The pain in his left shoulder shot through him as Cockran wrestled a protesting Smythe to the ground. “You fool! Let me up! Churchill‘s in danger!”
“Not any more,” Cockran said softly. “Not any more.”
Cockran‘s knee was firmly in the middle of Smythe‘s back and, having relieved him of his weapon, Cockran looked around. Blood was everywhere, a vivid contrast to the white kitchen uniforms. The second gunman was dead. Four or five other kitchen staff were down as well, all having been hit by wild shots or ricochets. Tommy McBride didn‘t have a scratch on him, as he stood there between two LAPD detectives, his hands handcuffed behind him.
Cockran lifted Smythe to his feet but ignored the demand that he return Smythe‘s weapon. Instead, Cockran handed it to Inspector Thompson. “This man was firing wildly, endangering the lives of others. Winston and Robert, how badly hurt are they?”
“I‘ll bloody well be fine as soon as this giant Scot allows me up.” Churchill growled.
“Sorry, sir,” Rankin responded, unfolding his long frame and standing up.
Churchill stood up, dusted himself off and turned to Inspector Thompson. “Tommy, you were right. I apologize,” Churchill said, as he shook Thompson‘s hand. “I thought these bloody bulletproof vests were as unnecessary as they were uncomfortable.”
Cockran heard Smythe‘s voice raised in anger behind him and he turned to see Smythe and two of his men engaged in an argument with the LAPD detectives over who was to take custody of McBride. Cockran motioned for Inspector Thompson to join him.
“See here, my good man,” Smythe said. “The attack took place on American soil but it was a Member of Parliament against whom the assault was directed. I‘m with British intelligence and I must insist that you turn this man over to us for interrogation.”
“Well, I suppose I don‘t see any harm,” the American detective began to say.
Cockran watched Thompson put a hand on Smythe‘s shoulder, “David, you‘ve done enough damage. You and your men return to your rooms. We will discuss this all later.”
Smythe started to protest, but Thompson turned away from him and flashed his badge at the detective. “Scotland Yard. Inspector Thompson and Detective Sergeant Rankin. We are in charge of Mr. Churchill‘s security. Would you mind terribly if we questioned this man for a few moments? You‘re welcome to join us. We‘ll be in room 412.”
“Gee, you‘re Scotland Yard? Well, of course, Inspector, be my guest. I‘ll tell my captain where you are as soon as he arrives.”
66.
No Loose Ends
Los Angeles
Friday, 23 August 1929
4:00 p.m.
The Graf Zeppelin floated gently inside the large circle, the mooring mast at its center, the afternoon sun highlighting its shimmering silver skin. Within the great ship, its crew were all busily engaged in pre-lift off operations. The ship‘s passengers were gathered in the airport departure lounge, the bus to take them out to the airship idling quietly in front of the lounge.
Not all of the passengers waited expectantly in the lounge for departure. Two of them were already on board, seated at a table in the ship‘s salon, talking quietly with a third man. It had been fifteen minutes since Ernst Lehman had sent word to the first officer that all pre-flight preparations had been completed. But the ship would not depart and the remaining passengers would continue cooling their heels until these men had finished.
“Nothing can be salvaged?” Zurich asked.
“Nothing. A complete loss,” Kurt von Sturm replied.
“But how could this happen? Who is responsible?”
“We assume it was British intelligence, the same crew that was at Wyntoon. But the American Cockran was with them.”
“How many men did we lose?”
“I only lost two. The rest were supplied by Manhattan.”
“And the Irish?” Zurich inquired.
Sturm shook his head. “Sadly, none. They weren‘t even there. I sent them away. For the first time in this mission when something went wrong, the Irish weren‘t responsible.”
Zurich picked up a crystal snifter of brandy in front of him, swirled its contents, and inhaled the fumes. “Two mistakes. First was Wyntoon. And now this. Can Geneva afford to give him any more opportunities to fail?”
“I don‘t understand,” Berlin said. “Who do you mean?”
Zurich replaced the snifter on the crisp white linen tablecloth and replied in a soft voice that caused the other man to lean forward to hear. “I think we all know who I mean.”
