“Yeah,” I said. “And he’ll probably take a dimmer view of Nick ordering one of his cops killed.”
“Huh?”
“That was the other thing which happened. Bartkowiak sicked a couple of guns on me last night.” I explained in detail just what had happened.
I had seen the captain mad before, but usually his anger was directed at some underling—sometimes at me. I had never seen him get angry at an influential politician, regardless of what the politician did. He always had a ready excuse for the behavior of anyone who had the commissioner’s ear. But apparently passing at one of his men was more than even such a wily back-rubber as Maurice Spangler was willing to tolerate. His face turned beet red.
“Is this cheap hood under arrest?” he rasped.
“He’s going to be. Lieutenant Wynn didn’t want to get a lot of people out of bed to draw up a warrant. I’m going along with the homicide boys to help serve it.”
“He should have been dragged out of bed and thrown in the clink without a warrant!”
“How long do you think he would have stayed there?” I asked reasonably. “We’ll probably have trouble sticking him even with all the proper legal machinery awake and functioning. The guns he hired are too dead to testify, so the only actual evidence we have that Nick ordered the kill is Jake Stark. And all his evidence amounts to is that Nick told him to phone me and make an appointment to meet him. Can you imagine what Nick’s attorney could do with that?”
This seemed only to infuriate the captain more. “Is there any doubt in your mind that Bartkowiak ordered you killed?” he demanded.
I shook my head. “I’m sure of it.”
“So am I,” he said grimly. “If the commissioner and the D.A. don’t go all out for a conviction on this, I intend to raise so much hell, they’ll hear the squawk all the way to the state capitol.”
It was nice to have the captain fighting on our side for a change, instead of admonishing us for stepping on the toes of vested interest. I very nearly felt proud of him.
I said, “The commissioner will probably feel the same way you do, Chief. You can say one thing for old Baldy …” At the captain’s glare, I quickly changed it to, “I mean Mr. Mason. He may give us hell for arresting privileged citizens on charges less than murder, but he doesn’t like even the most privileged to gun for his cops. Even if we don’t get a conviction, I suspect Nick’s influence with the department will be zero from here on out.”
“His influence with this division will certainly be zero,” Spangler growled. “And I’ll back that up with my job.”
I got to my feet. “I’m going over to Homicide to see if they’ve got a warrant yet. Lincoln and I will log in for regular duty at one P.M.”
He nodded. “Keep me posted on developments concerning Bartkowiak. And take all the time you want to assist Homicide. Under the circumstances I consider Mr. Bartkowiak as much our concern as theirs.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll keep you posted.”
Lieutenant Harry Anderson and Sergeant Max Cole, who had taken the original squeal on the Desmond case, were both in the homicide squadroom. Anderson is a plump, good-natured man in his forties and Cole is a thin, gloomy hypochondriac of about the same age who chronically suffers the symptoms of a dozen imaginary diseases.
Harry Anderson, unlike Lieutenant Robert Wynn, doesn’t care a hoot in Hades about rank. I said, “Morning, Harry. How are you, Max?”
The last was a mistake, because Max Cole is the type of person who takes such questions literally. “Got a touch of my old back trouble again, Matt. And my gall bladder’s been acting up again. I’ve been going to a new doc who …”
“You sure had some excitement last night,” Harry Anderson interrupted. The only way to stop Cole, once he starts to enumerate his symptoms, is to interrupt him.
“Yeah,” I said. “Did Wynn leave a note about my request?”
“Uh-huh. You’re welcome to come along. We’re waiting for a warrant to arrive from the D.A.’s office now. Two warrants, as a matter of fact. We’re also picking up Artie Nowak as a material witness in the Desmond case.”
“It’ll be a pleasure to help you serve that too,” I said. “But why a warrant? He didn’t show any disinclination to cooperate last night.”
