Lethal Streets (A Flood and Flood Mystery Book 2)

by Will Rayner

  “Mr. Shannon wishes to speak with you,” Cerutti said. Sam found himself gently propelled further along the sidewalk until they came to a long, black Packard. Cerutti opened a back door and Sam clambered inside. He needed no invitation.

  “Good evening, Mr. Flood,” Packy Shannon said. He was seated on the back bench with his legs crossed. “I thought we might chat a little about your … ah … efforts on behalf of Mr. Edwin Atherton. I see you running around the country, crossing state lines, chasing down what some people call the bad guys. At your age, riding the train must be very tiring. I’m told you were also seen outside one of Petey McDonough’s hangouts not too long ago, too. That boy of yours is also being very energetic.”

  “You of all people should know I can’t discuss any of our cases,” Sam said. To his dismay, the statement emerged as a croak.

  “Of course not,” Shannon said smoothly. “What I want to emphasize is that some of my enterprises are feeling the pinch, if I may use that term, and if there is any danger that I may become personally … ah … involved, I may have to take drastic steps.”

  A threat, Sam Flood thought. Or a warning, perhaps. “It has been made clear to Flood and Flood,” he said carefully, “that you personally are not a target. The thrust of Mr. Atherton’s inquiries is malfeasance in the police department. He has a very narrow focus.”

  “I am grateful to you for clearing that up,” Shannon said. “I would be even more grateful if the Floods found a way to ensure that I do not suffer unwanted attention. Very grateful.”

  That was a bribe, Sam thought. “I’m sorry, I cannot assure you of anything of that nature,” he said swiftly.

  Shannon chuckled softly. “Exactly the right answer,” he said. “The correct and proper Mr. Samuel Adams Flood makes the correct and proper response. Without hesitation, I may add. If you had not said that, or even hesitated, I would have concluded that the Flood boys were no longer trustworthy. Again, I thank you for your valuable insights. Have a pleasant evening, Say hello to your wife’s cousin for me.”

  Sam had been aware the car was moving, but was surprised to find himself in front of his home on Vallejo Street. “You see, Mr. Flood, we know where you live,” Shannon added as he opened the car’s door.

  We’re back to threats again, Sam told himself as he watched the Packard accelerate smoothly away.

  Chapter 27

  Lieutenant James. T. Bracken kicked sharply at the passenger-side door of the patrol car. Once, twice. Inside, the driver jerked his head up. Was he dozing, or just thinking deep thoughts? Jimbo Bracken opened the door and slid in. “Well, my lad, do you have anything to report?” he asked.

  “No sir. All is quiet, sir.”

  “And what would you do, my son, if somebody walked up Mr. Randolph Baggett’s front driveway, the driveway you are guarding so diligently?”

  “If it’s a woman, especially a woman in a grey cloak, I would try to apprehend.”

  “Very good, yes indeed,” Bracken said. “Now what would you do if someone else came along and knocked on Mr. Baggett’s front door?”

  “I would observe and react according to the situation.”

  “Very good again, of course it is. Now, a legal gent will be arriving soon to consult with Mr. Baggett. So you will let him pass, but be alert that nobody slips in behind him, right?”

  “Right, sir.”

  “Tell me, laddie, does Mr. Baggett attempt to leave his residence on foot?”

  “Well, he walks around the driveway regularly and sometimes he wants to go along the sidewalk. The sergeant and me don’t let him. He doesn’t get very far, what with his cane and all.”

  “Excellent, my dear patrolman, it certainly is. Now, you see that Packard parked down the street there? How long has it been present?”

  The patrolman paused for a moment. “Quite a while, I guess, sir.”

  “And you never thought to check it out, or radio a squaddie to swing by and check it out, or tell your sergeant inside about it?” Ah, my lad, you’ll never make the Inspectors Bureau, of course you won’t, he told himself.

  Lieutenant Bracken climbed out of the patrol car and started walking toward the Packard. With the screech of a protesting gearbox being abused, it came to life and accelerated away. Sounds like a nervous driver in a hurry to go somewhere else, Bracken thought. The patrolman sat rigidly at his wheel, staring straight ahead as Bracken returned and went along the driveway to Baggett’s front door.

