The Tin Man

by Nina Mason

“Damn your security,” he roared, now beside himself. “I’m her friend. I checked in with her. And now she’s not answering and I’m worried about her.”

  "I’d like to help, the operator said, “but it’s against hotel policy to give out a guest’s room number.”

  Flustered, he slammed down the phone. He lit a cigarette, took it to the window, pushed back the curtains, and looked out. His view overlooked a tarpaper rooftop with a bulbous skylight. When his cell started to go, he dove across the bed, snatched up the receiver, and said, “Yeah?”

  “Did you just call me?”

  “Thea, thank God. Why didn’t you answer?”

  “If you must know, I was tinkling.”

  “Sorry,” he said, feeling mildly embarrassed.

  “Now, would you mind telling me what’s so all-fire important that it couldn’t wait until I’ve had my beauty sleep?”

  He took a breath. In his panic, he’d nearly forgotten why he’d called. “Before I tell you, give me your room number.”

  “Why? Have you changed your mind about paying me a visit?”

  “No. But give it to me anyway. In case I need to call again.”

  “Two Eleven,” she said, sounding irritated. “What’s yours?”

  “Four Seventeen.”

  There was a prolonged pause before she said, “And…?”

  “Sorry?”

  “What was so urgent that you had to call me in the middle of the night?”

  “Oh, right,” he said, collecting his thoughts. “I just saw Azi Zahhak on CNN. And I think he may be the one who called.”

  “Who’s Azi Zahhak?”

  “He’s the Saudi prince who owns The Babylon Group, which is about to buy Atlas.”

  “Are you sure he’s the one who called?”

  “It wasn’t the clearest connection, but it might have been.”

  Silence.

  “What’s the motive? For killing your people, I mean.”

  “How would I know? Maybe he’s doing it as a favor to Osbourne. They own shares in each other’s companies, you know.”

  “And what about my grandfather? What’s this Saudi prince person got to do with him?”

  Buchanan rolled his eyes, exasperated. “Again, how would I know?”

  “Let me see if I’ve got this straight: You saw a Saudi on television. You think he might be the one you talked to on the phone. But then again, he might not be. And you have no idea how he might be involved.”

  He felt like an arse. And a bit of a racist.

  “Aye, well.”

  “Can I go to bed now?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “Oh, and Buchanan?”

  “Aye?”

  “If you phone me again tonight, it had better be for a booty call.”

  Chapter 16

  Wednesday

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  A loud thump jolted Buchanan awake. Sitting bolt upright, he looked around the dark room, disoriented. Where was he? Oh, right. The Holiday Inn in Philadelphia. Another thump jolted his heart. Bloody hell. Someone was at the door.

  “Buchanan? Are you in there? Open up.”

  It was Thea’s voice, sounding distressed.

  “Hang on,” he shouted, still in a fog. “I was sleeping.”

  “What?! Well, get your ass up. We’re meeting Witherspoon in ten minutes.”

  Grunting, Buchanan glanced at the bedside clock. It was a quarter after ten. Jesus wept. He must have really been knackered. Shaking the clinging strands of sleep from his mind, he got up and dressed quickly. Still buttoning his shirt, he limped to the door in bare feet. The minute he opened it, her arm shot toward him with a cup of coffee.

  “Here.”

  “Thanks,” he said, pleasantly surprised.

  She had on the short skirt and boots again, but with a blue sweater this time. She pushed past him, strode to the bed, and sat on the edge. He caught a glimpse of her lace knickers as she said, “I called Witherspoon an hour ago and told him our theory about the chair. He called back a little while later to say he found something taped to the underside of the seat. A key. Attached to an index card. There’s something written on the card, too.”

  “What?” he said, dimly aware he was staring at her tits, which filled out her sweater admirably.

  “He wouldn’t tell me on the phone,” she replied, taking a quick sip of her coffee. “He says he’d rather show it to us in person.” She took a breath and blew it out. “So get a move on.”

