by Thomas Swan
Tony walked toward the sounds of a steel band and a blue haze rising from smoking braziers. The humid air captured the odors of broiling sausages and skewered lamb; the sweetly spiced scent of peppers, nuts, and pastries blended with unshucked corn roasting over charcoal. A trio of accordionists dressed in Bavarian costumes marched past. Crowds were gathering—chattering, laughing, some dancing a polka to music that had not yet begun.
On Garden Street the strings of lights were even more profuse, the colored bulbs casting their variegated glow in the growing darkness. Emblazoned across a banner that stretched the width of the street were the words ST. TERESA BLOCK PARTY.
Tony continued on Garden Street to 126. He had picked either a poor night or the best of all nights to break into Stiehl’s apartment. The crowds concealed him when he stationed himself across the street, where, unnoticed, he sized up the situation.
He studied the building, his eyes moving from window to window. The curtains in the bay window were pulled aside and Stiehl could be clearly seen looking down to the crowds. A young girl was beside him. His daughter, Tony correctly assumed. The figures disappeared, then the lights in the bay window went out. Minutes later Stiehl and Stephanie walked from the entrance and were quickly absorbed by the crowd.
Tony waited until he was certain that Stiehl was caught in the spirit of the block party. Then he moved out of the shadows and crossed the street. He reached the steps leading to the vestibule when two men ran by him and into the building. Again he waited. Lights went on in the rooms where the men had gone. Tony darted up the steps.
In the dimly lighted vestibule he found six mailboxes with a name and doorbell under each. Stiehl’s neatly printed name was under a box that had a crudely stenciled “2A” above it. The door leading to the upper floors was locked. A phonograph played behind the door leading into the first-floor apartment, the music contrasting with the jumble of street sounds. He took a set of steel probes from his pocket and kneeled to pick the lock. The dim light was less a handicap than was the noise from the street. He wanted to hear the pieces of metal in the lock sliding against each other. Then new sounds came from laughing voices and footsteps growing louder as they raced down the stairs. He stepped beside the door just as two children flung it open and continued through the vestibule and out to the party.
Tony caught the door before it closed and quickly ran up to the second floor. The lock to Stiehl’s apartment was a Schlage—durable, common, and easily picked. He inserted a thin probe, then with a vibrating motion moved the tumblers into position and turned the chamber. It did not move. He tried again with a stouter probe: this time the handle turned. He entered into what had formerly been a bedroom and now served as a living room with its wide, high bay windows. Glints of red and blue light shone eerily through the curtains. In the middle of the bay he could make out a long table, and on it a metal lathe, assorted power tools, and a small drill press. Before turning on a light he pulled the curtains.
Street noises blotted out the soft creaking sound of the dry floorboards, and just as he switched on the lamp he realized he was not alone. He swung around expecting to find Stiehl glaring at him but he saw only a dark object falling toward his head.
He turned to avoid a direct blow and a thick length of wood glanced over his ear splitting the skin. He was thrown off balance but his instincts remained sharp. From a crouch he reached out to grab his attacker.
The weapon arced through the air again, this time crashing into the lamp. Now only a trickle of light came through the curtains. Tony lunged forward, his powerful hands searching for the legs of his assailant. Then the hunk of wood crashed painfully onto the bone at the top of his shoulder. As he frantically reached out again he was struck a final time. The last blow was devastating and sent him sprawling on the floor.
Immediately the attacker turned Tony onto his back then pressed an ear to his chest. He found a towel in the bathroom, soaked it, and wrapped it around Tony’s bleeding head.
He retrieved the lamp, found another bulb, then set it in the center of the table. He next took a camera and took shots of the machines, the boxes of pens and quills, and the half-dozen pages of sketches and notes found beside the lathe. Finally he shone the light on Tony and finished off the roll of film.
The attacker turned Samaritan inspected Tony’s ear and the cuts higher up on his scalp. Apparently satisfied that the damage was not serious, he switched off the light and left Tony to the emptiness of the apartment.
