The DeValera Deception

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The DeValera Deception Page 25

by Michael McMenamin


  There was a loud knock on his door. Cockran rose, peered through the peephole and saw the large, broad-shouldered frame of a tall, ruddy faced man in his early fifties with a full head of brown hair on its way to gray. “Bourke Cockran?” the man asked when the door opened.

  Cockran nodded. The man put out a big right hand. “Jack Manion. Pleased to meet you.”

  Cockran invited Manion in and offered him a drink. He accepted and Cockran mixed a new drink and freshened his own. He turned to face a drawn .38 caliber police revolver.

  “OK, Cockran, tell me exactly what kind of relationship you had with John Devoy?”

  “He was my friend. But the operative tense here is ‘was‘. Devoy‘s dead. Murdered.”

  “I know Devoy‘s dead,” Manion responded. “I also know there‘s a warrant out for your arrest in New York for his murder. I talked to Johnny Greene in Cleveland. He‘s not a happy man and he‘s not too fond of you. His daughter‘s been killed. Was she a friend of yours too? If so, your friends seem to have acquired an unhealthy habit of turning up dead. Can you give me one good reason why I shouldn‘t toss you in jail right now until someone from New York or Cleveland can come fetch you?” he said, bringing out a leather case which he flipped open with a practiced motion to reveal a San Francisco Police Department captain‘s badge.

  “Can I set these drinks down?”

  “Very carefully,” Manion replied. “Then take a seat on the couch over there.”

  Cockran gave Manion his drink and then placed his own on the coffee table in front of the couch. Manion kept his revolver still pointed squarely at Cockran‘s chest.

  “Go on. Explain yourself. Start at the beginning. I‘ve got plenty of time.”

  I don‘t have much time. A woman’s been kidnapped and I need your help to find her.”

  “Talk first, Cockran. Help later. If I believe you.”

  Cockran paused and took a deep breath as he began to retell the story. “It starts back in Ireland,” Cockran said. Fifteen minutes later, Cockran had brought the story up to Devoy‘s discovery of the missing funds. He paused, took a sip from the glass beside him, and twenty minutes later had brought his story up to where he had started—Mattie’s kidnapping.

  Manion returned his revolver to its shoulder holster and put his hands on his knees. “I believe you, Cockran. John called me the day before he was killed. He told me you were a man to be trusted. My boys in the Chinatown Squad knew I was friends with Devoy and when notice of that murder warrant came in this afternoon, they showed it to me. That‘s when I checked with a colleague in New York to see who was in charge of the Devoy murder investigation and what his reputation was. Brendan Rooney is his name. You know him?”

  Cockran shook his head.

  “He‘s a bad copper,” Manion replied. “Anyone can buy him. That‘s the bad news for you. The good news is he has no loyalty to those who buy his services. So if you have friends in New York who are big enough, the word is he can be scared off..”

  Manion finished his drink and walked towards the sideboard to refill, taking Cockran‘s proffered glass as well. “Tell me how I can help with this woman who was kidnapped.”

  “I‘m not sure.” Cockran said, “If she‘s near Dunsmuir, it‘s a three hour train ride.”

  Manion grinned. “For starters, we don‘t need to travel by train. We can fly there. And,” he said, sweeping his arm over the living room of Cockran‘s suite, “for the price of one night in this grand hotel, I can provide three, maybe four, good solid men. Honest, underpaid policemen from my Chinatown Squad are always looking for legitimate off-duty work. If you throw in a bottle of Jameson’s, you‘ll have friends for life to boot.”

  There was a knock on the door. Cockran walked across the room and checked through the peephole to see Robert Rankin. Cockran invited the Scotland Yard man in and introduced him to Manion. The two Celts hit it off at once, their police work a common bond.

  Cockran quickly filled Rankin in on their plans to rescue Mattie including Manion‘s suggestion that they charter a plane to do so. They would need heavier weapons than their police revolvers but flying in could be passed off as a hunting trip. It would take them ninety minutes flying time compared to a train trip taking twice as long. Also, if there were any unpleasantness involved in rescuing Mattie, they could leave at a time of their own choosing.

