“How is Earl? In fine form? Man loves to talk.”
“He thinks the world of you.”
“I did him one act of kindness and he did the rest.”
“Nice of you after sending him to San Quentin.”
Dash said sharply, “He sent himself to San Quentin. That liquor store didn’t rob itself.”
“Right. I guess not.”
“And it was the Bureau of Investigation when I was there. Didn’t become the FBI until 1935.”
“He said you worked with Eliot Ness. Is that true?”
“It is. But Ness worked with a lot of guys. I was just one of them.”
“Didn’t he take down Ma Barker, Dillinger and Machine Gun Kelly, and folks like that? Were you in on that, too?”
“Ancient history, Archer.”
“Why’d you leave?”
“I had my reasons.”
“So then you went to Frisco to be a cop?”
“A detective,” corrected Dash. “I grew up on the West Coast and wanted to get back here.”
“So why the shamus route?”
“I don’t like following orders, particularly if they’re lousy ones. And I like being my own boss. But enough about me, Archer, how’d you find the joint?”
“It wasn’t so different from being in the Army, actually. And I was innocent, if that makes a difference to you.”
Dash sipped his Beam, and slowly shook his head. “Were you tried and convicted?”
“No, I did a deal. Otherwise, they were going to throw the book at me.”
“Then you were guilty?”
“You think all men who do a deal are guilty?”
“Of course I don’t. Just as I know that all men who are tried and convicted aren’t guilty. But it’s the only system we have. Fact is, I’m not concerned with the past, Archer, yours or mine. I look toward the future.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“With a possibility, nothing more and nothing less.” He bent over and worried at the hole in his sock, tucking the little toe out of sight before straightening. “What do you know about the detective business?”
“What Lieutenant Shaw taught me.”
“Which was?”
“Listen, ask questions, don’t believe anything is true unless you can corroborate it, and don’t trust anyone.”
He nodded approvingly. “That’s a good start. Irv knows his way around an investigation, that’s for sure. He said in his letter that you saved his life.”
“He did the same for me.”
“And you have a good war record.”
“I did my bit.”
“Care to talk about it?”
“No.”
He nodded approvingly again. “I fought in the First World War, the one that was supposed to end any future ones, right? Basically living in holes and only climbing out of them when the Army felt it had to show it was doing something, giving folks their money’s worth, so to speak.” He slapped his right leg. “Got some metal here they never took out. But I was one of the lucky ones. Left a lot of good buddies back there.”
“I can understand that,” said Archer, sipping his drink and letting it go down as slow as possible.
“What else?” asked Dash.
“That fingerprints can do a man in and the police check for that. That honest people lie all the time when they’re in a jam. And that sometimes it’s the last person you suspect who did the deed.”
Dash put his glass down, sat forward so his toes were touching the planks once more, and said, “Now, this possibility I’m talking about.”
Archer hunched forward and settled in to listen.
The buzzer on the desk phone sounded off like a warning shot across the bow.
Dash moved across the space with surprising speed and snatched up the phone. He listened for a moment and said, “Give me one minute, hon.”
He put the phone down, stepped into his brown wingtips, which were set next to his desk, and rapidly put his collar and bow tie in place before slipping on his jacket and pinching his cheeks. Next he opened a desk drawer, slipped out something hairy, squirted on its underside something wet from a bottle on his desk, and then plopped a black toupee on the top of his bald head. He fussed over it in the slanted shaving mirror on his desk until he came away satisfied with the look. To Archer the thing looked like a baby skunk without a stripe.
“Put the Beam away in that cabinet over there, Archer, and hoist up the bed.”
Archer quickly did so and said, “What’s up, Mr. Dash?”
“The possibility, Archer, the possibility has just walked in the door.”
Chapter 21
THE DOOR OPENED AND THERE appeared Morrison looking breathless from her three-foot walk from desk to door. She stepped to the side and said, “Mr. Douglas Kemper and Mr. Wilson Sheen.”
