The DeValera Deception
Page 35
The peroxide blonde whimpered silently in the corner of the large rear compartment of the LaSalle, lights from passing street lamps highlighting the silver satin of her evening dress and a single quivering naked breast which had erupted from the plunging neckline when Cromwell had forcibly grabbed her bare shoulders and thrust her hard into the padded leather door.
“Daphne! If you mention one more time that I made you leave Hearst‘s dinner party when you were seated next to Douglas Fairbanks, I‘ll rip the rest of that goddam dress off and let you out right here! Then you can walk home naked or fuck the first taxi driver who‘ll give you a ride. Either one shouldn‘t be a new experience for you. Now shut up and let me think.”
Once away from Hearst, Cromwell‘s confidence returned. Hearst couldn‘t do this to him. Cromwell knew too much about Hearst’s empire and his political plans. There had to be a way to turn this around, he thought. There must be a way. Cromwell mentally sifted through the important people he knew in Washington; the ones who owed him favors. It was no use. He knew publishers, but none were as big as Hearst. He knew politicians, but none who could touch Hearst. He knew the goddamn President, for Christ‘s sake, but Hoover had nothing to give that Hearst wanted. Most of Hearst‘s wealth was tied up in land and the natural resources under it. California, Mexico, South America, England. Everything else was tied up in his publishing empire. Newspapers, magazines, radio stations, newsreels. Hearst didn‘t need access to markets abroad or protection from foreign competition at home. Hearst was untouchable.
But wait, he thought, maybe not. Cromwell was a member, still the only American member, of the Geneva Institute for Industrial and Scientific Progress. That was it. The Geneva Group! That was the answer. Hearst had many interests abroad. Potentially vulnerable interests if the proper authorities could be influenced. Or, if necessary, eliminated and replaced. The last ten years had not been wasted! Hearst would be no match for Geneva. Equally important, Kurt von Sturm and three of his men were still in Los Angeles. They also were staying at the Hollywood Roosevelt. Sturm had told him after the zeppelin reception that he and his men were not leaving Southern California until later in the week. His men wanted to meet movie stars.
Excellent! Cromwell felt much better. He had a plan. It was a good plan. He felt in control now. Back in charge. It was his game again. He knew from broad hints Zurich had dropped in their conversations that Kurt von Sturm was an assassin as well as the Geneva Group’s executive director. And an assassin was exactly what he needed. If Sturm did not think that this was an operation which Geneva would approve, then Cromwell would commission it personally. Sturm was in his thirties. What man his age could say no to $1 million? Maybe he should arrange to see Sturm tonight. If Hearst could be killed in the next 24 hours, perhaps Sturm could even recover Hearst‘s copy of the agreement. If Sturm could do that for him, it would certainly be worth more than $1 million. Yes, he would see Sturm tonight.
Cromwell looked over at Daphne. She was no longer whimpering, breathing evenly and deeply through her open mouth, asleep from too much alcohol, her breast still exposed. She looked sexy. Just as soon as he was finished with her, he would see Kurt von Sturm.
Cromwell liked being in control. Back in his suite at the Hollywood Roosevelt, he fortified that feeling with the blonde starlet. Daphne had forgiven his earlier violence when he dropped the names of several Hollywood producer clients of his to whom he promised an introduction and placed a $500 bill within her gown‘s plunging neckline. After that, she had been content to let him do whatever he liked. As if he gave her or any woman a choice.
Daphne was naked now and kneeling before him. Cromwell stood looming over her, one big hand holding her blonde hair tight, the other fondling a breast as he jerked her head forward and back, forcing her to take him inside her mouth again and again until at last she brought him to a finish. Cromwell pushed her away and Daphne stood up, coughing and gasping for breath. “Go clean yourself up,” Cromwell said, slapping her squarely on her bare bottom, watching his red handprint slowly fade as she walked away.
Cromwell was wearing a white terrycloth robe with the monogram of the Hollywood Roosevelt. He tied it loosely around his waist and retrieved the snifter of brandy from the night table. He picked up his latest personal financial statement, the one that no longer accurately represented his wealth after that pirate Hearst had finished blackmailing him. He picked up the telephone and had the switchboard connect him to Sturm’s room but after ten long rings, the operator returned to tell him what was fucking obvious. Room 737 wasn‘t answering. Damn!