  “I‘d dearly like to go with you lads,” Rankin said. “But my first duty is to see to Mr. Churchill‘s safety and there is still much to do here. He arrives tomorrow.”

  “Who‘s your liaison with the Police Department?” Manion asked.

  Cockran saw Rankin wrinkle his forehead at what was obviously for him a foreign question. “Liaison? From my limited experience with American police departments, primarily Chicago, it did not occur to me to seek out their assistance.”

  “San Francisco is not Chicago, I assure you, Detective Sergeant,” Manion replied. “We don‘t have our hands out. We are pleased to provide additional security for visiting dignitaries.”

  Manion produced a fountain pen and picked up a blank sheet of paper on which he wrote a note. “Here, take this to Central Police Headquarters first thing tomorrow morning. Ask for Detective O’Connor and give him this. He‘ll provide all the help you need. Then, if you think you have matters well in hand, meet us at Mills Field tomorrow morning at 7:00 a.m.”

  After Rankin left, Cockran ordered two thick steaks from room service. As they ate, they had a clear view over the Union Pacific Club to Grace Cathedral beyond, its front and spire illuminated with floodlights, while Cockran listened to Manion‘s stories. Since March of 1921, Manion had been the head of the San Francisco Police Department‘s Chinatown Squad. Chinatown was a city unto itself and Manion‘s first assignment had been to target the tongs who used hired assassins to control and skim profits from the gambling, narcotics and prostitution enterprises that flourished there. The tongs also took protection money from legitimate businesses operated by intimidated Chinatown merchants and Manion had stopped them cold.

  As a consequence, many of the merchants considered Manion to be the unelected Mayor of Chinatown. His squad consisted of twelve men who worked around the clock in three shifts of four men each. They had their own network of informers and the thought that any search or seizure could be unreasonable never crossed their minds. The tongs feared them. The Chinatown merchants thought they were guardian angels who allowed them to live the American Dream.

  After dinner, Manion got down to business on the IRA arms shipment. “I‘ve had no luck, Bourke, in learning about the account into which the funds were transferred at the Crocker Bank. Compared to Cleveland or Chicago, San Francisco is a clean town.”

  “I understand,” Cockran said. “But what about the...”

  “The warehouse? That‘s different. I know all about the warehouse. I have it under surveillance as we speak. It‘s not even in San Francisco. It‘s across the bay, in Oakland.”

  “Oakland? Why Oakland?” Cockran asked.

  “Oakland, I am sorry to say, has a more unsavory reputation than the City. Still, our police departments work fairly well together and the honest cops know each other. There are just a lot fewer of them in Oakland. Within thirty-six hours of your phone call from Chicago, I had the warehouse identified. It‘s stacked to the rafters with weapons and ammunition.”

  “Have you found out where the weapons will be shipped?” Cockran asked.

  “No, we haven‘t tried yet.” Manion replied. “New shipments are arriving every day. But with the information you received from Fitzgerald in Chicago, I‘ll have my men making the rounds of train dispatchers. We have good sources there. It shouldn‘t be a problem to find out where the arms will be shipped next.”

  51.

  Take The Folders, Leave The Money

  San Francisco

  Tuesday, 20 August 1929

  7:00 a.m.

  The Fokker Trimotor glistened in the morning sun, its fuselage painted a bright royal b
lue. Cockran turned to Jack Manion. “How have you managed to hire this aircraft? Who owns it?”

  “Hearst.”

  They had been walking away from the plane and Cockran stopped in his tracks. “Hearst? Like in William Randolph Hearst who owns the property where they‘re holding Mattie?”

  Manion smiled. “The same. Sort of a nice symmetry, wouldn‘t you say?”

  “Are you entirely certain this is wise?” Cockran asked.

  “T’is not a problem. The pilot’s an old friend. To Pat, we‘re just a small hunting party going up for a day trip to Mt. Shasta. He‘s flown Hearst there a couple times. Besides, it‘s the largest private plane in the area. We‘ll need it to accommodate the three of us and my three men who will be joining us soon. Relax, Bourke. You‘re not in Chicago any more.”