The white-haired banker then turned to Sturm. “Kurt, would either the disaster at Wyntoon or last night have occurred had there been competent security provided?”
“No, sir,” Sturm replied. “Both locations were eminently defendable.”
“If the decision were yours, my young friend, would you afford Manhattan the opportunity to make a third mistake?”
No, Sturm thought, but he knew the question was rhetorical. “That is not for me to say.”
“But you agree with me that Manhattan has failed?”
“Yes, Manhattan has failed,” Sturm replied.
A white-coated waiter silently entered and began to remove the empty glasses in front of the trio. Zurich turned his head to the waiter. “Tell Captain Lehman we need only ten minutes.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Now, Kurt,” Zurich said, turning back to Sturm, “the money. What about the money?”
“I cabled our executive secretary today that I had the releases. In a few hours, the double signature accounts will be closed, the funds transferred, all traces of their existence removed. De Valera can do nothing about it. If he complains to the authorities, the bank‘s hands are clean. They will tell them it must have been a swindle. Foreigners in Switzerland are so easily fooled.”
“And the bearer bonds delivered to McBride?” Zurich asked. “Where is he now? Where is the money?”
“I don‘t know. He was staying at the Hotel Cecil.”
“Find him. Find our money. I want it back.”
“As you wish,” Sturm said. “And Manhattan?”
Zurich paused a moment before responding. “I leave that to your judgment. But no loose ends. Tie them up.”
Sturm‘s exit from the airship acted as a signal. Fifteen minutes later, the passengers were all on board and the ground crew was walking the great ship back from the mooring mast. Minutes later, he heard the booming voice of Ernst Lehman as it carried over the tarmac. “Up ship!”
Sturm watched as the ground crew released their hold on the landing lines and the airship slowly began to rise, its Maybach engines driving it forward, the afternoon sun still sparkling over its silvery skin. Sturm thought of his father and the legendary name in airship circles which he had been forced to temporarily abandon. He smiled. He would take care of the loose ends as Zurich had ordered but his day was coming. Germany‘s day was coming. His success here in California had been everything he had hoped. Once he had attended to those loose ends, he could return to the fatherland. If things unfolded there as he had every reason to expect, he knew that one day he would reclaim the name of Kurt von Strasser; his beloved Germany once more would be a great nation; and his father would be proud. Of that, he was certain. Germany‘s revenge was that close to being within his grasp. Failure was not an option.
67.
I’ll Survive the Embarrassment
Santa Monica
Friday, 23 August 1929
7:00 p.m.
Mattie McGary watched from the open drawing room window as Philip Cromwell’s chauffeur-driven LaSalle pulled up in front of Marion Davies‘ mansion by the sea. He was in black tie and ignored his blonde companion sitting silently beside him and filling out a silvery gown, low cut in the front and undoubtedly the back as well. Mattie had a dress like that.
The Ocean House, as it was called, was located on Beach Palisades Road in Santa Monica. Owned by Marion Davies and built by Hearst, it was a white
, Georgian style three-story U-shaped structure, its broad front facing the Pacific Ocean, a towering, palm tree-topped cliff to the rear of the house. At 110 rooms, it was the largest beach house in California. Its fifty-five bedroom suites looked out on the Pacific through eighteen two-story high Ionic columns. Beside the house was a one hundred ten foot long fresh water swimming pool, lined with marble and spanned by a Venetian-style bridge in the middle. Nearby were over a thousand lockers for guests. When it came to his mistress—whom he loved dearly—Hearst spared no expense.
“He‘s here, Chief,” Mattie said over her shoulder as she watched the unfolding scene.
Cromwell‘s chauffeur held the door open and boldly stared at the blonde‘s nearly exposed breasts as she and Cromwell stepped out of the LaSalle and walked across the gravel path to the mansion‘s entrance where another servant opened the door. “Good evening, sir.”