  Glancing around, he spotted his brogues by the chair where he’d thrown his trousers the night before. He limped across the room, set his coffee on the table, and sat. As he pulled on yesterday’s socks, he said, “What do you make of the key?”

  “I’m guessing it’s to a safe deposit box somewhere,” she replied. “What do you think?”

  “I’m thinking you’re right,” he said. “But, any clue which bank?”

  “No, but I assume it’s here in Philadelphia…or possibly back in Intercourse, depending on whether or not my grandfather brought whatever it is with him.”

  “Sounds like he knew somebody was looking for it,” Buchanan offered,“and him.”

  “Then why didn’t he try to stop them?” Her voice sounded shaky. “Why didn’t he call the police?”

  “Maybe he knew it wouldn’t do him any good,” he offered as he tied his laces. “It’s not like they’ve been able to solve the slaughter of my staff—or even appear to be trying.”

  “Have you spoken to Detective Bradshaw since we left New York?”

  “Only once,” he said, “and he still had no leads.”

  “Did you tell him about the men in Intercourse?—and that poor Amish family?”

  “Aye, Thea. And while I was at it, I told him all about how we shot out a state trooper’s tire, killed a couple of Arabs, and commandeered their stolen vehicle.” He shot her a stern look. “I also told him not to bother sending his lot to arrest me—that I’d be dropping by the local precinct right after lunch to turn myself in.”

  “You don’t have to get snarky,” she said, standing. “I was just asking.”

  “I know...and I’m sorry,” he said, softening his tone. “I guess I’m just a wee bit on edge this morning.”

  She arched a brow. “Gee, I can’t imagine why…”

  He rose and headed into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He emptied his bladder, washed up, and brushed his teeth with his finger. He hoped they’d find time today to stop somewhere he could pick up a toothbrush, razor, and some clean underwear. He was beginning to look a sight, he thought, rubbing his stubble as he peered into the mirror.

  Returning to the room, he grabbed his gun, shot her a look, and said, “Let’s roll.”

  * * * *

  As the circular Grecian face of the old Merchant’s Exchange came into view, they spotted Witherspoon waiting for them out front. When they were almost to him, the curator pulled something out of his coat pocket and held it out. Reaching him first, Thea took it and examined it briefly before showing it to Buchanan. It was a small key, similar in shape to a skeleton key, only flat, fastened with scotch tape to a lined index card. Scrawled on the card in a hurried hand was this:

  Hamilton

  Citizens

  1776

  Turning to Thea, Buchanan asked, “Any idea what it means?”

  She shook her head.

  “It isn’t like Frank to be obtuse,” Witherspoon volunteered. “But, clearly, he didn’t want to make it easy on whoever happened across this.”

  Thea was gazing down at the card, fingering the key with a ponderous expression. “Hamilton,” she said. “Do you suppose he means me or the founder?”

  “It’s got to be a clue to what the key fits,” Buchanan offered. “So my guess is he meant the founder.”

  “Right,” she said, wheels turning inside her head. Hamilton was secretary of the treasury. He started the first bank, which was right here. Across the street. She turned to Witherspo
on. “Is there any chance the key fits something inside the bank building?”

  “I can’t imagine how,” the curator said, “since your grandfather wouldn’t have had access. Besides, that key looks new.”

  Her gaze shifted to Buchanan, then back to Witherspoon. “Is there, by any chance, a bank with Hamilton’s name here in Philadelphia?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Witherspoon said, “but we could go to my office and check. Just to be sure.”

  They followed him through the small public lobby, up the stairs, and into an office cluttered with books, antiques, and historic paraphernalia. Witherspoon rounded the desk, tapped on his computer keyboard, and studied the screen.

  “Nope,” he said after a minute. “Sorry. As I suspected, there’s no Hamilton Bank here in Philly. Or, as it turns out, anywhere else in Pennsylvania.”

  “Seems a little odd,” Buchanan observed, “that there’s no bank named for the man who created the country’s entire monetary system.”