  The aircraft cabin was crowded. The Fokker Trimotor FV II was built for the rich and carried six normal-sized people. But two of the three officers from Manion‘s Chinatown Squad were not small, both six feet tall or more and well over two hundred pounds. One of them had his hunting jacket unbuttoned with his shoulder holster visible. Cockran was certain from the bulges in the coats of the other two that they were similarly armed. As was he, the Webley snug in its hoster inside his leather flight jacket. Their rifles had been stowed in the luggage compartment at the rear of the plane as well as, when the pilot‘s attention had been distracted, a Thompson submachine gun.

  Within eighty-five minutes, the small Trimotor was banking for its approach to the grassy airfield, a ten-minute drive from the small California mining town of Dunsmuir. Once they landed, Manion picked up the keys to a battered 1925 four-door Dodge sedan from the airfield attendant. While the pilot made arrangements for refueling, Manion‘s chief assistant, Ed Kelley supervised the loading of weapons and ammunition into the Dodge‘s large trunk. Manion drove with Cockran and Rankin beside him in the front seat, Kelley and the others in the back.

  They headed east along Highway 89 which ran beside the McCloud River. They stopped a few miles down the road at a roadside picnic table overlooking a scenic gorge, the second, Manion told them, of the three waterfalls they would pass along the white water river before it snaked its way through the Hearst property. Below them, the river was gray with volcanic ash, the residue of volcanic eruptions in 1914 and 1915 of nearby Lassen Peak, a 10,457 foot plug dome volcano.

  Manion spread the map out on the picnic table and laid out their plan of attack. “No sense our trying a frontal assault on the gate. They‘ll have a telephone to the house for sure. But there is dense forest on either side of the road which leads into the property. I‘m thinking we can take our automobile in as far as three or four miles and then make it the rest of the way on foot.”

  Manion folded the map and the six men climbed back in the Dodge. Above them, the sun was shining in a cloudless sky and the mountain air was crisp. Ten miles down Route 89, Manion turned right onto a gravel road, the Seiberling tires crunching the surface beneath, a mute witness to the tall forest of spruce, pine and Douglas fir and two large signs flanking either side of road. PRIVATE PROPERTY. NO TRESPASSING. VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED.

  Four miles into the forest, Manion brought the vehicle to a halt and pulled off to the left into a clearing where the trees were smaller. He carefully backed the vehicle through the thicket of trees until it would not have been visible to a casual eye from a passing motor car.

  A hard half-hour’s hike uphill brought them to the top of a ridge. The sound of the river was much louder and they could glimpse the shimmer of sun shining off the white water below. The trek down the ridge was accomplished more easily. Once there, the roar of the ash-laden water accompanied their hike until Manion spotted a large rock slide, a place where he believed they could ford to the other bank. Manion pulled out the map again and motioned to Kelley to join him.

  “Eddie, we‘re less than half a mile from the River House. It‘s the main guest house. I‘m not partial to splitting up our forces until we have to, but if we can gain the element of surprise with a flanking movement on whoever‘s guarding the bridge and come at them from both sides, then it‘s worth a shot. It looks a lot tougher going on the other side of the river, but we can‘t pass up this chance to come at them from behind. I‘ll leave the map with you.”

  In the event, Manion, Cockran and Rankin made better time than expected. Fording the river had not proved difficult, the rock slide affording them good purchase save a slippery foothold or two. It was nearly impassable along the edge of the river so they headed up a heavily forested ridge until they reached the top. Once there, they traversed the spine of the ridge more easily. They made quick time and were situated behind the Manor House shortly before noon, with several Douglas firs and only one hundred yards of open ground standing between them and the house. Manion took out a pair of army surplus field binoculars and surveyed the scene.

  Manion raised his binoculars again. “Hello, what have we here? Take a look, Detective Sergeant,” he said, handing the binoculars to Rankin. “The hedge in front of the patio. If I‘m not mistaken, there‘s a body there. Certainly a strange place for a nap.”

  Rankin agreed and handed the binoculars to Cockran. “See what you think, sir.”

  Cockran took the binoculars, searched for the patio hedge and found it, two legs sticking out from behind the hedge. He handed the field glasses back to Manion. “What does it mean?”

  “It means we go find out. Check your weapons. Chamber a round. I‘ll take point.”