Two men walked past her and into the room. She hastily closed the door, but Archer did not hear her trademark heel clatter going away. He glanced at Dash, who was staring at the door and apparently thinking the very same thing.
Dash moved slowly across the room to greet the men. Where he had been frenetic seconds before, Archer could see the man was now all cool, calm, and as collected as a preacher about to dispense an easy dose of religion and then follow that up with an ask for money.
“Gentlemen,” he said, shaking their hands. He motioned to the sitting area across from his desk. “Please, sit. Would you like something to drink? Coffee, tea?”
Both men shook their heads, dutifully marched across the room, reached Archer, and stood there, each sizing him up.
Dash said, “This is my associate, Mr. Archer. Just in town from working with the police in another state on a very important investigation. His former boss there is a good friend of mine and a fine police investigator. Archer will be truly helpful to me in this matter. And his discretion is legendary.”
Archer returned his attention to Kemper and Sheen, looking them over as he shook their hands. Kemper was in his late thirties, an inch shorter than Archer, trim, good-looking, and well groomed. Elegant was the descriptive term that came to Archer. His shoulders were narrow and his hips narrower still. His grip was a dishrag clench—whether that was for Archer’s benefit or the man did that with everyone, Archer didn’t know. He had a dark pencil mustache that matched his hair, which was slicked and parted and rode on his head like a flat crown. His eyes were green and his manner seemed bored, as though what he was here for held no particular interest.
He was dressed immaculately in a dark blue double-breasted worsted wool suit framing a starched gray shirt so sparkling it looked like liquid chrome. His muted red-and-blue-striped tie was double knotted and held against his throat by a gold collar pin. He looked soft but maybe wasn’t, was Archer’s conclusion.
Wilson Sheen was a different sort altogether. He was around five-eight and overweight with a bulging gut that preceded him everywhere. He had broad shoulders and hips to match. His suit was light brown, single-breasted, with a dim blue shirt and a dark brown tie that rode uncomfortably against his meaty neck like a tree leaning into a hurricane. His pants were cuffed and pleated, and his shoes were scuffed fore and aft. His manner was as intense as Kemper’s was indifferent. His ice-blue eyes raked across Archer. He drew in his nostrils like a scent dog. Archer took an instant dislike to the man and then reprimanded himself. What would Irving Shaw say? Let it play out. Don’t judge on emotion. Let the facts rule.
Both men dropped their fedoras on the table and sat down.
Dash and Archer joined them.
Dash said, “Everyone in Bay Town knows who you are, Mr. Kemper. But for the sake of my new associate understanding things, perhaps you could start from the very beginning.”
Kemper did not appear to like this suggestion, but he glanced at Sheen, who nodded in agreement. Kemper took out a gold cigarette case and pulled a gold-tipped cigarette from it. Sheen instantly lighted it with a gold-plated beauty of an ignitor that was stamped with a nam
e that to Archer looked French.
Golden boy all around, maybe.
Kemper primed his smoke, sucked in a long one, and let it gush out both nostrils like steam from a train coming right at Archer. In a smooth, bored voice he said, “It’s like this, Archer. I’m running for mayor of Bay Town. Wilson is my right-hand man in my business and is also my campaign manager. I was chairman of the town council for two years and was content with that, but a number of very smart, important people asked me to consider running for mayor, and I decided to do just that. We’re growing fast, and a steady hand is needed to manage that growth. Otherwise it can get out of whack.”
“And we don’t need a dentist in charge,” chimed in Sheen.
While Kemper’s voice was silk, Sheen’s was like a bulldozer. It banged off all four walls of the office and fell on them like mustard gas.
“Yes, well,” said Kemper, tapping ash into a blue ashtray set on the table. “As far as personal history, I married into a very prominent family, the Armstrongs. My wife is Beth Armstrong Kemper.”
