by Will Rayner
“It certainly has,” Indigo said. “There’s been quite a bit of chatter coming from the executive wing, believe me. People talking about why we have so many open doors – the main entrance, the carriage entrance, two or three service entrances. But the Palace is a hotel. We’re not in the business of keeping people out. We have to be accessible. We have to make it easy, not difficult, for people to come in.”
“Even the weirdoes of the world,” T.J. said.
“Even them. But if you hurry up and catch this … woman, then everything will pretty well be back to normal.” There was an awkward pause as both fell silent. “Well,” Indigo said finally.
“Yes, well,” T.J. replied. “I suppose I’d better go and do some intrepid private dick stuff – tracking down evildoers and all that.” He found himself tongue-tied for a moment. “Uh, look, maybe we can … uh … get together for lunch or something, if you feel like it.”
“Lunch would be nice,” she said. “But not here at the Palace. That strange woman might show up and dump the salad on our heads. Besides, our dining room is a bit high-end for a struggling gumshoe.”
“Good point, Miss Cody. Anyway, I know lots of cheapo one-arm joints who would welcome our business.”
Indigo laughed. “I don’t believe I’ve ever been in a one-arm joint. Sounds like fun. We’d better leave the timing open until our … ah … calendars clear. Thank you, Thomas. I’ll look forward to it. Call me.”
I think I just made myself another date, T.J. told himself, Miss Jane Brown or no Miss Jane Brown. And I’ll be more careful about being tagged this time. The pleasant glow about going to the Halliburton lecture had fogged his normal watchfulness, and it wouldn’t happen again.
T.J. had barely replaced the receiver when the phone rang. It was Agnes. “Mr. Atherton has been trying to reach you,” she said. “Shall I call him back for you?”
“Sure, babe,” T.J. said, lighting an Old Gold.
“I have a rush job for your agency,” Edwin Atherton said when he came on the line. “If you are free, I’ll be over in 15 minutes.”
“C’mon over,” T.J. said, breaking the connection. He pulled out his watch. Maybe I’ll time him, he told himself. His thoughts, however, were with Indigo Cody, not Edwin Atherton. The office was quiet. Pop had gone down to visit Margaret, so Thomas Jefferson Flood was in charge. He could hear Agnes typing in the outer office. T.J. put his feet up on the desk and thought about Indigo Cody – and his late wife.
Upon his arrival 17 minutes later, Edwin Atherton had noted Sam Flood’s closed office door. Now, sitting across from T.J., he remarked casually: “The senior Flood out on another case?”
“He’s taking some personal time,” T.J. said curtly.
“Of course.” Atherton then quickly got down to business. “A situation has arisen at police headquarters,” he continued. “We have inside information that one officer we are greatly interested in – a captain – is about to make an important rendezvous this afternoon. It involves, we believe, a large sum of money. Ill-gotten money. Bribery money. We think he is about to pass it on to another individual, or perhaps collect it. We wish to observe this transaction, if we can.”
“So it’s a tail job,” T.J. said.
“Essentially, yes. His name is Captain Michael S. Whelan. He has given notice that he will be absent from headquarters as of two o’clock today. ‘Running an errand,’ he apparently said. His exact words, I’m told.”
“Whelan,” T.J. mused. “Don’t believe I’ve ever bumped heads with him.”
“Good. Then he won’t recognize you if he spots you.”
“He won’t,” T.J. said. “But why can’t one of your other … ah … operatives take this on? A simple enough job.”
“Because he might recognize one of them. And I believe they are not as good at watching as Flood and Flood.”
Of course not, T.J. thought. “I suppose you’ve got a mug shot of this bird,” he said.
“We have better than that,” Atherton answered. “We have a sharp, professional photograph taken during your city’s civil disturbance of ‘34.” He handed the print to T.J.
“Civil disturbance of ‘34,” T.J. thought. So that’s what they’re calling it now. Some ‘disturbance’. It was a major riot, pal. You shoulda been there. I was. He studied the photograph. Captain Whelan was staring at the camera as if he were about to stomp on it for invading his privacy. “That is one arrogant-looking kisser,” he said.
