I checked the time. Almost noon. I glanced at the building directory again and sighed. Whoever that guy was who’d visited Walt Cummings, he was gone. I shrugged. Not the first dead end in my life, and I was sure not the last.
Might as well go visit Shane O’Malley, I thought, and see what I can turn up. I sauntered back outside to the 4-Runner and headed out of downtown Denver.
***
Shane O’Malley lived in a large single-family home in Castle Pines Village, a ritzy community nineteen miles south of Denver. I decided not to call ahead, and as I drove into O’Malley’s subdivision, I hoped I would find him at home. I parked on the street and looked at his home. With its stucco and stone exterior, and tall pine and aspen trees in the yard, the house had a mountain feel to it. I walked up the driveway to a front door situated just off the driveway, then rang the bell and waited. A moment later, the door opened.
“Shane O’Malley?” I asked the gentleman standing in the doorway.
“Yes?” O’Malley was tall, with a round gut that hung over his waist. He wore plaid golf shorts, a yellow shirt, and a blue baseball cap.
I decided on the direct approach this time. “My name is Sam Spade,” I said. Since I was searching for a statue, as Spade had been in The Maltese Falcon, I figured the pseudonym was appropriate.
“Like the detective?”
Busted. “Yes,” I said. “Coincidentally, I’m a private investigator, too, and I’m looking into a cold case, and your grandfather’s name came up.”
“Which one?”
“Jack O’Malley.”
“I’m about to go out,” he said, “but I’ll give you a few minutes.”
Behind him, I could see a long hallway that led to a formal dining room at the other end of the house. However, he didn’t invite me into it.
“I understand that Mr. O’Malley worked for Powell Incorporated back in the 1950s.”
“That’s correct,” Shane said, his deep voice echoing around the high ceilings in the hallway. “Until the company went under.”
“That’s what I’d like to ask you about.” I leaned against the stone side of the house. “Why would a company that thrived for so long suddenly go under?”
“You’d have to ask Floyd Powell.”
“You know the name?”
He nodded. “My grandfather couldn’t stand the man. He cursed his name.”
I held up a hand. “Here’s the thing. Everything I read about Powell says he was a great guy, that he was involved in charitable causes and he was well-liked.”
“That’s what the public knew, but behind the scenes…”
“Behind the scenes, he was involved with the Mafia,” I finished.
Shane studied me for a moment. “That’s my understanding.”
“How do you know all this?”
He smiled. “I was curious about this man that my grandfather hated, so one time I just flat-out asked him about it. He sat me down and told me everything he knew.”
“Did Powell launder money for the Lucchese crime family?”
“I don’t know for which family, but yes, that’s what my grandfather believed. He found this out right before Powell died. And my grandfather was furious because Powell ruined my grandfather’s career and his finances.”
“How?”
“My grandfather had stock in the company, but Powell ran the company into the ground, so the stock was essentially worthless. My grandfather worked hard, for nothing, it turns out.”
“Was the Mafia taking all the money from Powell’s companies?”
He shrugged. “A lot of it, I think. Powell should’ve been fine, but by the mid-’50s, he was in a lot of trouble. My grandfather heard he had a lot of gambling debts, and he needed money. It was taking its toll because Granddad said Powell was angry and edgy, especially right before he died.”
“This case I’m working on involved Powell selling valuable pieces of art.”
“Well, I know my grandfather said Powell had quite a collection at one point. Apparently he talked about some of the pieces he bought, and those society guys around town would have parties and show off their art. My grandfather went to a couple of the parties. But by the time Powell died, he didn’t have any artwork left, so maybe he sold it all to pay for his gambling habit.”
“Interesting,” I said.
His eyebrows arched in curiosity. “What’s this case about?”
“In 1955, a private investigator was hired to see if Floyd Powell sold some artwork, and then claimed it was also stolen and made an insurance claim on it,” I said. “Did your grandfather mention a man named ‘Jay’? I don’t know if it’s a first or last name.”