Mattie hurried to the drawing room door, not wanting to miss any of the drama. She peeked out carefully. Sure enough, the self-assured Cromwell handed his hat to the butler without stopping, and proceeded in the opposite direction from Mattie down the black marble hallway toward the wood-paneled dining room and the adjacent reception room where cocktails were being served. Cromwell had been in those rooms many times before but, Mattie thought, never again, you pompous bastard. You almost got my new boyfriend killed.
“Excuse me, sir,” the butler said. “Mr. Hearst asked that you join him in the drawing room.” Cromwell stopped and looked back. Mattie could see a frown on his face. He told his companion to proceed without him and he turned to follow the butler who said, “This way, sir.”
Mattie hurried into position as the butler opened both doors to the drawing room and stood aside while Cromwell walked in. “Mr. Cromwell is here, sir,” the butler announced.
Mattie saw Cromwell frown again when he saw her beside Hearst. She was wearing a high-necked, backless green silk gown, champagne flute in one hand, the other casually resting on Hearst‘s shoulder.
Hearst turned and greeted Cromwell warmly in his high-pitched voice. “Philip. How good to see you. Mattie and I are working on the first edition for Monday’s Herald-Examiner. Galleys are on the table. I think you‘ll find them interesting.”
Cromwell walked over to the wide mahogany trestle table upon which were spread out a montage of photographs. There were a series of photographs of last night‘s fire at the Long Beach warehouse. Below that were a series of photographs which were obviously the interior of a warehouse including several telephoto lens close-ups of weapons being loaded into a boxcar. Underneath the warehouse photos were ones of Cromwell himself, several in white tie and tails, taken at a charity ball in New York last spring. Others were of Cromwell in hunting attire, riding to the hounds.
Then, at the far end of the table, Cromwell saw the galley of the front page whose headline in bold black type said it all. “Merchant of Death.” In smaller type below that: “Wall Street Financier Exposed.” Below that, in smaller type, “Mastermind Under Federal Investigation for Mail and Wire Fraud.”
Mattie saw the blood drain from his face. He turned on Hearst, fury in his voice. “You can‘t do this. Publish this libel and my lawyers will sue you for every penny you‘re worth.”
“Don‘t be tiresome, Philip. I have lawyers too. You’re forgetting one important fact.”
“What‘s that?”
“I buy ink by the barrel. While your lawyers are busy filing papers in court, my newspapers across the country will be demanding, on a daily basis, your indictment for mail and wire fraud. There‘s bound to be a U.S. Attorney somewhere in the country eager to use your scalp as a political stepping stone. In fact, I bet there‘ll be a lot more than one.”
“You wouldn‘t dare. Those were your bank accounts. I‘ll swear it was all your idea.”
Hearst chuckled. “I think the papers Mr. Cockran found at Wyntoon ought to persuade the authorities you‘re lying, if it ever gets that far. But I don’t see that it needs to go that far. I’m a reasonable man, Philip, and while I‘ll sell a lot of newspapers with this “Merchant Of Death” story and your subsequent prosecution,” Hearst said, gesturing to the galley on the library table, “it won‘t make up for how much you cheated me during the past five years.”
Hearst gestured toward one of the leather armchairs that sat in the corner of the oak-paneled room. “Have a seat, Philip. We have much to discuss.
“I made a mistake in hiring you, Philip,” Hearst said. “I realize that now. Nevertheless, as with all the people who work for me in critical positions, I keep careful track of their financial situation. You have been no exception. I‘ve had my accountant reviewing in the past few days all of your transactions on my behalf since 1924. There is, he believes, at least $10 million unaccounted for. Here,” Hearst said, handing him a manila folder that was laying on the small table between them, “are his findings. Check them out. I believe you‘ll find it all in order.”
Cromwell opened the folder and quickly scanned its contents. He tossed the folder back on the table between them. “Your accountant‘s crazy. I‘ve only taken the commissions we agreed upon. They‘re nowhere near $10 million. Look, W.R., you can hire lawyers. I can hire lawyers. But in the end, it won‘t get us anywhere. Tell me what you want.”
Hearst gave Cromwell a genial smile. “My money back. That‘s all. Plus a small penalty, naturally. What I believe the lawyers call ‘punitive damages.‘”
“How much?”
