Both Russell and McGarrity were taken to the county jail on Gratiot Street, where they were searched. No explosives, weapons or other incriminating material was found on either man and McGarrity was released almost immediately. Later that night Russell was transferred under guard from the jail to the larger House of Correction on Alfred Street. A further search of Russell and McGarrity’s hotel rooms also disclosed nothing of a suspicious nature.
In the early hours of the following morning, acting on a second tip, the local office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation under the direction of Assistant Director W. W. Bannister raided a large house at 1142 Forest Street in the affluent north-eastern section of Detroit, slightly more than a block from the house where Charles Lindbergh had been born.
The raided house turned out to be the residence and office of Dr David Andrew Doyle and his wife, Sarah, both of whom were out of the country on an extended vacation. According to the warrant issued by Federal Judge Warren C. Masters, it had been granted to search for ‘weapons, explosives, chemicals for the making of explosives and other bomb-making material of a potentially dangerous nature.’ The search, meticulous and exhaustive though it was, turned up no such items, nor any sign that such items had ever been in the house beyond the strong lingering odour of ammonia still present within the building.
By 9:30 a.m. on the morning of Tuesday, June 6, less than twelve hours after Russell’s arrest, three congressmen – James P. McGranery of Pennsylvania, J. Joseph Smith of Connecticut and Martin L. Sweeney of Ohio, all Democrats – drummed up the support of seventy other Irish members of the House, calling for action at a press conference on the Capitol steps. By noon, the three leading congressmen, led by McGranery, were on the way to the White House to present their protest and petition in person. The petition was in the form of an ultimatum. Release Sean Russell immediately or look forward to a boycott of the royal visit to Washington by every Irish congressman and senator on Capitol Hill.
Chapter Twenty
Tuesday, June 6, 1939
New York City
Dan Hennessy had arranged for Jane to be picked up on neutral ground in front of the Stork Club on East Fifty-third. The car showed up right on time at nine p.m., a black, nondescript Ford Deluxe. With Hennessy watching from the front steps of the club, Jane stepped into the back of the car, which then eased out into traffic, heading east first then north on Park Avenue.
A bull-faced man in his late twenties was sitting in the back seat. He was dressed in a suit but the thick-necked muscular body stuffed into it would have looked better in a stevedore’s overall. ‘Put this over your head and get down low,’ said the man, handing Jane a dark blue wool blanket. Jane did as she was told, lifting her freshly healed arm with care to cover herself, then sliding off the seat to half crouch in the space between the seats.
A few minutes later they made a right turn and a minute or two after that Jane felt a lifting lurch and then heard the familiar, hollow humming sound of motor car tyres on a bridge. The only bridge that close to the Stork Club was the Queensborough. By Jane’s estimate the rest of the trip took approximately half an hour. As far as she could tell they’d headed south after leaving the bridge, which meant she was probably somewhere in Brooklyn.
Eventually the car came to a stop. Still wearing the blanket, Jane was bundled out onto the sidewalk and then into a building. For a few seconds after being taken out of the Ford she’d smelled a faint salt breeze and she was sure she’d heard the lapping sounds of water and the distant echoing toot of a tugboat. The East River. Either the Atlantic or the Erie Basin.
The bull-faced man led her up a long flight of stairs then opened up a door and guided Jane by the arm to a wooden chair with arms. Coming up the stairs Jane had smelled rotten fruit and vegetables. A produce warehouse. The bull-faced man took the blanket off Jane’s head and waited for a moment until Jane’s eyes adjusted to the light.
She was sitting in a large, elevated office with windows on three sides that looked down into a dark warehouse at piles of wooden crates resting on pallets. In addition to the chair she was sitting in there were two others like it and a dark wooden office desk. Behind the desk a door led into a back room of some kind, maybe a toilet.
Next to the door was a wooden filing cabinet and on top of it a caged fan was turning, ticking as it reached the end of its arc, then starting back again. There was an overhead pan light with a dangling string and a grey, goosenecked lamp on the desk. The only other thing on the desk was a green blotter, a telephone and a flat tin ashtray.