Now his eyes widened in surprise. “As a matter of fact, yes. My grandfather told me that he overheard a conversation one time between Powell and Jay, but like you, I don’t know if it’s a first or last name. Anyway, Powell was talking about selling some items.”
“Art?”
“My grandfather thought it was inventory from one of the companies, but I guess it could’ve been art.”
“That conversation really stuck with your grandfather,” I said.
He nodded. “Granddad told me he remembered this Jay because the guy had a scar on his cheek, and he said the guy reminded him of Al Capone.”
“More Mafia connections,” I muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Anyway, this guy just didn’t seem to fit in with a man like Powell, with his high-society ways and the hoity-toity parties.”
Shane cleared his throat. “I hate to cut this off, but I need to go now.”
“Right.” I reached out and shook his hand. “Thanks for your time.”
“I hope it was helpful.”
“It was.”
Shane O’Malley shut the door and I walked slowly to the 4-Runner. It certainly looked as if Powell had sold the art pieces, but there was more to it, based on what Dewey had overheard while sitting in the Woolworths. Like who was the bearded man that Walt Cummings had met, and who was that man meeting later?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dewey Webb – 1955
I arrived at 1621 Pennsylvania at 8 P.M. Plenty of time to find a hiding place before Walt’s contact showed up at nine. The late August sun was melting down the sky, bathing the western horizon in purple and orange. The address was a large red-brick, two-story mansion that had been converted to offices. A brick wall enclosed a terrace that stretched across the front of the house. Two huge covered porches had archways, one in front and one on the north side, and a second-story covered balcony overlooked Pennsylvania. Letters over the front porch read “Colorado Educational Association”.
As I drove past the building, I mulled over the darker past of the mansion. It had once been the residence of John Galen Locke, a Denver doctor who was also a member of the Ku Klux Klan in the early ’20s. However, Locke hadn’t been intent on bigotry, but on using the Klan to gain political power. And it had worked for a while, as the Klan controlled much of Colorado’s politics in 1924. But Locke’s power didn’t last long. He was jailed for income tax evasion, and the mansion was eventually sold.
I drove up a couple of blocks and around the corner, then parked and walked back down Pennsylvania. I studied the building as I strolled past. All the windows were dark, and not a single car was parked in front. I stopped at the corner, pulled out a cigarette, and smoked it while I waited for the sun to go down. It was hot, and I fanned myself with my hat. The street was quiet, with only the occasional car passing by.
At 8:30, dusk was settling in, leaving everything in shadows. I sauntered around the corner and to the alley, then hurried to the back side of the mansion. The building next door was dark and quiet, so I sneaked between the buildings and stopped at the brick wall that ran along the front terrace. I flattened myself against the wall, then stood up on tiptoe and peeked over the wall. The terrace was dark. I lowered myself back down and waited.
A car drove by, its head
lights cutting a path on Pennsylvania, but I stayed hidden in the growing gloom. I wished for another cigarette, but my war experience taught me that the glowing embers of a lit cigarette were a beacon to my position. I scratched my fingers and waited. Then another car turned onto Pennsylvania from 16th, and a yellow glow lit the street. It slowed as it neared 1621, then parked across the street. The headlights winked off, leaving the street in darkness. The engine died, and a man emerged from the car. He hustled across Pennsylvania and up the steps to the porch. I peeked over the brick wall. The man had a key in his hand. He unlocked the door and disappeared inside. A moment later, yellow light from two windows near me filtered out into the night. I ducked down and heard the sound of wood scraping as one of the windows was opened. Then the sweet aroma of cigar smoke drifted out to me.
I took off my hat and eased my head up until I could see into the windows. A man of about fifty-five was standing near a long oak desk, staring into space. He was stout, with meaty hands and a soft face. His curly blond hair was parted in the middle, the curls slicked back on his head. He wore an expensive suit with cufflinks that flashed in the overhead light.