Tony remained unconscious for ten minutes, then experienced additional minutes of semiawareness. The pain in his head and shoulder intensified, and when he was fully conscious, he discovered the wet towel and ran it over his face, then pressed it against his bleeding, hot ear. He attempted to push himself into a sitting position but his shoulder felt as if a barbed needle had been twisted deep inside him. He fell to the floor and lay motionless.
He could hear the singing from the crowds outside the window; a brass band playing off-key paraded by. The pain became near paralyzing, then lessened. He gripped the leg of the table and pulled himself to a sitting position. For an hour he sat, painfully awake at times, thankfully asleep at others.
The door to the apartment opened, and the light from the hall spilled over him.
“What in hell . . .”
“It’s me. Tony.” He struggled to his feet, reaching for an anchor to steady his unsteady legs.
“You sneaking bastard. You’ve gone too far.” Stiehl flipped on the ceiling lights.
“Stop acting so damned tough and help me.” Tony found a chair and fell into it, his head sagging and the towel now soaked in blood. “You might thank me for taking this beating. He’d’ve given it to you if you’d returned sooner.”
“Let me see what he did to you.”
Stiehl gently probed the cuts then dabbed the wound with peroxide and applied a bandage. While first aid was administered, Tony explained he had come to fulfill his obligation to Jonas Kalem.
“Precautions are necessary. The fact someone’s been in your apartment is proof that without tight security the entire operation could be exposed. Who was it, Stiehl? What was he looking for?”
“I’d guess it was a Treasury guy who knows I’m out and thinks he can hang another bad-paper rap on me. I was told they might come snooping.”
“Could it have anything to do with the da Vinci papers?”
“Only four people know what we’re doing.” Stiehl shook his head. “No. Nothing to do with Leonardo.”
“Don’t be too sure only four people know about Leonardo. A call came in today from the New York police. They’ve been asked by Scotland Yard to find you and me and ask questions.”
“Questions about what?”
“I don’t plan to find out. They won’t know to look for Keith Habershon, and I want to keep it that way.”
“I asked you earlier about the policewoman. Is that why they’re looking for you?”
Tony didn’t answer. He went into the bathroom and put cold water on the cuts. Then he sat at the table that held Stiehl’s metal-working tools and the pens he had made.
“I came to see your goddamned pen factory and, having nearly lost my life doing that, feel entitled to an explanation of what I’m looking at and what you’ve been up to.” There was the tiniest glint of humor in the way he said it. He may well have been on a fool’s errand, but had came close to a tragedy.
“It’s all right there,” Stiehl said. “A few tools, some strips of thin steel, and a box of pens.”
Tony picked up several pages of drawings. “What are these?”
“Designs for the pens I’ve made. They can’t be bought, so I made them.”
Tony was hurting and was in no mood to prolong his investigation. “Mr. Kalem won’t be happy with our news.” He reached the door, a hand to his head. “I predict he’ll want both of us out of New York. And soon. My advice to you is stay clear of the other workers.”
“Why are the police looking for us?
I’ve done nothing.” Stiehl went to Tony’s side. “The police have linked me with you and it’s you they want. Why?”
Tony didn’t answer.
“Why, damn it?” He grabbed Tony by the collar. “Did you kill that policewoman?”
“You’re out of your bloody mind.” Tony broke loose, opened the door, and rushed down the stairs and out to the laughter and music.
Chapter 18
September was ending without a cool wind to relieve the humid dreariness. Walter Deats tried to fight off the unaccustomed heat but his wardrobe was suited to the English countryside, not the phenomenon of a hot, breezeless Bermuda high smothering Manhattan.
His plea to Windsor’s chief of police for the opportunity to trail Anthony Waters had been agreed to only after Elliot Heston interceded with an informal deputation and a small financial subsidy. But a final decision wasn’t made until late on Monday, and Deats scrambled to catch a flight on Tuesday afternoon. His plane was on the ground at 2:48 and the taxi deposited him at his hotel on West Thirty-fourth Street at 4:45. Quickly he registered, sent his bag to his room, and was back in a cab on his way to meet Alexander Tobias at police headquarters.