“An apt observation,” Atherton said, reaching into his briefcase for a file folder. “Let me tell you about police captain Michael S. Whelan. First of all, we suspect him of masterminding two or three shakedown squads.”
“Squads, like in details?” T.J. asked. “Burglary, grand theft details?”
“Yes, shakedown details – extorting money or goods from merchants. They are particularly active in the automobile repair field. He is based at police headquarters, but he visits other districts regularly. We also believe the McDonough brothers have captain Whelan in their back pocket.”
“Hey, is he the bozo my old man saw get paid off across from the headquarters building?”
“No. There is more than one crooked captain on the police force. Anyway we attempted to bring captain Whelan before the grand jury, but he invoked the Fifth Amendment and refused to talk. We also tried to interview him at our premises, but he was extremely imperious and obstructive. First of all, he demanded that any contact with him be kept secret and that his name be kept from the press.”
“Good luck with that,” T.J. said.
“Quite. He then demanded that he approve in advance the questions we wished to put to him. As I say, totally uncooperative. That is why we hope this latest development will give us the upper hand.”
“Do you have an exact time?” T.J. asked.
“He’ll be coming out the front door at two o’clock or very shortly after.”
“How do we know he won’t use a back door or try a dipsy-do by way of the hoosegow next door?” T.J. asked.
“The captain is too sure of himself for that,” Atherton said. “It is not his nature to sneak around.”
“Civvies or uniform? And does he drive his own heap?”
“Captain Whelan will be in civilian clothes.” Atherton assured him. “He has a driver, but I doubt he’ll be taking a potential witness along on this ‘errand’. He may take a taxicab, though.”
“Then I’d better get my own hack,” T.J. said. “Walking or riding, I’ll be right behind him. I’ll report back tomorrow.”
“In this office at, say, ten o’clock,” Atherton suggested. “I may have another assignment for Flood and Flood.”
T.J. made sure Agnes booked the appointment for 10 a.m. After Atherton had departed, he gave her a big wink. “I’m off on the trail of another miscreant,” he said. “If I don’t get back, or Mr. Sam doesn’t, lock up and go home like a good girl.”
****
Eating his pot pie at Emrick’s along with a draft Pabst, T.J. wondered who Atherton’s source was. Howard the Coward? He certainly could be a stoolie. Ol’ Howie seemed to know what was going on over at the cop shop, and he could be getting revenge for all the years of scorn he’d endured.
At his home, T.J. exchanged his suitcoat, vest and tie for a lightweight windbreaker. It was a drab, inconspicuous grey. He tucked his watch into an inner pocket and checked that the Detective Special was secure in its holster. The fedora was replaced by a soft cap, which could be removed and tucked away if a change in appearance was required. Then T.J. Flood went downstairs to grab a cab.
He gave the cabbie precise instructions: Park on Kearny Street across from police headquarters and wait, with the engine running. “Maybe it’ll be a tag job, maybe it won’t.” he said. “What are your thoughts about making an illegal U-turn?”
The hackie shrugged. “Do it often enough,” he said. “The coppers are too busy getting their palms greased to notice.”
When they got into position, T.J. s
crunched down in the back seat and waited. He had a good view of the front door. Ten minutes to go, more or less.
****
“Hello, Samuel,” Margaret Flood said. “How nice of you to visit.” Sam wasn’t totally surprised because the medical staff had advised that his wife had regained some of her memory. She was in remission, the doctors had said. Still, Sam was taken aback at how cheerful Meg was, how well she looked. She was still in her wheelchair, but she was alert and sitting up straight. Sam kissed her lightly on the lips. “You are looking very well, my dear,” he said.
“Shall we go outside and chat?” Margaret asked. “There’s a nice, shady spot by the goldfish pond. We’ll talk about the good old days.” So they did. Margaret remembered she lived in San Francisco and not Chicago. They chortled over some escapades, and after a bit, Margaret fell silent. “How is my cousin Amy?” she asked. “Is she looking after you?”
“Amy is doing a very good job, my dear.”