I stayed against the wall and watched him as he stood and smoked. A little while later, another car approached, and I dropped back down. It stopped in front of the building, and then the man with the beard got out. He glanced up and down the street, then ambled up the porch and inside the building. I put my hat back on and ran around the front of the house and up the porch steps. I eased along the terrace and up to the window. I peeked in but couldn’t see the men. A few seconds went by, and then I heard voices.
“We shouldn’t be meeting,” one of them said.
I slipped under the window, then pressed to the wall and peered inside. The blond man pointed with his cigar at the other one.
“I talked to Walt today.”
The blond man shrugged. “That’s not newsworthy.” His voice was as soft as his face.
“He’s selling art pieces.”
“That’s what Walt does.” The blond man sucked on his cigar and blew smoke toward the ceiling. Then he trained tough eyes on his cohort. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Walt resold the Chinese statue and the Matisse that were sold to Floyd Powell.”
The blond man’s face turned white. “Powell agreed he wouldn’t do that. He was supposed to keep them.”
“I know.” The bearded man went to the oak desk and perched on the corner, one leg dangling down. The leg started to twitch nervously. “Now we got people asking questions.”
“Who?”
“Some fellow came around Walt’s, asking questions about the statue. He says it was stolen and he was wondering if Walt knew anything about it.”
The blond man began gnawing at the end of the cigar, then spat tobacco bits from his mouth. He studied the end of the cigar, then said, “Did Walt tell him anything?”
“I don’t think so.”
“So who is this fellow?”
“A private dick?” He held up his hands. “Walt didn’t get a name. But if this fellow is asking questions, it’s only a matter of time before he figures things out.”
“It’s not time to panic yet,” the blond man said. “If he knew what was going on, he wouldn’t just be asking questions, he’d come in with guns blazing.”
The other man shook his head. “I don’t like it.” His leg continued jittering.
The blond man spat more tobacco. “I don’t either,” he finally said. “You know what Bert will do if he finds out. The people we’re dealing with…it won’t be good, for anyone.”
“I know.”
The blond man turned toward the window. I froze, but I needn’t have worried because he wasn’t looking for anyone. “What was Powell thinking?”
“It’s not like he needs money.”
The blond man turned back to him. “That’s not what I hear.”
“Is Powell gambling too much?”
The blond man’s lips twitched in a non-answer. Neither man spoke for a few moments.
“We’ll have to handle this,” he finally pronounced.
“I’ll get –” the bearded man began, but just then a yowl split the night.
Somewhere nearby, two tomcats started fighting, their shrieks and hisses shaking the darkness. The two men whirled around, then flew to the window. I took a couple of steps away from the window, but not fast enough.
“Who’s that?” the bearded man asked. “You there!” he shouted angrily as he kicked the screen out and shoved his frame through the window.
I leaped over the brick wall, stumbled, and planted my face on the ground. I shoved myself to my feet and tore off between the buildings. I reached the alley and turned right.
“Hey!” the bearded man yelled. His heavy footsteps pounded the pavement behind me.
I ran to 17th and around the corner, back toward Pennsylvania. Behind me, the bearded man kept pace. I sped up, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My car was up one more block, but I didn’t think I could make it before he overtook me, so I dashed between two cars and up to a building on the other side of the street. I slipped around the north side of the building and dove into some large bushes. I sank to the ground and felt around. My hand closed around a decent-sized rock. A moment later, the bearded man ran by. I held my breath and waited until he passed me, then I rose up and threw the rock into the alley. It clattered into a fence and the bearded man tore off after the sound.