  The patrol sergeant was guarding the entrance. Bracken said in a low voice: “Your patrolman outside told me about Mr. Baggett trying to go for a walk. Can he do it from the back door, or service door, or whatever there is?”

  “There is a service door along the side, lieutenant, for the tradesmen. It’s kept locked and we have the key. There is no back door. There’s a sort of little ravine behind the house.”

  “Excellent, my dear sergeant. Keep up the good work. There will be a gentleman arriving at any moment to do some legal business with Mr. Baggett. I want to talk to him first, though. Where is our host?”

  “In the sun room, sir,” the sergeant said, pointing the way.

  Jimbo Bracken found Randolph Baggett listening to classical music on the gramophone and reading a week-old copy of the Wall Street Journal. Upon the police officer’s entrance, Baggett carefully lifted the needle off the record and switched off the turntable. “Good to see you again, lieutenant,” Baggett said. His voice held no warmth.

  “Likewise, I’m sure, sir,” Bracken said. He took a deep breath. “The thing is, we have solid information that our murder suspect has acquired a meat cleaver. It is a most dangerous weapon. We in homicide do wish that you would reconsider your decision to stay here. We could put you into a much more secure place of safety until this woman is apprehended.”

  Baggett shook his head. “This is my home, as I’ve told you before,” he said. “No disturbed mental case living a fantasy is going to chase me away from my home. However – and I’ve mentioned this before, also – I would feel more comfortable if that young Flood boy would stay here with me. I will pay him well.”

  Bracken sighed again. This was a familiar argument. He was about to answer when the faint melody of the door chimes signaled the arrival of Mr. Ambrose Derby of Derby and Kneith, attorneys at law. Ushered into the sun room, Derby nodded politely at Bracken. “Thank you for allowing us to visit Mr. Baggett, lieutenant,” Derby said.

  “Thank you for alerting homicide,” Bracken replied. “It saved a few awkward moments at the front door.” He followed the pair into Baggett’s study, found a comfortable chair and watched.

  The thrust of the consultation was Baggett’s parcel of land in Kern County. Derby had a tentative sales agreement for Baggett to initial, once he accepted it. One sticking point cropped up right away, however. “They want me to pay for another survey?” Baggett complained. “We’ve already had more than one survey. The markers haven’t shifted.”

  “Boundaries approved by both parties are needed before we can transfer the deed,” Derby said.

  “Well, let them pay for it,” Baggett growled. Stubborn old coot, Bracken thought – as if I haven’t noticed.

  “It just might be a deal-breaker,” Derby warned. Baggett waved his hand in dismissal. Derby thought for a moment. “Suppose I suggest the buyer and the vendor split the cost of the survey,” he said.

  “Hmmm, well, maybe,” Baggett muttered.

  “The buyers would also appreciate your presence in Bakersfield when the final draft is signed,” Derby added.

  “That certainly won’t happen,” Bracken interjected. “The thing is, Mr. Baggett is under police protection. He ain’t going anywhere.”

  “I will impress upon the buyers that any travel by Mr. Baggett is out of the question,” Derby said. “You will probably have to come down to our office instead, Mr. Baggett.”

  “That necessity will be addressed in due course, surely it will,” Bracken said. Another job for Flood and Flood, I wage
r, he told himself, whether they like it or not.

  ****

  “Packy Shannon gave me a ride home last night,” Sam Flood said. He slipped casually into one of his son’s client chairs.

  T.J. stopped counting the singles in his billfold. “Oh, yeah?” he said.

  “Yes. To use one of your colorful terms, Vido Cerutti snatched me off the sidewalk and bundled me into one of Mr. Shannon’s big machines. We had a little chat. Actually, he did most of the chatting.”

  “Pray continue,” T.J. said.

  “It seems Mr. Packy Shannon and the McDonough brothers are annoyed at us for our efforts on behalf of Mr. Edwin Atherton. Apparently, our diligence is affecting their relationship with the San Francisco Police Department and they are losing money. To be more precise, making less money.”

  “Toss a monkey wrench into their protection game and people get nervous and start looking the other way,” T.J. said.