Cromwell slammed the receiver down, walked into the sitting room and refilled his glass, his back to the French doors leading to a small balcony. The doors were open. He was momentarily puzzled. He could not recall opening them. He walked over to the doors and, feeling the gentle breeze of the warm night, walked outside and rested his hand on the waist-high balcony. It was a cloudless night, the stars a vivid contrast to the black of the sky, the lights of Hollywood stretched out before him. It would all be his once more. Yes, all he had to do was find Kurt von Sturm and he would be back. Where he belonged. In control.
“Beautiful night, is it not, Manhattan?”
The voice startled Cromwell and he attempted to keep his hands steady as he turned, but the rolling contents of the crystal snifter gave him away. Kurt von Sturm was off to his left, sitting in a chair at the end of the suite‘s balcony, some twenty feet away.
“Von Sturm. I didn‘t know you were there,” Cromwell said as he turned to face Sturm. “But why are you here? What...what do you want?” Cromwell stammered.
“Your resignation,” Sturm responded, holding up a copy of the Hearst agreement. “Interesting document I found on the desk in the sitting room.”
“You can‘t be serious! You don‘t have the authority. I demand to see Zurich or Berlin. ”
Cromwell watched as Sturm got up from the chair and moved behind him towards the French doors, placing himself between Cromwell and any exit from the balcony.
“I‘m afraid that‘s quite out of the question. The Hearst agreement speaks for itself.”
“Wait! You don‘t understand! I have a job for you. I need you to kill someone for me. I can make you a very wealthy man. Very wealthy.”
Sturm laughed. “I don‘t think so, Manhattan. That‘s the trouble with you Americans. You assume everyone else thinks as you do. That money is as important to them as it is to you. The world doesn‘t work that way. Some things are more important than money. Maybe one day America will learn that. Just as you are about to learn it tonight.”
“But…where‘s Daphne?” Cromwell asked, his voice breaking.
“I gave her a small gratuity and asked her to give us some privacy. She seemed most eager to leave.” Sturm smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. “We are quite alone, Manhattan. Trust me, this won‘t take long.” he said, pulling a Luger from his jacket and casually screwing a sound suppressor into its barrel.
Cromwell panicked. “Oh my God!” he said and dashed for the door, but Sturm was too quick for him and hit him a glancing blow to the head with the Luger‘s butt which stunned him and knocked him to the ground. Cromwell almost lost consciousness but he could feel Sturm above him. Then he felt Sturm lifting him by his armpits and pulling him over to the balcony. The loosely tied terrycloth robe opened and he could feel a breeze on his naked body beneath. His dazed mind couldn‘t quite grasp what was happening until he felt Sturm‘s strong hands fold him face first over the balcony railing. His mind was clearing now and he realized what Sturm was doing. Too late, much too late, he started to resist. He felt Sturm grasp his kneecaps and lift him up and over the balcony and out into space. Cromwell was wide awake now and flailed his arms helplessly as a scream erupted from his throat and he felt the robe slip off as he fell, his body twisting in mid-flight so that he could see the green concrete around the hotel pool rushing up to greet him. Cromwell flailed his arms and legs, trying to reach the water. He d
idn‘t.
Sturm heard the sickening sound of Cromwell‘s skull hitting the concrete and looked down at the naked body sprawled face down ten stories below. A pool of blood was spreading around his head. He knew, from years of similar experience, that he had only minutes left to leave Cromwell‘s suite. He went to the desk in the sitting room and scrawled, in a practiced hand identical to Cromwell‘s, a last message from Philip Dru Cromwell IV on a thick sheet of cream-colored Hollywood Roosevelt stationery: “I leave to rejoin my father. He will understand what I have had to do.”
68.
I Was Only Following Orders
Hollywood
Saturday, 24 August 1929
8:30 a.m.
The sling was back on Cockran‘s left arm and he could feel the pain through the four aspirin he had taken thirty minutes earlier. The hotel‘s physician had warned him sternly not to engage in any more strenuous physical activity. As a result, he had spent a chaste night in bed with Mattie, sleeping soundly. A room service breakfast was spread out before them.