I sneaked backward and out of the bushes, losing my fedora in the process. I didn’t stop for it, but headed in the other direction, back toward 17th. I ran a couple of blocks, then sprinted into an alley and stopped near a bunch of garbage cans. I squatted down and waited. After a long time, I figured that the bearded man knew he’d lost me. I stood up, brushed myself off and straightened my tie, then walked up the alley to 18th and back to Pennsylvania. I kept an eye out for the men, but didn’t see them. I stopped to retrieve my hat from the bushes, donned it, and then hurried to my car. I drove off and lit a cigarette to calm my nerves, but I didn’t rest easy until I made it home.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Reed – 2015
As I drove back toward Denver from Castle Pines, I thought about my conversation with Shane O’Malley and everything I’d learned so far. As Dewey had observed, Floyd Powell was dirty. He’d done exactly what Beauchamp and Vederman had accused him of: he’d sold the art pieces, reported them stolen, and then tried to get the insurance money for them. Not only that, Powell wasn’t supposed to resell the art pieces, but why? And if Walt Cummings and his father had been involved in selling the artwork to Powell in the first place, the artwork was probably stolen. But why would anyone care if Powell sold the pieces again?
Walt’s edginess reminded me of a fence named Baylock in The Burglar, a great film noir starring Dan Duryea as professional burglar Nat Harbin and Peter Capell as Baylock. In the movie, Harbin and a bunch of his crook buddies, including a very sexy Jayne Mansfield as Gladden, rob a spiritualist in the seemingly perfect crime. Things start to unravel as the crooks wait for the heat to die down before they sell a necklace they’ve stolen. Someone is on to them, and things go bad, as they do in most film noir movies, and Baylock’s choices cost him his life.
I turned onto I-25 and headed north, my mind racing. In the process of investigating Powell, Dewey had stumbled onto something much more sinister. Who were those other men and what was their interest in Powell’s art pieces? Obviously they had some kind of art racket going, and Powell had screwed something up. But what? And who was this Bert that the blond man referred to? When I had those answers, I’d know the secret that was worth killing for, after all these years.
I wondered again about Walt Cummings. He knew more than he was telling. I made an impulse decision and exited onto C-470, then headed west to Santa Fe. Whatever Walt was hiding, I was going to find out. Although I didn’t relish the idea of putting pressure on an eighty-five-year-old man for some answers, I needed to know
what he was hiding. Ten minutes later, I turned north on Santa Fe and was soon parking in the lot at Walt’s retirement community.
I strolled back across the circular drive and through the common area to Walt’s home. I rang the bell and waited. After a moment, I rang the bell again. Then I knocked on the door.
“He’s not there.”
I whirled around. An elderly woman in slacks and a blouse was watering flowerpots on a tiny porch next door. She’d been so quiet I hadn’t noticed her.
“Do you know where he went?” I asked.
“No, he just waved and said he’d be gone a while.” She picked a dead leaf off a geranium.
“Okay, thanks,” I said.
“You want me to tell him you stopped by?” she asked.
“No, that’s okay.”
She smiled as I walked away. I had no doubt she’d tell Walt about me.
I walked slowly back through the common area, disappointed. Where was Walt? For a guy who said he never went anywhere, he was going out a lot. Had the man I’d seen with Walt come back and taken Walt somewhere? I thought about that guy, wondering why he seemed familiar.
And then it dawned on me. He looked vaguely like Lorraine Fitzsimmons’s husband. I’d only seen her husband briefly, and the guy who’d met Walt had on sunglasses, but it could’ve been the same guy.
Was Lorraine’s husband involved with Walt Cummings? That would mean Lorraine knew more than she was saying. But what was she covering up?
There was one way to find out.
***
Lorraine Fitzsimmons’s eyes grew wide in surprise when she answered her door.
“Mr. Ferguson,” she said, a hint of displeasure in her voice. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said, “but I’ve got a few more questions.”
“I suppose if I refuse, you’ll keep bothering me.”
I gave her a wan smile.
She sighed and then opened the door wider. “Come in.”
We went back into the living room but neither of us sat down. Tension rippled through the air. She crossed her arms and stared at me. As before, she was impeccably dressed, this time in tan slacks and a blue blouse. I suspected she never looked anything but her best.
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