  Witherspoon was behind the desk, staring at the screen, cradling his jaw and tapping his face with a finger. “I just thought of something,” he announced, looking up. “A while back, one of the bank chains here in town started running an ad campaign featuring an actor playing Alexander Hamilton. I remember it because a few folks kicked up quite a fuss about it. One critic called Hamilton a terrible choice for a spokesman, claiming his ideas paved the way for the economic quagmire the country was in at the time.” He drew a deep breath and let it out with an audible huff. “Personally, I believe deregulation and greed—not Mr. Hamilton’s policies—were to blame for the Wall Street meltdown, but what do I know?” He winked at Buchanan as he added, “I’m only a humble historian at Independence Hall.”

  “And your point?” Buchanan prodded, feeling eager to get on with it. “About the key?”

  “Oh, right,” Witherspoon said, running his hands through his thinning hair. “I’m trying to remember the name of the advertiser.”

  “And you think the professor would have seen these controversial ads?”

  “Not the ads themselves perhaps,” Witherspoon replied, “but I know for a fact he saw the column criticizing them, because we discussed it on a couple of different occasions. It was in the Examiner, a Libertarian newspaper. Among other things, the writer accused the person who came up with the ads of knowing nothing about history.” Dropping his gaze to the screen, he tapped a few keys. “Just give me a minute. I’ll bet I can find it.” Tap, tap. “Ah, yes, here it is.”

  The curator cleared his throat, moved his mouse, and clicked on something. Buchanan waited while he scanned the page. After a minute, Witherspoon said, “This is the part that really irked Frank: ‘Alexander Hamilton supported big government; Thomas Jefferson supported personal freedoms and responsibility.’”

  Witherspoon peeled off his spectacles. His exposed blue eyes were blazing as he said, with indignity, “As if supporting a strong federal government automatically precludes personal freedoms and responsibilities. On top of which, Jefferson, although a great man and a great patriot, was no pillar of personal perfection. If you ask me, the man professed noble ideals, but, at the end of the day, was incapable of living up to them.”

  Buchanan shook his head. “If you ask me, the big difference between Hamilton and Jefferson was that Hamilton believed in a strong, central federal government yet feared the masses were too ignorant and impressionable to be trusted with the responsibility of maintaining it. He felt, as in England, that the more educated classes should rule. Jefferson, on the other hand, believed in strong states’ rights and that the general electorate, if educated and informed, could rise to the occasion. The question remains: who was right?”

  “Hamilton,” Thea answered without hesitation. “Just look around. Look at the last presidential election. Anyone who doesn’t think the White House was purchased for Richard Freeman with corporate money is blind, a damn fool, or both.”

  “Be careful there, Thea.” Buchanan chuckled. “You’re starting to sound like me.”

  “I don’t disagree with either of you,” Witherspoon said, “but it could also be argued that the biggest chasm between Mr. Jefferson and Mr. Hamilton had to do with foreign trade policy. Mr. Jefferson, a southerner with agricultural interests, favored free trade while Mr. Hamilton, a leading proponent of manufacturing, championed protectionism.”

  Protectionism, Buchanan knew, was the economic policy of restraining trade between nations by imposing things like tariffs on imported goods, restrictive quotas, and other regulations aimed at leveling the playing field between foreign and domestic competitors. The policy contrasted with “free trade,” where governmental barriers to trade and the movement of capital were minimal by design.

  “It quickly escalated into a battle between northern manufacturers and southern planters,” Witherspoon went on. “The slave-holding states, which enjoyed low-cost labor, wanted to be free to buy manufactured goods wherever they chose. The northern states, by the same token, wanted to protect emerging industries until they were strong enough to compete with foreign importers. The fight continued throughout the nineteenth century—between the Northern Whigs, who favored tariffs, and the Southern Democrats, who bitterly opposed them. Eventually, the Whig Party collapsed, making room for the fledgling Republicans, who also opposed free trade. During the Civil War, Abraham Lincoln, the first Republican president, imposed a forty-four percent tariff on imports. The defeat of the South and the elimination of slavery, which ended free labor and thereby forced mechanization, assured Republican dominance—and the dominance of protectionist policies.”