The bull-necked man poked a finger in the air in front of Jane’s face. ‘You stay here until I come and get you, understand?’
‘Sure,’ said Jane. The man nodded, turned around and left the office, closing the door quietly behind him, then thumped down the long flight of stairs and into the warehouse. Jane moved uneasily in the chair; her arm and shoulder were still giving her a fair amount of pain, even though she’d swallowed a handful of aspirin with a seltzer back at the Stork.
A minute passed and then another. Down on the warehouse floor she could hear the ordinary sounds of dark places – small animal scutterings, a muffled bang, the scratching of pigeons on the metal roof over her head. After five minutes Jane started thinking about getting up and leaving but then she thought about the bull-necked man and stayed where she was. A moment later she heard a floorboard creaking and then the door behind the desk opened and a man appeared.
He was of medium height and build with short, steel-grey hair, an oval face, lightly jowled and wearing round, steel-framed spectacles across a strong patrician nose. He had a wide chin and a small mouth showing small grey teeth. Late fifties or early sixties, wearing a very expensive-looking dark, single-breasted three-piece suit, both the vest and the jacket buttoned. The small-knotted tie was dark blue with small red flecks. None of Frankie Satin’s Mob flash. He sat down behind the desk. As he did so, Jane noted that he’d left the door slightly ajar behind him. No light leaked out. The back room was dark.
‘My name is George Wolf. I am an attorney. You are Miss Jane Todd, the unfortunate young woman who was killed in an office explosion. For a dead woman you look extremely attractive. Particularly the shoes. I am a great lover of shoes.’ Jane was wearing a pair of pug-toed Walk-overs that she wouldn’t have really called the height of fashion but everyone had their kinks. ‘I understand that you wished to see me,’ Wolf said. His voice was clipped and efficient with no obvious inflection or emotion.
‘Someone tried to kill me,’ Jane answered and left it at that.
‘Most people are of the opinion that someone succeeded.’
‘I’d like to keep it that way. I’d also like to find out who did it.’
‘Give me a dollar,’ said Wolf.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Give me a dollar. You do have a dollar, don’t you, Miss Todd?’
‘Sure, I’ve got a dollar.’
Jane reached into her new suede shoulder bag and pulled out her change purse, one of the few possessions that hadn’t been destroyed by the fire. She opened the little purse, took out a single and slid it across the table to Wolf. The lawyer folded the bill in half, then in half again, then stowed it in the watch pocket of his vest.
‘You have now retained my services as a lawyer. I represent you. Therefore anything you say to me, or I say to you, is privileged information, protected under the law. I cannot be forced to divulge anything said at this meeting.’
‘Neat trick.’
‘Useful.’
‘How does it get me to finding out who tried to kill me?’
‘I wouldn’t know anything about that, Miss Todd.’
‘I’d also like to know why.’
‘I wouldn’t know anything about that, either.’
‘Then why am I here? And why did you go through that rigamarole with the dollar?’ Jane said. ‘And more important, Mr Wolf, why are you giving up your valuable time to see me in some produce warehouse on a pi
er in Brooklyn?’
‘I am a chivalrous man, Miss Todd. I always like to accommodate the wishes of an attractive woman.’ He paused. ‘Has anyone ever mentioned to you that you bear a remarkable resemblance to Glenda Farrell, the actress? She appears in the—’
‘Torchy Blane movies.’ Jane nodded. ‘I have been told that.’ She smiled. ‘She also appeared in Little Caesar, the Mob picture, but that was almost ten years back.’ Jane paused, watching what passed for a smile flicker on and off the lawyer’s face. ‘I’d still like to know why you went to all the trouble to bring me here.’
‘I like to know who my friends are and my enemies.’
‘I didn’t think I was either.’
‘That remains to be seen,’ Wolf murmured. ‘I deal in information, Miss Todd. To me it is a commodity of value.’
