also left a message for Sergeant Rankin in a sealed envelope telling him their new room numbers.

  Cockran had originally intended to visit four more rail dispatch offices tomorrow. But given Frank Nitti‘s threat, he would not do so. Besides, he was running into the same pattern Hasim had encountered in Ohio. At Cockran‘s request, Hasim had used all of his contacts, both legitimate and not, but he had come up empty handed as to where the Cleveland arms shipment had gone after Cincinnati. Cincinnati, the Queen City, was a gateway to the south, much like St. Louis. Wherever these weapons were being shipped wasn‘t by direct route nor was it on a single rail line. It was as if the IRA were sweeping up their tracks behind them.

  Mattie was taking a shower and Cockran had ordered room service for both of them.

  “Food‘s here,” Cockran shouted through the closed door as he heard her turn off the shower and briefly imagined what she would look like as she toweled herself off. Moments later Mattie emerged wearing trim khaki slacks and a white silk blouse, the top two buttons unfastened. Her feet were bare and she ran her fingers through her damp red hair.

  “Dinner. How lovely. You are such a dear,” kissing him on the cheek.

  “How do you suppose McBride knew your room or that you had the photographs?”

  Mattie carefully sliced a small bite from her rare steak and chewed thoughtfully as she listened to Cockran‘s question. “He saw us embrace in the lobby the other night and he saw me give the rolls of film to Rankin”. Mattie hadn‘t told him about the sexual side of her encounter with McBride. There was no need for him to know McBride had intended to rape her or that baring her breasts had been necessary to distract him. The same went for his leering reference to Cockran‘s wife. What was that all about? She knew from Anne Dawson that Cockran‘s wife had been killed during the Irish Civil War in 1922 but nothing more. She couldn‘t imagine any woman married to Cockran having an affair with someone like McBride so she wondered if he had been the man who killed her. If so, he may well have raped her as well. She wondered if Cockran knew. She guessed that he didn’t. From her knowledge of the Irish police, the naked condition of a female murder victim would not make its way into any report. The Church wouldn‘t approve. She shook her head to clear the image and changed the subject.

  “Tell me more about Frank Nitti. He sounds even more scary than McBride.”

  Cockran shook his head. “A different kind of scary. Thanks to prohibition, he‘s pretty well off. Polite, well mannered, well dressed and, I have no doubt, deadly. But without the government, he‘d have to go straight or become a petty thief.” Cockran said.

  “The government?” Mattie asked.

  “When governments prohibit people from having things they want ‘for their own good,‘ the market will supply that need at an artificially increased price,” Cockran said and smiled. “It‘s made them rich men and I wouldn‘t be at all surprised if Al Capone and Frank Nitti were the largest financial backers of the Women‘s Christian Temperance Union.”

  “So the police can‘t enforce Prohibition?” Mattie asked.

  “Far too many police are paid to look the other way. As long as the gangsters play the game by the rules, the police won‘t care.”

  “Rules? Gangsters play by rules?”

  “The successful ones do. Rule number one is never kill civilians. It‘s bad for customer relations. Rule number two is don‘t kill any cops. It‘s bad for business.”

  “So what‘s next?” Mattie asked.

  “I‘m going to San Francisco to find McBride. If I have time after that, I‘ll see what I can do about tracking down any IRA arms being assembled there.”

  “I should go with you,” Mattie said. “but I‘m concerned that we haven‘t heard from Sergeant Rankin all day. Maybe I should wait to make sure he is safe.”

  Cockran shook his head. “I don‘t think you should.”

  “Why?”

  “I spoke with Winston while you were showering.” Cockran said, “He said we weren‘t to worry about Rankin. He wants both of us out of town. He believes you‘re in danger and so do I.”

  Mattie frowned, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “What‘s his point? So I‘m in danger. He knew I was going into
that warehouse last night. As if that weren‘t dangerous?”

  “With Rankin not around to protect you, Winston wants you with him.”

  “Why?”

  “He wants you and the film in his possession as quickly as possible. And he wants me to stay with you at all times. For your safety, he said.”

  Mattie felt the color rise in her face. “Like bloody hell you will!” she snapped. “Rankin was no bargain as a guardian and you‘re no better. You don‘t even have a bloody weapon.”

  “Actually,” Cockran began, “I do.”

  Mattie cut him off with a withering look. “Having one and using it are two different things entirely, aren‘t they, Mr. Cockran? It didn‘t help that poor girl in Cleveland, did it?”

  She could see Cockran was stung by the reference to Sheila and she instantly regretted it.

  Mattie put down her silver and smiled at Cockran. “I apologize, Bourke. It‘s not you. All my life, I‘ve had men for bosses who wanted to protect me. But I can take care of myself. Let me show you,” she said and reached behind her to pull out her Walther PPK.

  She smiled. “I didn‘t have this with me at the warehouse but I have ever since.”

  “Not that it did you much good today,” Cockran replied. “Your boots and developing fluid seem to have been more formidable weapons,” he continued, a small grin on his face.

  “Touche,” Mattie said and smiled in return. She liked a man who fought back and she liked this man very much. She looked at her wristwatch. “My goodness, 11:00 p.m.” She stifled a yawn and stretched her arms above her head, her breasts straining the silk fabric, her nipples visibly erect. “I‘m going to tuck in. Where shall we meet for breakfast?”

  Make your move, Cockran, Mattie thought, but he seemed preoccupied because all he said was, “Whatever suits you is fine with me.”

  “8:30 in my suite. The same order as today okay with you?”