Chief of Detectives Alexander Tobias stood at the door to his office at the end of a long corridor that linked the chief ’s command center with central reception. Tobias was in his mid-fifties. He had a broad, friendly face and a full head of salt-and-pepper hair. He advanced down the hallway to greet his guest.
“Welcome, Superintendent. Sorry it’s like a sauna in here but our air conditioner’s on the fritz.”
Deats gripped the detective’s hand. “Elliot sends his regards.”
They entered the office exchanging the idle banter of two professionals. Tobias closed the door then sat on the edge of his desk. “Let me update you.” He opened a manila folder and leafed through the pages.
“On Friday Elliot telephoned and asked that we check on the whereabouts of Anthony Waters and Curtis Stiehl and develop a profile on Jonas Kalem. The best I could do was phone Kalem’s office yesterday, but that didn’t give me much. Kalem wasn’t in and I spoke with his brother, who said that Anthony Waters had been mixed up in their organization but there had been a quarrel and Waters was booted out. The brother claims to have no personal knowledge of Curtis Stiehl . . . said he’d look into the records and asked that I phone the next day.”
Tobias stepped behind his desk. “I decided against another phone call and paid them a visit. Quite a layout they’ve got. Entrance from one elevator bank, exit from another. Tight security. Considerable art on display, most of it good stuff, but I’m no judge of that. The brother wasn’t there so I spoke with an Edna Braymore, Kalem’s personal secretary, who’s also the office manager. She was tight-lipped and nervous as hell. She claimed Waters hadn’t been in the office for six months.” He sat on the edge of his desk. “Kalem’s in Europe, and I find it unbelievable that she doesn’t know where to reach him. She confirmed that Curtis Stiehl was an employee but that he wasn’t to be disturbed. And when I asked when the brother would return, she said she didn’t know.”
Deats played with his glasses. “Anthony Waters hasn’t been seen for six months?”
“Yep. That’s what they claim.”
“Strange. We know he was with Kalem less than two weeks ago. Even so, with the exception of Stiehl, no one is minding the store. A bit extraordinary, wouldn’t you say?”
“We accumulated some good information today, however.” Tobias flipped open another folder. “Waters is one of your boys, so I put him aside, but I ran the other two names past the FBI’s Identification Division. Kalem showed up in the New York files, and Stiehl had quite a write-up in the federal records as well as in New Jersey.”
Deats tossed his heavy jacket onto a chair. “Good show, Alex. Please go on.”
“Eight years ago Jonas Kalem was indicted on a charge of extortion. He overcharged several of his clients who saw to it that the charges were paid, then were paid off for their cooperation. It was a sophisticated kick-back scheme that involved several million dollars. An audit tripped him up and eventually he was caught in the conspiracy. When he was brought to trial, he agreed to make full restitution. A number of prominent companies were involved and they dropped the charges rather than face the bad publicity.”
“And Stiehl? What’s his background?”
Alexander Tobias did not reply but walked to his office door and gave a signal. Into the room walked a man who appeared more distressed by the heat than Walter Deats. He carried his seersucker jacket like it was an old gunnysack and his tie dangled over a soiled, damp shirt. From his unshined shoes to his scraggly hair he was a tonsorial disaster. But he wore a grin and his face was touched with mischievousness.
He held out a hand and said in a nasal voice touched with an unmistakable Bronx accent, “Hi, Superintendent. I’m Len Bascom, U.S. Treasury. Alex here told me you’d be here today and could I come meet you.”
They shook hands. Deats was slightly amused by this most unlikely representative from the august United States Treasury Department. But he was also confused and looked to Tobias for an explanation.
“Leonard goes back a long way with Curtis Stiehl. His story might interest you.”
“Stiehl’s a convicted counterfeiter,” Bascom began, “served a fouryear stretch.” Bascom described the fraudulent New Jersey municipal securities scheme, Stiehl’s apprehension and trial. “I was involved in counterfeiting at that time. Stiehl operated alone, never on a large scale. But he’s a pro. Best we’ve ever seen.” He took a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet. “I’ve carried this for four years. I’m not turning it in until Stiehl goes with it.”