  “Wait a minute,” Thea said, looking confused. “Don’t the Republicans favor free trade? Aren’t they all about globalization and deregulation?”

  “The tables radically turned at the beginning of the twentieth century,” Witherspoon told her. “The Southern Democrats rose from the ashes, joining with the Northern Progressives to oppose runaway corporate conglomeration. The Progressives supported free trade as a way to achieve global cooperation and world peace, and to undermine the Republican power base. Then came the First World War and the Great Depression. Roosevelt, a Democrat, blamed the protectionist policies of his Republican predecessor, Herbert Hoover, for the nation’s economic collapse. Protectionism fell out of favor, but so did the Progressive’s vision of a one-world government. And, of course, by then, American industry had established a solid foothold in the international market.”

  Buchanan, although fascinated, couldn’t help but notice that Thea was now eyeing him intrepidly.

  “As interesting as all of this is,” she said when he met her gaze, “aren’t we forgetting something?”

  “Right,” Buchanan said, looking at Witherspoon. “Have you come up with the name of the bank?”

  “I can’t believe I couldn’t remember,” Witherspoon said, coloring a little. “It’s as plain as the nose on my face. Citizen’s Bank. Like it says on the card. Hamilton. Citizens. And I’ll bet you anything, 1776 is the number of the safe deposit box containing the very thing everyone is looking for.

  * * * *

  The curator had told the journalists there was a branch of Citizen’s Bank a few blocks away in the old Corn Exchange Bank building on Chestnut, just past Second Street. It was a real architectural gem, he’d said. They were on their way there now, striding up Third with brisk determination.

  The late morning air was crisp and the sky was that deep shade of autumn azure Thea relished. But it was also chilly, and her sweater wasn’t heavy enough to keep out the cold. She longed for a coat with pockets for her hands, which were starting to ache. She glanced longingly at Buchanan’s tweed. Maybe he’d offer it to her again if she dropped a hint. She gave him a meaningful smile as she feigned a shiver. To her vexation, he merely hobbled along, oblivious. Setting her jaw, she folded her arms across her chest, tucking her hands into her armpits for warmth.

  A city bus roared by, shaking the sidewalk and kicking up an icy
gust. She moved closer to him, yearning to, at the very least, put her arm through his and snuggle against him. Would he stiffen? Would he shake her off? Unwilling to risk it, she sucked it up and quickened her pace, leaving him behind.

  She reached Chestnut a few steps ahead and cut the corner toward the right, charging past restaurants, hotels, an architect’s office, and an espresso shop. As she slowed to inhale the tantalizing aroma of freshly ground coffee beans, he caught up with her. She didn’t look at him.

  She could see the bank now, half a block ahead. Witherspoon was right. It was beautifully festooned with concrete moldings, portals, corbels, balustrades, and window frames. Rising out of the nearest corner was an elaborate clock tower capped with a verdigris copper dome. On the side, in chiseled concrete letters, were the words: Corn Exchange National Bank. Over a smoked-glass door, under a scrolled federal pediment, a green canvas awning advertised:

  Citizens Bank

  Open 7 days

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” she said.

  “Indeed,” he returned, stepping up to open the door.

  As he held it for her, she squeezed past, letting her hips brush against the front of his slacks. He cleared his throat, but didn’t pull away. Wearing a smile, she proceeded to the lobby, which offered an impressive display of towering pillars, soaring coffered ceilings, and inlaid marble. She stepped to the center, pausing there to wait for him. When he came up behind her, she was hyper-aware of his radiant energy. And his smell—a feral blend of manly musk and stale smoke. As her blood began to heat, she drew a jagged breath and stepped away.

  Collecting herself, she scanned the space. To her right, a short line of people waited by velvet ropes for the tellers. On the left was a cluster of desks. She waited for one of the managers to look her way. When a heavy-set African-American woman did just that, Thea moved toward her. The woman was wearing a navy-blue blazer and shiny red lipstick. The sign on her desk read: Sharon Mabry.

  “How can I help you?” Sharon’s smile was broad, her teeth straight and dazzling white.