  They proceeded cautiously across the lawn, weapons drawn. Cockran reached the body first. The man wasn‘t taking a nap, several bullet wounds in his chest were proof of that. Cockran checked for a pulse. There was none, but rigor mortis had not set in. It might have been one of the two blond haired men Cockran had seen with Mattie on the ferry but he couldn‘t be certain.

  Manion and Rankin joined Cockran and the two detectives examined the body. “Dead about four hours I‘d say” Rankin said in a low voice. “Look at the color.”

  Manion nodded his agreement and then motioned them toward the front of the mansion and its main entrance enclosed within a round stone turret, a conical slate roof rising to a point above it. Once there, Manion signaled Ed Kelly‘s team to cross the bridge and join them. Then he grasped the hanging iron handle and turned. The door silently swung open. They stepped inside through the turret into a large, two-story antechamber at the end of which was a large formal staircase framed by three large leaded glass windows on the first landing which framed a stunning view of Lassen Peak.

  Three bodies were sprawled at the foot of the staircase and a fourth at the top. Like the body outside, rigor mortis had not set in. Again, Cockran recognized none of them.

  They quietly moved upstairs, alert for any sign of the enemy but the only sounds were their own soft footfalls. The second floor had four bedrooms opening out onto a balcony that ran along three sides of the foyer below, two in the rear and two in front. Both rear bedrooms had the same view of Lassen Peak as the top of the landing. The first three bedrooms yielded no result. In the right front bedroom, they found their sixth and final body. It was sprawled on the floor, face down, barely a foot away from a chair on which sat a leather shoulder holster and beside it, a .38 caliber revolver with five of its six bullets still unfired. The corpse had greasy black hair and a jagged scar across a receding chin. The automatic weapon which had been used to effect downstairs obviously had been used on this man as well. He had been shot in the back, four entrance wounds going diagonally from the right side of his waist up to his left shoulder. A coup de grace had been fired directly into the back of his head.

  Manion went to the fireplace and placed his hand on the burned wood sitting in the grate. They were warm to his touch. “This one‘s been dead as long as the others.But the wood’s not yet cold. Even if these fellows have been dead between four to six hours, whoever did this didn‘t leave that long ago. After four hours, even if this started as a roaring fire, these
ashes would be stone cold. When we get back downstairs, I‘ll have Kelley check the other fireplaces.”

  Cockran‘s attention was not focused on the fireplace but rather on the head of the four-poster bed. He walked to the side of the bed away from the fireplace and saw something white in the corner, bunched in a ball. He stooped to pick it up and recognized at once that it was one of Mattie’s white blouses. It still carried the scent of her perfume and several buttons were missing. Beside it on the floor was one of Mattie’s brassieres along with a torn pair of her silk step-ins as if someone—an eager lover?—had ripped them off. He recognized both from their two nights together on the train. He looked over at the corpse and then back to her undergarments. The mystery of Mattie McGary just kept on growing. What in hell had happened? Why were Mattie‘s clothes here? What had Mattie been doing in this room? Who killed that man? And where in the hell was Mattie? He motioned Rankin over and showed him the clothes. “This shirt is hers. She was wearing it yesterday.” Rankin didn‘t need to know Cockran recognized her more intimate apparel as well.

  Rankin inspected the garment. “Aye, it certainly appears to be Miss McGary’s.

  “Who do you suppose did this?‘ Cockran asked. “Smythe and his men?”

  Rankin frowned. “Smythe and his men don‘t have automatic weapons.”

  “My tip was good. Someone had Mattie here. The IRA is as good a guess as any.”

  I agree.“, Rankin said, “While I conduct a thorough search of the main house to see if I can find any clues as to Miss McGary’s whereabouts, perhaps you and Inspector Manion could do the same with the rest of the buildings.”

  “Good, “ Manion said. “I‘ll also file a missing person‘s report as soon as we‘re back in the city. We‘ll get her photograph from The Examiner and her face soon will be all over California.

  “Meanwhile,” Manion said to Ed Kelley, “send the other two up the road and have them fetch the automobile and bring it back down here. By then, we should have finished our search.”

 

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