“And Thomas, and Jessica?” It was a lapse. T.J.’s wife had been dead for three years.
“They’re both fine,” Sam said. It wouldn’t help trying to explain to her the passage of time.
“I’m not going home again, am I, Samuel?” she said after another spell of silence.
“We’re not really sure,” her husband said, equivocating. “”We’ll see how it goes.”
“Fiddle-faddle,” his wife said. “You know I’m sick and I know I’m sick. You just keep on coming to cheer me up, you hear? Now take me inside. It’s time for my nap, and my important private detective husband has to get back to work.”
Before catching the train back to San Francisco, Sam discussed Margaret once again with the doctors. She was only in remission, they emphasized. It could last for days, weeks, even months. In the end, though …
Heading home, Sam made a mental note to see what Collier’s had to say about remission periods. Tomorrow, he thought, or the next day. For now, I’ll check at the office for any messages and call Amy.
****
Sam was surprised to see his son still in his office. Agnes had left and the reception area was getting dark. “Thomas!” he said. “Something come up?”
“Yeah, a quick job for Atherton. Tailed a guy over to Alameda and back. Our LA bossman is coming in tomorrow at 10 a.m. to hear the lowdown.”
“Margaret sends her love,” Sam said.
“Uh huh.” T.J.’s head snapped up. “Margaret? Wha—?”
“She’s in remission,” Sam said. “Bright and cheerful. Remembers things. We had a very pleasant visit.” His mood sobered. “I know it won’t last, but—”
“Grab the moment, pop,” T.J. said in a rare display of understanding and compassion.
Chapter 23
“We are gathered here today—” T.J. began.
“Knock it off, Thomas,” his father said. “Just give us your report.”
“Yes, a verbal report now, a written one to follow,” added Atherton.
“Okay, verbal report, here goes, from the top,” T.J. said. He lit an Old Gold. “Our subject, a member of San Francisco’s finest, exits the station at two minutes past two, carrying a small satchel – shiny, a new one by the look of it. Turns left, heads down Kearny at a brisk pace. Me and my cabbie pal drift along behind him on the other side of the street, like we’re looking for an address. At California, the good captain joins a bunch of people waiting for the cable car. Going downhill. He jumps aboard and the hackie makes a left turn and we follow.”
“Did captain Whelan go inside or just hang on?” Atherton asked.
“He goes inside, and he’s facing away from the cab,” T.J. said.
“Which meant he didn’t realize there was a taxicab keeping pace,” Sam Flood pointed out.
“Okay,” T.J. continued. “After a coupla blocks, I figure Whelan is riding all the way to the turntable at Drumm Street, so I tell the cabbie to pull ahead and let me out. I’m waiting when the subject jumps off. We head down Market Street; the captain’s in front and I’m behind. Next stop, the Ferry Building. He buys a round-trip ticket on the Oakland ferry, and so do I. The cabin deck is pretty crowded, so I had lots of cover. He didn’t look my way once. At the Key System Pier, we grab a rattler to Alameda.”
“Alameda!?” Atherton burst out, his voice a blend of surprise and confusion.
“Yes, I wonder why,” Sam said. “There’s a boat direct to Alameda from the Ferry Building to Main Street. I wonder why he didn’t take that one.”
“I suspect he was being circumspect,” Atherton said. “The long way around, in case he was accidently observed at the Ferry Building.”
“And the Key System goes every which way from its Oakland pier,” T.J. noted. “He could have picked any route. Anyway, we ride along; he’s in the front and I’m in the back. No eye contact. He didn’t even check out the other passengers. We get off at Park Street and take a stroll for a coupla blocks, Whelan in the lead and Tonto the faithful companion right behind him.” T.J. guessed that neither Atherton nor his father caught the reference to the radio serial, but no matter. “At the corner of Park and Alameda, there’s this really old building. The captain stops, looks both up and down the street – which I thought was rather odd since he had ignored his back all the way from Kearny. By this time, I’m across the street and I pull the old ducking-into-the-doorway trick. There’s a bank on that corner and he goes inside.”