When Archer made no reply to this, Dash said, “For generations the Armstrong family dominated the cattle business around here, which made money hand over fist. They were astute enough to get out of it before the whole industry went down to nothing, and they used those funds to basically invest in and expand Bay Town, a large part of which they still own. Sawyer Armstrong is Beth’s father and the richest man in town.”
“I drove down Sawyer Avenue coming into town,” noted Archer.
Kemper blew smoke to the ceiling as he crossed his legs, showing off canary yellow socks, and swished his tasseled loafer like a leather metronome. “Sawyer loves to make his presence felt wherever he can. Naming the best and most beautiful boulevard in the town after himself was one way to do that. Hell, I’m surprised we’re not called Sawyerville or Armstrongburg. If I win the election he might just insist I do it.”
Archer continued to watch as Sheen touched Kemper’s sleeve and shot his boss a look of caution.
Kemper said, in a more controlled tone that would work well on the political stump, “He’s really made this place what it is, I have to give him that. We’re not always on the same page about what direction the town should go in now, but that’s to be expected. But I value his opinion.”
“And the matter that has brought you here?” said Dash.
Kemper glanced at Sheen before lighting another cigarette, this time with his own lighter. He took so long doing it that Archer could have rolled two of his own and smoked them both down. Kemper was apparently a man used to taking his time and used to people allowing him to do it, thought Archer.
“Yes, well, this must remain confidential, of course.”
“Once the retainer is signed and money exchanged, privilege attaches,” said Dash. “I’ve already communicated my rates to you.”
Kemper gave him a once-over sneer. “Look, Willie, you’ll get your damn money, all right? Don’t put the squeeze on me from the get-go. It affronts my sensibilities, to the extent that I have any left. It’s a damn nuisance that I have to do this at all. It’s ridiculous, in fact, but I have been persuaded that it’s in my interests to do so.”
“By the very important, smart people,” noted Archer.
Kemper turned his gaze to him and smiled. “It’s difficult to say no to such influence.”
Dash said, “I’m sure I’ll get the money, Mr. Kemper. As privilege attaches at that time. But that doesn’t get us to the heart of the problem. You came here to ask us to help you get answers, solve your dilemma. The money obviously is secondary to that. Or am I being off base?”
Archer eyed Kemper and saw the hostility fade in the latter’s eyes.
Kemper said, “No, you’re doing okay.” He impatiently stubbed out his newly lit smoke. “Well, let me get to the point then, gentlemen. I received this in the mail.” He took an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to Dash. Archer slid closer so he could read it as well.
“There was no return address and no signature, of course,” added Kemper.
It wasn’t a long letter, and after both men read it, Dash looked up and said, “Okay, we’re talking blackmail. If you don’t drop out of the race for mayor, details of an affair between you and a Miss Ruby Fraser who works at Midnight Moods will be made public.” He glanced at Archer. “That’s the burlesque place on the edge of town.”
“Yeah, I heard of it. I have a friend who might try to get a job there.”
Dash gave him a puzzled look. “You make friends fast, Archer.”
“She actually drove out here with me.”
“Right,” said Dash before turning to Kemper. “Do you know this Miss Fraser?”
“I know her.”
“How well?”
“Not nearly as well as they claim in the letter.”
“So no affair?” said Dash.
“No.”
“If there’s no truth to it, why worry?” said Archer.
Kemper snapped, “Because the damage will be done. I’ll get creamed in the election. Women can vote, Archer. And they won’t vote for an alleged philanderer.”
Dash interjected, “So our means of attacking this sucker are limited but they’re still there.”
Kemper sat back. “And pray tell, what might those be?”
Sheen interjected, “You’re not going to suggest paying off the blackmailer?”
“There’s no such thing as paying off a blackmailer,” replied Dash. “They just keep coming back. You might as well open a bank account for them to access.”
“So, what then?” asked Kemper.
“Any idea who’s behind this?” asked Dash.
“I might have some ideas.”
“Then let us have them.”
“What would you do with that information?” asked Sheen quickly.