“Bob Wynn’s idea,” Anderson said. “According to his notes in the case record, he and Carter questioned Stark half the night, and weren’t able to shake his story of the girl being dead when he arrived at her apartment. They finally quit, convinced he was telling a straight story. Wynn thinks Little Artie must have killed the girl. That business of instructing Stark to run several other errands before he went to Kitty Desmond’s apartment has all the earmarks of deliberately setting up an alibi. Wynn wants him pulled in on some charge strong enough to hold him for a while, so we can do a thorough job of questioning.”
“How the mighty have fallen,” I said. “Earlier last night Wynn was all upset from just having to ask Artie a few polite questions in his own tavern. Now he wants him dragged down to headquarters like a common criminal.”
Anderson grinned. “Thanks to you getting yourself shot at. Little Artie’s protection was Nick Bartkowiak, and today Nick couldn’t get a parking ticket fixed. Not that he’d try to get Artie off the hook anyway, since he seems to be trying to shaft the guy completely out of the organization.”
Max Cole said gloomily, “We’ll never stick Little Artie for the Desmond job unless we can establish he left the tavern while Stark was gone.”
“I think we can establish pretty definitely whether or not he did,” I said.
“Yeah?” Anderson asked with raised brows.
“I’ve got a witness who spent all day in the tavern. I didn’t mention it to Wynn, but that’s how I learned Stark was gone for an hour. After we serve the warrants, I’ll look him up.”
“Who’s the guy?”
“An old fellow who hangs around there.”
Anderson said, “Give us his name and you won’t have to bother with it.”
“No bother,” I said. “Spangler gave me permission to work along with you guys as long as I want.”
Anderson looked surprised. “What’s gotten into him? Usually it’s like prying gold from a miser to get one of his cops assigned to special duty with another division.”
“He’s sore about me being fingered,” I said. “He put on quite an impressive show. He even threatened to speak nastily to Baldy Mason and the D.A. if they don’t go all out to convict Bartkowiak for conspiracy.”
“Spangler?” Anderson asked in disbelief. “He wouldn’t raise his voice to the big brass if he caught one of them picking his pocket.”
Within the division we make jokes about the captain’s tactful handling of higher-ups, but we don’t much like similar comments from outsiders.
“The old man’s as good a cop as anybody you have over here,” I said in a nettled voice.
I think Anderson was prepared to give me an argument, but we were both sidetracked by the entry into the squadroom of a young man in civilian clothes.
“Here comes the messenger from the D.A.’s office,” Max Cole announced. “I guess we’ve got our warrants.”
CHAPTER 21
In addition to his political activities and having a finger in every racket on the south side, Nick Bartkowiak had a legitimate business. He was president of the Falcon Amusement Company, which placed pinball games, shuffle boards, cigarette vendors and jukeboxes in taverns and restaurants on a percentage basis. The percentage was fifty-fifty, which meant, because Falcon had a monopoly on such business, that Nick raked in half of everything dropped into coin machines anywhere in town.
With this gold mine, you would think he wouldn’t need any other interests, but to some extent his legitimate business was dependent on his less legitimate activities. Ordinarily competition in the coin-machine business is pretty keen. Bartkowiak maintained his monopoly partly through political influence, which made it difficult for any other distributor t
o obtain a license to operate, and partly through his army of goons, who tended to discourage competition by sabotaging rival machines and, sometimes, sabotaging their owners.
Headquarters for all his varied activities was the Falcon Amusement Company offices at Kosiusko and Jerboa, in the heart of the Polish section. We arrived there at nine-thirty A.M.
Since the people whose votes he controlled came here for political favors, Bartkowiak didn’t maintain an elaborate office. In keeping with his pose as a man of the people, he had only a plain, simply furnished waiting room and a small private office, the door to which was always open. There was no receptionist, as the factory workers on the south side would have considered that an affectation. Constituents wandered in and out of his office at will, familiarly addressing him as Nick instead of as Mr. Bartkowiak.