‘My stock in trade too,’ Jane answered. She pulled out her cigarettes and lit one. Wolf leaned forward and poked the tin ashtray forward.
‘That being the case, we might well be able to make an exchange,’ Wolf suggested.
‘Who asks who?’
‘Who asks whom,’ Wolf said with a smile.
‘I’m a photographer, not a reporter.’ Jane breathed in a double lungful of smoke and let it out slowly. ‘So who asks the questions?’
‘Ladies first.’
‘Have you ever heard of a man named Howard Raines?’
‘I knew Mr Raines to see him. A young factotum at Fallon and McGee. What was he to you?’
‘An old friend.’
‘He must have been more than that, Miss Todd. Old friends don’t go to such lengths as you have recently, including the risking of your life.’
‘We went back a long way. He’s part of who I am. Let’s just leave it at that.’
‘All right. Do you know why he was killed?’
‘Are you going to tell me?’
‘I said an exchange of information, Miss Todd, not a gift of it.’
‘Do you know a man named Joseph Shalleck?’
‘Certainly. A well known trial lawyer.’
‘Mob lawyer.’
Wolf smiled thinly. ‘According to Mr Hoover of the FBI there is no such thing as the Mob.’
‘Dewey would disagree with you. So would I.’
‘Mr Dewey disagrees with everyone.’
‘Shalleck got Howie to run an errand for him. In Havana.’
‘Yes?’
‘Did that errand have anything to do with Frank Costello?’
‘No.’
‘You seem very sure.’
‘Mr Costello is a client. Any information regarding Mr Costello’s affairs as they relate to the law are sacrosanct, protected by attorney–client privilege, just as this conversation is. Thus, should I give you an unequivocal answer regarding Mr Raines’s connection with Mr Costello, you can assume that I am very sure and that there is no such connection. Am I making myself clear?’
As clear as a lawyer ever gets, Jane thought. ‘Do you know what the errand was?’
‘Probably.’
‘What was it?’
‘We’ll get to that later.’ Wolf raised one hand and adjusted his spectacles slightly. For the first time Jane was aware that Wolfs ears protruded slightly. They were also barely without lobes at the bottom. The kind of thing Sherlock Holmes set such great store by.
‘How is Joe Kennedy involved in all this?’
‘Joe Kennedy?’
‘The ambassador to the Court of St James.’
‘Ah, that Joe Kennedy.’
‘Yeah. “Ah, that Joe Kennedy.”’
‘Why do you think Ambassador Kennedy is involved in Mr Raines’s death?’
‘The guys who dumped Howard Raines’s body used a car registered to a company Kennedy owns.’
‘That hardly rates as a connection to murder, in a legal sense, anyway. Hypothetically these people could have stolen the vehicle.’
‘We’re not talking about legal here, Mr Wolf, or hypothetical. We’re talking putting a bomb in my office and putting me into a cast for a month. We’re talking about murder and attempted murder.’
‘You must have some theory of your own about all this.’
‘Shalleck is a Mob lawyer. He used to represent your guy Frank at trial. He was Rothstein’s lawyer and he also had Dutch Schultz and Dandy Phil Kastel as clients.’
‘I fail to see your point.’
‘He was also Farley’s bagman during the last election campaign and he’s friendly with Hague over in Jersey City. From what I can find out, Hague went out of his way to cover up my friend’s murder or at least deflect attention away from it.’
‘I still don’t see what you’re getting at,’ said Wolf.
‘Kennedy, Shalleck and Hague. All Democrats, all with Mob tie-ins.’
‘A coincidence?’
‘I don’t know. You tell me.’
‘Is that all you know?’
‘No.’
‘What else do you know?’
‘Your turn,’ said Jane.
Wolf stared at her for a moment, then nodded. ‘All right. The man Howard Raines was going to see in Havana is a professional assassin. The best.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘He uses different names. I don’t think it matters.’
‘Humour me.’
‘In Havana he is known by the name Bone, John Bone. In this instance I believe he is calling himself Mr Green.’