“Both sides can play the game,” said Dash.
“Meaning?” said Kemper sharply, his indifferent manner vanishing.
Archer piped in, “Meaning you fight fire with fire. If what they say about you isn’t true but is still potentially damaging, then the same holds for them.”
“And if their reputation means nothing to them?” inquired Kemper.
“Easy to say, another to endure,” replied Dash.
Kemper tap-tapped his ash. “Okay. We can provide you with a list later this afternoon. Once we put it together I’ll have Wilson send it over. It will be a short one probably, and there’s no guarantee that the real culprit is on there.”
“It’s still a good place to start,” said Dash. “But you have to be prepared for them making this public if you don’t pay, or if blackmail is not their intent.”
“You mean, they might just want to smear Douglas and make him lose the election?” suggested Sheen.
“Maybe,” said Dash, keeping his gaze on Kemper.
The man sat forward, his brow furrowed. “Look, Willie, the last thing I want is for my wife to find out about this garbage in some cheap paper. She’s just recovering from an illness. She doesn’t need this on top of it.”
“What illness? I hadn’t heard.”
“Appendicitis. She had an operation. In fact, the doc in this building performed it. He handles the whole family.”
“Right. O’Donnell. He’s very good. It’s always surprised me he’s stayed here. He makes enough money to rent on the other side of Sawyer Ave. I hope she’s going to be okay.”
“She will. Beth’s strong. But this won’t help.”
“We’ll do all we can to keep it under wraps.”
A moment later there was a knock at the door, and Morrison entered with a sheaf of pages.
“Mr. Kemper,” said Dash, eyeing Morrison. “You can sign off on the retainer, get your duplicate copy, and then leave the check with Miss Morrison. And we can get to work.”
“The election is in four weeks,” Sheen told him.
Dash offered up a smile. “Then, by God, we haven’t a moment to waste.”
K
emper rose and joined Morrison over at the desk where he signed the papers, as did Dash. Archer came over to stand next to the desk. Kemper took his duplicate copy and passed it over to Sheen, who had risen and joined him. It was Sheen who took out a checkbook and made out the retainer check in the amount of one thousand dollars, signing it with a flourish. He handed it to Dash.
Archer saw that it was drawn on an account in the name of “Kemper for Mayor.”
Dash said, “Expenses are of course separate, and will be itemized and sent to you regularly.”
Kemper glanced at Dash and then at Archer. “Oh, joy. I wish you both luck in this endeavor.”
He and Sheen picked up their hats and left.
Dash turned to Morrison, passed her the check, and said urgently, “Okay, hon, carry that down to the bank and get it deposited ASAP. Then go over the list of outstanding bills, prioritize and whittle, stiff who you can, and negotiate the must-pays down as best you can. In the future I’ll need credit, and this is where I build it back up.”
Morrison nodded, glanced anxiously at Archer, and hurriedly left. A few moments later Archer heard the office door open and close.
Dash plucked a briarwood pipe from a stand on his desk, stuffed it with tobacco pulled from a pouch in his desk drawer, and took a moment to light it, puffing thoughtfully. He settled back on the davenport and glanced at Archer.
“Well?” asked Dash.
Archer said, “A dentist in charge? What did Sheen mean by that?”
“Kemper’s running against a fellow named Alfred Drake, who’s a dentist. But he’s no dummy. And Drake’s been on the town council for years. He knows the difference between floating a water bond and filling up a pool with water.”
“Nice of Kemper to provide a list of possible suspects.”
Dash lit his pipe again and sucked on the end to prime it. “The list, if we get it, will be worthless. He’ll put on there anyone he has a grudge against, hoping we can find dirt on them, whether it has anything to do with the election or not.”
“But if the truth won’t set Kemper free, what will?”
“I’ll tell you what, Archer, for a thousand bucks plus expenses, we will.” Dash stood and said, “Now, follow me.”
A Gambling Man Page 12