“Did you read The Examiner this morning?” Mattie asked with a broad smile.
“Yes, I did,” Cockran replied. “I appreciate my name not being mentioned. Until Donovan can clear that warrant up in New York, I‘d just as soon not draw attention to myself.”
“No, not that story. The one on page four. About Philip Cromwell.”
“What about Cromwell?”
“Here, look for yourself,” Mattie said, handing him the paper. “He jumped off a tenth floor balcony. Like father, like son, I‘d say, except the story won‘t play as big as his father‘s death. The attempted assassination of a prominent British statesman tends to push other stories off the front page. Plus, he didn‘t take a naked blonde mistress over the side with him.”
“You saw him last night,” Cockran said. “Did Cromwell appear suicidal to you?”
“Not especially,” Mattie replied. “Cromwell didn‘t look happy. But not suicidal.”
“It‘s a pity that Hearst was too embarrassed by the use of his art accounts to run that “Merchant of Death” story.” Cockran paused and then grinned. “Are you certain Hearst had nothing to do with the arms deal? Cromwell‘s death certainly looks suspicious.....”
Cockran ducked as Mattie threw a piece of toast at him. “Give it a rest, Cockran! I can always arrange for a story in the Examiner letting the NYPD know exactly where to find you. Besides, with Cromwell dead, the Chief says we‘ll run the story.”
There was a knock on the door. Motioning him to stay seated, Mattie rose and walked over to the door and opened it to admit Robert Rankin. Mattie ordered another pot of tea from room service and the three of them took seats around the glass-topped coffee table.
“Did you have any luck with McBride?” Mattie asked. “I‘m surprised the Los Angeles Police allowed you and Inspector Thompson to take him away for questioning.”
“They were happy to do it,” Rankin replied. “They don‘t need a confession to convict him of attempted murder. They have plenty of witnesses. When they heard the other crimes about which we had suspicions, they told us to take as much time as we needed.”
“So have you learned anything?” Mattie asked.
“Alas, no. Inspector Thompson and I were not successful in learning anything new.”
Cockran narrowed his eyes as he felt a wave of cold displeasure. Noticing this, Rankin added, “My sentiments exactly. That‘s why last night around midnight we called Mr. O’Reilly and asked him if he and his associates would like a go at McBride.”
“I‘m surprised that Scotland Yard would turn a prisoner over to civilians.”
Rankin took a sip of tea from the porcelain cup. “They weren‘t civilians, sir. One of Mr. O’Reilly’s men is a part-time constable. Somewhere in the west of Ireland. Between Galway and Donegal. A small village, I believe. He even had a badge. Quite official looking.”
Mattie laughed. “And I thought you were such a boy scout. Have we learned anything?”
“I believe so. That‘s why I came up here. I just heard from Mr. O’Reilly. He said that McBride had a number of things to tell us which we would find most interesting.”
McBride’s eyes were nearly swollen shut. The shades of the fifth floor room in the hotel were closed against the morning sun. McBride was sitting on a straight-backed chair, his ankles tied to each front leg, his hands bound firmly behind his back. His face was beginning to bruise and dried blood was congealed on his lower lip. Cockran inwardly winced when he saw the unmistakable mark of cigarette burns on McBride‘s upper torso, his flabby whiteness a vivid contrast to his flushed red face. McBride had been tortured.
Good, Cockran thought, as he watched Bobby Sullivan remove the gag from McBride, grab him by the hair and yank his head back.
“Tell them, Tommy! Tell us your story again.”
“It wasn‘t my fault. I swear it! There was a war on. I was only following orders,” McBride said through swollen lips. “That‘s all it ever was. Just following orders.”
“There‘s no fucking war on now, McBride,” Sullivan said as he cuffed him on the side of the head. “No excuses! Just tell us what happened. Tell us about John Devoy.”
McBride nodded. “It was me who killed him. Blackthorn told me to do it. Said that Devoy was a threat to our mission. I tried to talk him out of it. I told him that burning the newspaper offices was enough. He wouldn‘t listen to me. He made me do it.”