  “Quite. Mr. Shannon alternated bribes and threats – well-modulated and circumspect bribes and threats – in an effort to cause us to desist.”

  “And you told him to put a sock in it.”

  “Approximately, yes,” Sam said. “I politely reminded him that, despite our positive relationship in the past, Flood and Flood would follow its own course. He had expected my response, and somehow seemed pleased at it.”

  “He wouldn’t mind having us on the payroll,” T.J. said, “but not at the cost of distorting our relationship, maybe. We wouldn’t be much of a detective agency if we got bought out by the biggest crook in town.”

  “Packy also made a curious allusion to my Nevada trip,” Sam said. “How would he know about it, except—?”

  “Except that someone whispered in his ear.” T.J. said. “Shannon or McDonough have bought their way into Atherton’s cozy knitting circle.”

  “That’s what they do,” Sam replied. “We know that. It’s not exactly revolutionary, but it is distressing to contemplate that one group investigating corruption in another group is itself corrupted.”

  “But you don’t think Hockley was rubbed out.”

  “Of course not,” Sam said. “It would be a most elaborate deception – probably well above the skill level of one of Packy Shannon’s … ah … gunsels. What it brings to mind, though, is a possible motive for Hockley’s drastic act. If he was planning a new life, but then realized he’d be hounded forever by the Turk Street Social Club, he might have succumbed to despair and taken the coward’s way out.”

  “Atherton will be here soon,” T.J. said. “Do we tell him about the leak?”

  “At the proper moment,” Sam said. He sounds almost gleeful, T.J. thought.

  ****

  Edwin Atherton bustled in at the proper hour. His briefcase looks a little skinnier today, T.J. thought. Not as many big secrets in there, I bet. Packy Shannon will be disappointed. The Floods were still in T.J.’s office, so his rules applied. He put his feet up on his desk and fired up an Old Gold.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” Atherton said, seating himself in T.J.’s other client chair. “A pleasure, as always.”

  “Likewise,” T.J. said. “But I bet you’re here to talk to poppa, not me.”

  “Um … yes,” Atherton said. “I just want to discuss a couple of points in your very excellent report. Mr. Flood,” he said, turning to Sam.

  “Certainly,” Sam said. “My pleasure.”

  “The body,” Atherton said. “The sergeant’s body. Your report says the county corner turned his body over so you could compare its face with the likeness I gave you. You are still confident it was Hockley?”

  “Yes,” Sam said. “His face was somewhat distorted, bit clearly recognizable. Fingerprints in due course will confirm his identity.”

  “Now, the money. You say it was in a small suitcase. You did not mention any other luggage, so I assume there wasn’t any.”

  “Correct” Sam said. “Which raises some questions. Where is the rest of it? Where is his wardrobe, his personal effects? Where is the wife’s luggage? The neighbor said she packed two bags.”

  “We must assume the bags are in Reno somewhere,” Atherton said. “According to your report, Mr. Flood, they both must have stopped there first.”

  “And what’s in Hockley’s missing suitcases?” T.J. asked. “More moolah?”

  “An excellent point, sir,” Atherton said. “As you know, we are still trying to trace all his financial sleight-of-hand. There may be another suitcase full of cash – God knows where.”

  “A safe deposit box in Reno?” Sam said. “Under the bed in a hotel room? In the baggage room at the train station?”

  “You had better hope the Reno cops are more honest than the San Francisco variety,” T.J. said. “Otherwise, you can kiss goodbye to all that loot.”

  “There could very well be one more log in the fire,” Sam Flood said. He looked impassively at his son. “That cash might end up with Packy Shannon or the McDonough brothers, where it came from.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Atherton said. “How could they become involved?”

  “I have impeccable information that Mr. Packy Shannon knew I was going to Reno,” Sam said. “How would he know that?”

  “They must have overheard you talking somewhere – over the dinner table perhaps. Or your secretary must have been gossiping.”

  “That is a direct slur on this office,” the senior Flood snarled. “Retract that statement, sir!” Holy smokes, T.J. thought, dad wants to fight a duel.

  Atherton sputtered out an apology. “It was careless phrasing in my case,” he said. “I was taken by surprise. How could Mr. Shannon know?”