Deats ran his fingers over the note. His impression was that it was excellently produced. “What do you need to make a charge?”
“The usual. Passing his homemade bills, locate his presses, or get hold of the goddamned plates that I know were in his house when he was arrested.”
“Tell Superintendent Deats why you’re so sure,” Tobias urged.
“During Stiehl’s trial we went through his home with everything but a bulldozer and came up with nothing. Three years later his wife gets a divorce and sells the house. I don’t learn about the sale for another couple of months, then I go back to see if it’s occupied. The house is empty and I see everything’s changed—doors moved, new windows, fresh paint. I check the local real-estate people and find it’s up for sale again. I’m thinkin’ we shook that house down—Christ, we didn’t scratch the surface. They tore the bricks out of the fireplace, then built a new one. Somebody knew about the plates and wanted them more than we did.” A drop of perspiration formed on the end of his nose. “Jesus, it’s hotter’n a whore’s snatch in here.
“There have been two owners since Stiehl’s wife sold it. The first was a man named Frank Pearson. He paid with a certified check. No mortgage. Two weeks later he sells it. Again, for cash. The deeds are filed all nice and tidy. Pearson sells to a pension trust account being administered by the Barclay Bank in New York. The deed gets filed under the name J.R.K., Ltd., London, with the bank as agent.”
Deats looked up from his notebook. “A London company bought the property?”
“Damn right. The money came out of London but control was here in New York.” Bascom turned to Tobias. “Does he know?”
The chief shook his head.
“When the inquiry from Scotland Yard hit the computer, I got alerted that activity’s being churned up on Stiehl. I traced it to Alex here. Then I learned you fellows were also interested in Jonas Kalem. Stiehl works for Kalem . . . has since he was released from prison.”
“We assumed that. They were together in London,” Deats said.
“Kalem has a branch operation in London, goes under the name Jonas R. Kalem, Ltd. There’s the J.R.K., Ltd. connection.”
Deats continued writing in his notebook. “Kalem and Stiehl are a pair, that’s confirmed. Who’s Pearson?”
“That lead
’s dead. Probably a nobody to muddy the trail.”
“How does Anthony Waters fit in? He was with them in London.”
“I don’t know this Waters guy,” Bascom answered. “Give me an identification on him.”
Deats replied, describing Waters as he had seen him in the library in the role of Gregory Hewlitt. He showed the police artist’s drawing.
“I’ve had surveillance teams on Stiehl’s apartment all summer. We went in once but didn’t find anything more than some drawings and scribbling that one of my men says looks like Latin. I can’t get a search warrant or tap his phone, so I’m taking a chance on breaking in. Then we see he’s bringing home some heavy packages and what we think are metal-working tools and I say we got to get in there again. Fuck the warrant. I want to do it at night but he never goes out. Last night he does. A big street festival’s going on and he has a young girl with him. I take my best lockpicker and we’re in his apartment in forty seconds. But somebody has the same idea. I know it isn’t Stiehl coming back and I don’t think introductions are in order. I coldcock him before he has a chance to run. I photograph the machines and the guy. Here are the shots.”
Deats asked for a magnifying glass. Tobias obliged and Deats examined the photographs more closely. “He’s not counterfeiting with this kind of machinery. Not money at any rate. But these photos, the ones of the guy you put to sleep. I’ll wager it’s Anthony Waters. Look here . . . across the back of his hand. Can you have this enlarged?”
“‘Sure thing. Have it tomorrow.”
Then silence, each waiting for the other to speak. Alex Tobias was the first: “Quite an interesting trio we’re dealing with. An extortionist, a counterfeiter, and—”
“A murderer.” Deats completed the sentence.
Twenty-six blocks north a lone figure stood at a window in an upper floor of the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Tony had not heard Jonas’s voice since he monitored the call to Stiehl on Friday. His calls to the Excelsior went unanswered, then on Sunday he was told to expect a call from Jonas on Tuesday. The day was drawing to a close when finally the call came through. An angry voice gave instructions. Tony read them back and was relieved when the conversation finally ended.