“Come on, McBride,” Sullivan said. “Mr. Cockran here might believe your confession was coerced. Tell him the details. Tell him when you did it. Tell him how.”
McBride did as he was told. The time, the place, the method of execution.
“There‘s a good lad,” Sullivan said as he turned to Cockran and handed him a document. “Here‘s an affidavit we had a stenographer type up for McBride to sign confessing to the murder of John Devoy. In case you need it to clear yourself in New York.”
Cockran thanked him, folded the document and placed it in his coat pocket.
Sullivan turned back to McBride. “Now the other part. Tell us about Nora Cockran.”
Sullivan stopped and turned to Mattie. “Miss, you might not want to stay for this next part.”
Mattie looked at Cockran, an unspoken question in her eyes. Cockran nodded a silent assent. “Thank you, Mr. Sullivan,” she said. “You are very kind, but I‘ll stay.”
“It wasn‘t my idea,” McBride protested. “It was all Blackthorn‘s idea on that too.”
“Who is Blackthorn?” Sullivan asked. “Mr. Cockran needs to know.”
“It‘s like I told you. He was one of our British informers during our fight with you Free Staters. He was someone Dev told me we could trust. Blackthorn was the one who gave us all the information for which banks to rob and when. That‘s how we came to rob the bank in Galway. He told me we had to send a message; make an example; let the Free Staters know the gloves were off. That even their women weren‘t safe. He gave us a list.”
Cockran was sorry he didn‘t have his revolver with him as he listened to McBride.
“The bank was easy. We could have knocked it over at any time. But Blackthorn had his men following Cockran‘s wife. Waiting for her to come to town. They knew she did her banking there. It was them who pointed her out to me. We were to take her hostage. She was at the top of the list. I swear I never laid eyes on her before then. It was nothing personal, only business. But we were only following Blackthorn’s orders. It wasn‘t our plan to kill her. If she hadn‘t been on Blackthorn‘s list, nothing would have happened to her.”
Cockran didn‘t know the two other Apostles in the room very well. They were both armed but he couldn‘t be sure they would lend him their weapons. Sullivan might. He had been brutal enough. O’Reilly, whose back was to Cockran as Sullivan continued questioning McBride, might do it for him as well. Cockran had heard all he needed to know. Perhaps he had time to slip back to his room and retrieve his own revolver before they finished.
“Blackthorn set that up, too. Not that I needed an excuse to kill Churchill, but it was an IRA operation all the way. Blackthorn knew all the codes. The same ones Dev gave me. I had my orders.”
No, Cockran decided, he couldn‘t leave now. He had to know. “Who is Blackthorn? What‘s his name?” Cockran asked.
O’Reilly turned away from McBride to face Cockran. “Don‘t worry about that, Bourke. It‘s right there in Mick‘s journals, the ones the Big Fellow instructed me to ship to your father if he were ever killed. If you knew his code, if you read them right, it‘s obvious. Mr. Churchill gave them to me yesterday to read. He told me he had a good idea of who it was but he wanted to see if I came to the same conclusion. I‘m to meet him for breakfast this morning and compare notes.”
“Who? Tell me!”
“David Brooke-Smythe. One of the men we didn‘t get on Bloody Sunday. The Big Fellow always thought someone had tipped him off.”
“Where is Smythe now?” Cockran asked Robert Rankin.
“Under arrest and handcuffed to his bed. Two of O’Reilly’s men are standing guard outside. I did that as soon as Joe told me. If I‘m wrong, Mr. Churchill can apologize but I‘m taking no chances.”
“Does Winston know about this?” Mattie asked.
“No, miss,” Rankin replied. “Inspector Thompson told me not to wake him. Told me Mr. Churchill can be quite cross when wakened early.”
“I don‘t care how cross he‘s going to be,” Mattie said. “He‘s going to be even more upset if we don‘t wake him. I‘ll go do it,” she said as she began to make her way out of the room.
Cockran watched as Mattie headed to the door. O’Reilly was facing him now so he quietly moved up behind Bobby Sullivan as the door closed behind Mattie. Sullivan must have sensed his presence, however, because he placed his hand firmly on one of his two Colt .45s as he turned to face Cockran and, wordlessly, took it from his waistband and handed him the weapon butt first.