There was usually some guy lounging around the waiting room, however, who performed some of the duties of a receptionist. When Nick was there, he had no apparent function. But as there had to be someone around to tell visitors when Nick might be expected back on the occasions when he was out of the office, Bartkowiak kept one of his goons on duty to perform this service. Today it was Biffy Jagoda, a lean, sleekly dressed man with drooping eyelids and a studiously blank expression.
There were also two other people in the waiting room when we arrived. An old man in overalls and a younger man in a black leather jacket and skin-tight pants sat on opposite sides of the room. I guessed they were constituents waiting to see Bartkowiak for some favor or advice.
Harry Anderson glanced through the open door of Bartkowiak’s private office and asked Biffy, “Where’s Nick?”
Biffy was idly leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets. “Out,” he said laconically.
“Out where?”
Biffy shrugged. “He didn’t say.”
“When’s he coming back?”
“He didn’t say that either.”
I had known Biffy Jagoda all my life. I hadn’t liked him as a kid, and I liked him less as we grew older. I walked over to within a foot of him and looked at his chin. My expression put a wary look on his face and caused him to take his hands from his pockets.
“What’s with you, Matt?” he inquired.
“We want to get in touch with Nick,” I said, still looking at his chin. “And we don’t want a lot of smart brush-off answers.”
“Who’s brushing you off?” he asked plaintively. “He walked out forty-five minutes ago without saying where he was going or when he’d be back. These other people are waiting for him too.”
“Make an educated guess as to where he went,” I suggested.
“How should I know? He was with Little Artie Nowak, if that means anything to you.”
My gaze shifted from his chin to his droop-lidded eyes. “He walked out of here with Artie?” I said sharply.
My tone turned his expression even more wary. “Why shouldn’t he if he wants to? They’re pals.”
“Tell me exactly what happened.”
“Why, nothing much,” he said in a puzzled voice. “Nick showed about eight-thirty, as usual. Ten minutes later Artie came in and went into Nick’s office. The door was open, but I didn’t pay no attention to what they was talking about. The both of them came out and left without saying a word to me. A few minutes later the kid and the old man here came in and been waiting ever since.”
“Was that normal behavior for Nick?” I asked. “Doesn’t he usually say where he’s going and how long he’ll be gone when he leaves the office?”
Biffy scratched the back of his neck. “I guess he does usually,” he admitted. “So we can tell people whether to wait or not. What’s this all about?”
“Let me guess how it was,” I said. “Nick came out first with Artie behind him.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, eyeing me with increasing puzzlement.
“Artie have one hand in his pocket?”
His eyes widened. “Yeah, now that you mention it. What’s this all about, Matt?”
I turned away from him disgustedly. “You’re a hell of a bodyguard.”
“Huh?”
I said to the boy and the old man, “You’re wasting your time waiting for Nick. I don’t think he’ll be back today.”
The old man looked at me abashedly, then got up and left the office. The younger man, curious as to what was going on, remained seated. Harry Anderson and Max Cole looked at me inquiringly.
I said, “We’d better get out an A.P.B. on both of them.”
“Think it was a snatch?” Anderson asked.
“It has all the earmarks. I should have thought of that possibility when he announced he intended to take on Nick for a fight to the finish. But it never occurred to me he meant to make it an old-fashioned gang war. I thought he just intended to rally his political strength behind him.”
Biffy Jagoda said, “Hey, what are you guys talking about?”
“Matters over your head,” I told him.
I walked out with Anderson and Cole following me.
We had come in an F car, Max Cole driving. I climbed in the back seat, Anderson in front. The lieutenant picked up the dash mike and said, “F-27 to control one.”
The receiver said, “Go ahead, F-27.”
“Get out an A.P.B. on Nicholas Bartkowiak and Arthur Nowak, alias Little Artie Nowak.” Anderson rattled off descriptions of both men. “Nowak is suspected of kidnapping Bartkowiak at gunpoint from the Falcon Amusement Company, Kosiusko and Jerboa, about eight forty-five A.M. Also, there is a warrant on Bartkowiak for conspiracy to murder and on Nowak as a material witness. Nowak is believed armed, so approach with caution.”