‘Is he American?’
‘No.’
‘He’s not German, is he?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know his nationality?’
‘Yes. It’s moot.’
‘Humour me again.’
‘He was born in Ireland and received his early training there. He has not lived in Ireland for many years and has no connection with it.’
‘Howie wouldn’t have known a professional assassin if one came to the door and introduced himself. He wasn’t the type.’
Wolf nodded. ‘I would say you’re right.’
‘So how did Howie find the man?’
‘The assassin was recommended.’
‘By who?’
‘Whom,’ said Wolf.
‘Who recommended him?’
‘A client.’
‘No names?’
‘A friend of Frank Hague’s.’
The Democrat overlord of Jersey City. ‘Who else is involved?’
‘Your turn to answer questions.’
‘Shoot.’
‘I asked before if you had a theory about what was going on. You didn’t really answer the question.’
‘I still don’t have enough information.’
The door behind Wolf opened wide and a short, very thin figure appeared. He looked to be around fifty with a hatchet face and iron-grey, short-cut hair. Jane had seen his picture in the newspapers a hundred times. She had even taken one or two. The man stepping into the room was Edward J. Flynn, head of the Bronx Democratic machine, a lawyer and one-time sheriff of Bronx County. Some people said he even had the president’s ear and he’d had it since Roosevelt was governor of New York. ‘You’re Ed Flynn.’
‘You know my name. Good for you, lady,’ said Flynn. The face had the narrow, foxlike features of an Irishman but the accent was Bronx through and through. ‘I usually don’t do business with working girls.’
‘Working girls sell their bodies for sex,’ Jane answered. ‘I work, but I’m a woman.’
‘Women should make babies and casseroles.’
‘I prefer making money.’
‘Most women like that who aren’t secretaries are lesbians. You one of those?’
‘You’re being crude, Mr Flynn. I’d expected you to be a little more charming.’
‘Just having a bit of fun with you. Seeing what you were made of.’
‘Sugar and spice,’ Jane said dryly.
‘Your presence here is ill-advised,’ warned Wolf. ‘Fuck ill-advised.’ Flynn turned to Jane. ‘Your assassin was supposed to h
ave a meeting in New Orleans a couple of days after Raines talked to him. You know who was going to be at this meeting?’
‘No.’
‘Joe Shalleck, for one. Another lawyer named Davis. A senator named Ernest Lundeen and a congressman named Lyndon Johnson. A bunch of hoods from the New Orleans Mob.’ Flynn paused. ‘The killer never showed. Cancelled the meeting because he said there were too many people going to be there. He was right. Security would have been compromised. He met with a much smaller group the following day.’
‘Who was in this smaller group?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say.’
‘What did they meet about?’
‘A job for the killer.’
‘What job?’
‘Tell Mr Flynn what else it is you know,’ Wolf interrupted.
‘They knew they were going to kill Howie right from the start.’
‘Why would they want to do that?’
‘To shut him up. Because he knew who the assassin was, had seen his face, knew who was hiring him.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Whoever these people are, they’ve got the cops in their pocket, including Commissioner Valentine.’ Jane paused. ‘And it’s big. Very big.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because you’re here,’ Jane responded. ‘You’re… Ed Flynn.’ She paused, her eyes flickering to Wolf. ‘And he represents the Mob. Neither one of you would be talking to me if it wasn’t something important.’
‘Maybe we just wanted to feast our eyes on you,’ said Flynn. ‘Before we decided where to bury your lovely corpse.’
‘Did it ever occur to you that maybe you wouldn’t be leaving here alive?’ said Wolf.
Jane smiled with a confidence she didn’t feel at all. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I thought about that and then I thought that if you were going to kill me you wouldn’t be sitting here talking to me. What would be the point? You’d just have the guy who drove me here put a pill in my ear and dump me like Howie Raines.’ Christ, Howie, you sweet dumb cluck, what you started here! Jane thought wearily.
The Second Assassin Page 28