  “Your office was notified as soon as I decided to go to Reno,” Sam said. “I believe your suspicions are grossly misdirected.”

  “Wise up, buster,” T.J. grated. “You’ve got a snake in your underpants. A snitch. A tattle-tale.”

  “I … um … we … you mean he’s paying someone on my staff?” Atherton spluttered. “It’s … well, it’s …” He fell silent.

  “Better start using that shovel of yours on your own stable,” T.J. said.

  “Yes,” Sam added. “I suggest you thoroughly canvass all your personnel. Your investigation has been compromised. It appears the opposition is one step ahead of you at the moment.”

  Atherton hastened to take his leave of the Floods. Not quite so self-important anymore, T.J. thought. “I’m surprised he didn’t think of that angle,” he said. “A big-time snoop like him. What was his specialty in LA – looking for lost kittens?”

  ‘Don’t be so hard on him, Thomas,” Sam said. “A rapidly expanding staff, outside help, probably some bad advice. Still, no excuse to be sloppy about the background checks.”

  He stood up, pulled down his vest and looked at his watch. “I’m having lunch with Solly Silverman. Remember, lieutenant Bracken is coming over this afternoon. Don’t linger over your own … ah … repast.”

  “No lingering, no loitering, no spitting on the sidewalk, gotcha, boss,” T.J. drawled.

  Chapter 28

  Sam Flood and Solly Silverman enjoyed a quiet lunch at their usual rendezvous just off O’Farrell Street. Solly brought his old friend up to date on his niece, Sharon, who had decided to get a law degree when she went to college, and Sam reported on Margaret’s progress. As their meal drew to a close, Silverman consulted his watch. “Are you in a big hurry to be off?” he asked.

  Sam took out his own timepiece. “Just past one o’clock,” he said. “There is an appointment at half past the hour, so I have a few minutes.”

  “This is a strange request,” Solly said. “A very strange one. I have a neighbor, a Mr. Winston Bloom, who works for the Works Progress Administration and he has told me a disturbing story. One of his responsibilities involves the Lyon Street construction project – one of the approaches to the new Golden Gate Bridge. Winston says he has it on good authority that the project’s payroll is going to be hijacked or held up or whatever they call it.”

&
nbsp; “He should tell the police,” Sam said.

  “That’s the problem. Winston says he thinks the police are the ones doing the robbery.”

  Sam took a deep breath. More corruption, he thought tiredly. More grist for Edwin Atherton’s mill. “How sure is Mr. Bloom of this … rumor?” he asked.

  “Well, I wouldn’t call it a rumor,” Solly said. “It’s not like it’s making the rounds at the WPA. It was something that was mentioned in confidence.”

  “And you, Solly – or Mr. Bloom – are suggesting the Floods become involved? Bodyguards, perhaps? Is there a likelihood of violence?” Sam thought of Thomas and his Detective Special.

  “Oh, I certainly hope not! Besides, it may not happen at all. It’s only something Winston heard.”

  “And he wants to play it safe,” Sam said. He took another deep breath. This didn’t feel right to him and he was tempted to back away. However, any possibility of more police corruption should not be ignored. And he remembered Lieutenant Bracken would be in his office very shortly. Jimbo was an honest cop. Why not kick it over to him?

  “Is your Mr. Bloom free this afternoon?” he asked.

  “I think he could be. He’s not tied to a desk,” Solly said.

  “Tell him to be at our office by two-thirty.”

  Sam peered at the bill. “I suggest we settle up and step lively, Mr. Silverman. The cause of justice must be served.”

  ****

  “Who is Mr. Winston Bloom?” T.J. said as he chose one of the client chairs in Sam’s office. “Agnes says he has an appointment in about an hour.”

  “He works for the WPA,” Sam said. “He may have some information about police involvement in a payroll robbery. I thought it might be a good idea to introduce him to Jimbo Bracken.”

  “Huh,” T.J. said. “Every lowlife in the 48 states has been trying to diddle the WPA ever since Roosevelt dumped it on us. Now they’re trying to rob them, too?”

  Lieutenant Bracken had an unlit cigar butt in his mouth when he arrived. T.J. hoped it would stay that way.