“Description of motor vehicle?” the dispatcher asked.
“Presumably they’re in Nowak’s car, though we don’t know. Check D.M.V. for registration. Ten four.”
“Ten four,” the dispatcher said.
Anderson hung up the mike. “Now what?”
“We might as well hit the tavern,” I said. “I doubt that he’d take him there, but we might get some lead on where he could have taken him.”
“You think maybe he took him out somewhere and bumped him?” Anderson asked.
“How should I know? Yesterday I would have said he wasn’t that stupid, but yesterday I thought he wasn’t stupid enough to pull a snatch either.”
“Where’s the tavern?” Cole asked.
I gave him directions.
En route to the tavern, I wondered if my big mouth had caused Little Artie to kill for a second time. Only this time it didn’t bother my conscience, because I never feel sorry when I hear about racketeers shooting each other up. I’ve always felt they had the right idea back in the gang-warfare days of the twenties, when they used to mow each other down by the score. These modern racketeers’ habit of using political pressure instead of guns to dispose of their rivals didn’t kill enough hoods.
Max Cole steered the felony car over to the curb and braked to a stop. “This the place?” he inquired.
“Yeah,” I said, getting out of the car.
Together the three of us entered the tavern.
CHAPTER 22
There was no one in the tavern except Dinny, and he was behind the bar in a white apron. As usual, he had a beer before him.
The three of us lined up at the bar. I said, “When’d you become a bartender?”
He exposed glittering false teeth in a wide grin. “This morning. I guess Jake must be sick. It’s only temporary. Artie drafts me to pinch hit in emergencies every once in a while.”
I said, “This is Lieutenant Anderson and Sergeant Cole, Dinny. What’s your last name, anyway?”
“O’Toole.” He nodded to my companions. “One Irishman in a sea of Polacks. I think I’m the only Mick in the district.”
Anderson and Cole murmured acknowledgment to the introduction.
“Know where Artie is?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“When’d you last see him?”
“Left here ab
out eight-thirty. Come over to my place and got me out of bed about eight. I only live in the next block. Said Jake wasn’t coming in and asked me to take over. Soon as we got back here, he had a double shot of whisky and left. That kind of shook me up.”
“What did?”
“Him having a double shot. He don’t drink nothing but coffee usually. He can’t. The stuff drives him nuttier than a coot.”
“Was he drunk?” I asked.
Dinny shrugged. “With Artie you can’t tell until he’s really got on a load. It hits him all at once. One minute he’s talking and acting dead sober, the next he’s talking thick-tongued and staggering around like he’s ready to fall down. You got to watch him both times, though. He goes so nuts on whisky, he don’t care about nothing.”
“Hmm,” I said. “Mention where he was going or when he’d be back?”
Dinny shook his head. “Never said a word. He did say the regular night bartender would be in at five, so I guess he don’t intend to be back all day.”
“You have any idea where he might be?”
The old man shook his head again.
Anderson asked, “Where’s he live?”
“In the flat upstairs. Only he ain’t there. I seen him drive off in his car.”
“Oh? What kind of car does he have?”
“A Caddy. Brand new one.”
“Sedan?” I asked.
“Uh-huh. White, with a tan top. It’s a real beaut.”
Lieutenant Anderson said to Cole, “Better get that on the air. They’ve probably got the registration from D.M.V. by now, but it won’t hurt anything.”
Cole walked outside to radio the information to the police dispatcher.
Dinny asked, “Has Artie done something that you fellows are looking for him?”
“We just want to talk to him,” I said. “Dinny, remember our conversation last night?”
“Sure,” he said with a grin. “I went home half stewed.”
“You told me about Jake being gone from the tavern for a while yesterday afternoon, but I don’t remember if I specifically asked you if Artie had ever left.”
Anything But Saintly Page 12