“A bank!” Atherton exclaimed. His voice bore a slight glimmer of understanding.
“First National Bank of Alameda County. Faithful Tonto watches. He’s in there for 22 minutes and six people enter while he’s otherwise engaged: an old fart leaning on a cane; a middle-aged couple who are probably husband and wife; an elderly lady about your age, pop, with a young companion; and the mailman. The postie stays for about 30 seconds. The rest are still in there when Whelan leaves. No satchel.”
“He rented a safe deposit box,” Atherton said.
“Or deposited his cash and discarded the satchel,” Sam suggested. “You said it looked new, Thomas. Perhaps he buys them for this one purpose only and simply leaves the empty ones behind.”
“Either way, it’s a money drop!” Atherton said. “And we’ve got the address! It wasn’t a meeting or a rendezvous after all.”
“After he comes out, he heads back up Park, going a little slower now,” T.J. said. “More relaxed, maybe. I tag along, keeping one eye on the bank in case somebody gets out of a car and hustles inside. No activity whatsoever. I catch up to Whelan just as our Toonerville Trolley arrives, and I have my cap stuffed into my back pocket so that the profile is different. That’s it. We catch the ferry back across the bay, we take the cable car up the hill and he walks along Kearny to headquarters.”
“Good job, Thomas,” Sam said.
“Yes, very good job,” Atherton added. “You may have uncovered a vital link in the money trail, which I want to talk about next.”
Oh, oh, another lecture coming up, T.J. told himself. Too bad Indigo Cody isn’t here to distract me.
“We estimate that the annual ‘take’ by corrupt police officers in San Francisco surpasses three quarter of a million dollars,” Atherton said. “Prostitution, we believe, accounts for more than $400,000 of this. Payoffs are made by the houses of prostitution to police captains and other senior officers. These are the established brothels.”
Sam and T.J. glanced at each other. Packy Shannon’s high-end houses had quite a nut to crack each month. However, the expenses must only be a fraction of their annual income. Sam tried to estimate the percentage paid out for protection. Ten percent of the gross? Twenty percent? One percent? He had no idea. This was alien territory.
“The established bordellos work with the senior police officers,” Atherton said. “I use the term ‘established’ to suggest they are fixed – permanent places of business. Lower down, there are hotels, rooming houses and such who may have two or three working girls. Their payoffs go to the uniformed ranks. And then there are th
e streetwalkers. They pay off the patrolmen on the beat for the privilege of offering their wares on the sidewalk. It all adds up.”
“What about gambling?” Sam asked.
“The same system. The established wire joints – and there are only a few of them with a direct telegraphic link – pay off at the senior level. The cigar store operators and the other retail outlets grease the man on the beat. Of course, they also have to reimburse Packy Shannon or the McDonough brothers for access to the results over the telephone. All in all, the value of this graft is in the neighborhood of $180,000 annually.”
“And all this money goes … where?” Sam asked. “That’s quite a lot of cash floating around.”
“Bulging pockets all over the place,” T.J. added.
“Do you want to know where, gentlemen?” Atherton asked. “Some strange places, believe me, and some not so strange. My boys came across stacks of greenbacks almost everywhere they looked. Mattresses, of course, woodpiles, attic trunks, baking powder cans, bait boxes, basement cavities – even one child’s sandbox. However, this is only a trickle. There has to be lots more tucked away elsewhere.”
“Financial institutions,” Sam said
“Yes,” Atherton said. “We are examining the bank accounts and financial transactions of those we believe are profiting from graft. Our theory is that officers whose monthly deposits show amounts far in excess of their salaries should be asked to explain where the money came from. If they refuse to give such an accounting, or fail to give a plausible or reasonable explanation of how they acquired – in some cases substantial fortunes – we think this is sufficient grounds for the Police Commission to take appropriate action culminating in their dismissal. Brokerage accounts, real estate transactions and miscellaneous financial dealings are also being examined. There are approximately 1000 persons involved, spread over 300 police officers and their families. We believe the practice is to maintain a multiplicity of bank accounts and, in many instances, several brokerage accounts.”