“Here,” Hearst said, “is a detailed, itemized financial statement for you through the market‘s close today. Underneath it is a document I‘ve had my lawyers draw up between us.”
Hearst had shown Mattie all the documents earlier. She was surprised that Hearst could so easily accumulate so much knowledge about Cromwell‘s holdings. Even the numbered account he held at a bank in Switzerland. She waited while Cromwell picked up the settlement agreement and release that Hearst‘s lawyers drafted. The “Whereas” clauses alone ran for four pages, documenting not only his thefts from Hearst but the role he played allowing Hearst‘s art accounts to be used to launder IRA funds for arms purchases. She smiled. The Chief was taking everything! Stocks, bonds, real estate. Cromwell would have almost nothing left.
Cromwell looked up at Hearst. “I won‘t do it. I can‘t do it. You don‘t understand....”
Hearst wasn‘t smiling now. “I understand, Philip, only too well that you tried to cheat me and now you‘re going to pay. Actually, I think I‘m treating you quite well. Your country place in Long Island. Your town house on Park Avenue. The stocks you hold on margin. They‘re all yours to keep. If you‘re as good as everyone says you are, you‘ll be back on top in no time.”
Hearst lifted his bulky frame from the chair and walked over to a writing desk, picked up a fountain pen, unscrewed its cap as he walked back toward Cromwell, and thrust it at him. “Your last chance, Philip. Sign the papers now or this story runs,” he said, gesturing to the black headlines and the silent scream they carried of the end of Cromwell‘s life as he knew it.
“I‘ll survive the embarrassment,” Hearst said. “I don‘t think you will.”
“You don‘t understand. I‘ve worked my whole life to escape the shadow of my father‘s scandal. This will leave me less than he had when he leaped…” Cromwell paused and caught himself. “When he died. Do you know how long it took me to do that? To have a net worth higher than his? 1920! You‘re crazy! You expect me to throw that all away?”
“Yes,” Hearst replied, holding out a pen. “Sign.”
Reluctantly, a sullen Cromwell took the proffered pen from Hearst. The scratching sound of the thick nib when it moved across the heavy paper was deafening as Philip Dru Cromwell IV left his name behind on five separate pages of the twenty-page document, the only evidence of the last twenty-two years of his life, his net worth now less than his father‘s in 1907. Hearst had made it clear to Mattie that such had been his intent in determining his “punitive damages”.
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Cromwell rose from his chair and folded his copy of the long legal document in half and then in half again. He stuffed it inside his dinner jacket. Suddenly, he appeared to have difficulty breathing, even though Mattie could feel the breeze from the Pacific Ocean.
“Are you quite all right, Philip?” Hearst asked, concerned. “Should I call for a doctor?”
“No, I‘ll be fine,” Cromwell muttered. “I‘ll show myself out.”
“As you prefer, Philip,” Hearst replied. “Do have a pleasant evening.”
Hearst turned to Mattie and extended his arm. “Shall we go into to dinner, my dear? I believe I may even join you in a cocktail. Or possibly two. A celebration is certainly in order. And in our absence, I‘m certain that Marion has already exceeded her quota for the night.
Hearst paused for a moment and then continued. “I do love her so much, you know, and I worry about how much she drinks. You two are nearly the same age. You don‘t suppose you could talk to her about it? She might take it better from a contemporary.”
Mattie leaned up and kissed the older man on his cheek. “Chief, I love you and all you‘ve done for me and my career.” She stopped and laughed. “But I‘m a Scot; I drink too much myself; and you don‘t pay me enough to do something as dangerous as carrying a message to one of the two women in your life. Don‘t worry about Marion. She is one tough cookie, a hell of an actress and an even better businesswoman. Just keep finding her juicy parts. If you ever see her drinking affect her acting, then tell her so. I don‘t think she‘ll take it badly. She loves you too and you‘ll never meet a more loyal person.”
Hearst bent over and kissed Mattie on the forehead. “Except perhaps you, my dear. Now let‘s go celebrate before Winston drinks all my champagne. The man‘s capacity is astonishing.”
9:00 p.m.
The DeValera Deception Page 34