“A bit.”
***
Marston Leake gave the outward appearance of a fussy professorial type, but where it didn’t show he was as tough as pig iron. Banking wasn’t a business for the faint of heart under the best circumstances, but the boom-and-bust of the 1920s and ’30s had been the crucible that dissolved some men and made steel of others. Leake had also worked for over twenty years with A. J. McCandless, a man with no more depth of feeling than an armored tank.
From the time he had first been approached by the Treasury Department, Leake had considered how quantities of counterfeit money could make it into the vaults of important banks and escape detection for so long a time. He had been in touch with colleagues in Atlanta and some of the other affected cities, and had interrogated them thoroughly as to what they had experienced. Gradually he developed a theory, but he was unsure as to what he could do with it.
He had been with McCandless a long time, and had long believed him to be obstinate and unimaginative. However, he knew the bank was McCandless’s life. He had broached some of his concerns to the bank president, but had found him strangely preoccupied.
Leake read The New York Times and The Washington Post almost daily, and listened to the reports from Europe and Asia on his console radio each night, and what he learned made clear to him that the world was coming apart at the seams. It also seemed to him that this was no time for a banker, of all people, to get complacent about the very lifeblood of the United States.
Leake had his doubts about Max Grossmann, too. Part of it, he had to admit to himself, was due to the fact that Grossmann was a European Jew. Leake had been brought up in an environment prejudicial to Jews, and although he had taught himself to resist it, the prejudice remained. However, Grossmann was intelligent and insightful, if a bit fluttery in his temperament. With McCandless locked in some sort of self-imposed isolation, Leake decided to bounce some of his theories off Grossmann.
“Sorry to bother you,” Leake said when he called at Grossmann’s office.
“Not at all. Come in.” Grossmann raised an eyebrow. “You have a look in your eye, Marston. Does it concern what we spoke about on the telephone earlier this week?”
Leake took a chair facing Grossmann’s desk. “Yes. The size and scope of this counterfeiting scheme have my mind working overtime.”
Grossmann put his pen down and clasped his hands on the blotter. “In what way?”
“What about the fact that they’ve not turned up any bills in this city? New Orleans is the biggest banking city between Dallas and Atlanta, and they’ve not found a single bill here.”
“Why, indeed. But they’ve found no counterfeit in Texas thus far, either. Perhaps Agent Ewell is correct. Perhaps they simply haven’t worked this far south as yet.”
Leake’s stern mouth was stretched tight. “I think there’s a better reason, Max. New Orleans is the headquarters for the counterfeiting ring. What would make better sense? If no money is passed here, the police would never think of looking here for the criminals.”
Grossmann put down the pen he had been toying with, his eyes wide. “I say, that is an interesting theory. That would make these crooks ‘pretty slick,’ as I think Humphrey Bogart said in a film I watched some time ago.”
“Slick is the word,” Leake replied. “I’ve been in banking all my adult life. Counterfeiting is something I’ve dealt with a few times before, and this gang is different than any other in my experience. I have a suspicion that the reason Treasury hasn’t had any luck catching them is that they aren’t thinking big enough.”
“Surely you’re wrong,” the fat man said. “They’ve recognized that this gang has the resources to operate over a six-state region. Not many gangs could do that unless they were big and well-organized.”
“It’s more than that,” Leake persisted. “Think about it, Max. American money is very difficult to copy. There are three different colors of ink, each a special formula. The intaglio printing process requires five separate steps to emboss the paper, then to print the three colors on the front and back of each bill. The paper is a special grade of linen and cotton with no wood pulp. It would require skilled chemists to come up with ink and paper that can fool the average bank employee. The time invested in analysis, production, and the engraving of the plates would be considerable, requiring resources to support the enterprise until profit began to roll in.”
Grossmann tapped a broad finger against his fleshy chin. “Heavens, you really have made a study of all this. But I sense you have some point you’re coming to. What is it?”
“Just this,” Leake replied. “The world is in a condition of considerable upset, and nothing is more vulnerable right now than individual economies. Suppose, for example, one of the warring parties decided that the United States was particularly sympathetic to their opposition. That bloody conniver, Roosevelt, is doing everything but kissing Churchill on the cheek with all his lend-leasing and what-not. Suppose the Nazis decided to make a preemptive strike to cripple us.”
Grossmann turned serious. “Whatever are you talking about, old boy?”
“Think about it, Max. This is a big operation with power and resource behind it. What if the German government decided to flood our currency market with counterfeit bills. Think what that would do. It would throw doubt on our currency and could cripple our efforts to climb out of this damn Depression.”
Grossmann’s eyes examined the ceiling while he thought Leake’s words over. His fleshy jowls quivered occasionally before his face fell into an expression of calm deliberation. “Marston, that is a pretty extraordinary theory. It’s rather like a plot from an E. Phillips Oppenheim thriller. Much as some of us might wish it, the United States has no war-like intentions toward the Nazis, nor have the Nazis any such intentions toward us so far as I can tell. I’ve certainly paid attention, believe me.”
Leake snorted. “I seem to recall some other countries had no war-like intentions toward them, either, and now they’re under Hitler’s thumb. As a man driven out of Austria, I’d think you’d be a bit more suspicious of them, Max.”
Grossmann made a deprecatory gesture and smiled nervously. “Well, it seems so melodramatic, after all. But say you’re right. How is the money ending up in major banks over a six-state region?”
Leake leveled a finger at his corpulent colleague. “I’ve got a theory about that, too. I’ve been in touch with people in Atlanta. The Federal Reserve is the one point of contact with all the banks in this region. I haven’t figured all the complexities out, but suppose, just suppose that someone at the Federal Reserve is somehow substituting counterfeit money for real currency? The criminals would realize thousands of dollars at one fell swoop. And what if the money is somehow being funneled to Germany?”
Grossmann wore a stunned expression. He put a hand to his forehead and rubbed it as though it were numb. “Tell me, have you spoken to A. J. about this?”
Leake snorted. “I tried, but he’s too preoccupied with something else.” Leake removed his glasses and polished the lenses with a handkerchief while he continued to squint at Grossmann. “A. J. has been behaving rather peculiarly over the last year. All these trips out of town he’s been making. He’s neglecting the very business he worked so hard to build up.”
Grossmann nodded. “Yes, I have noticed that he is frequently away. Flies his own plane, I understand. Most of his trips are to Atlanta, are they not?”
“Yes, but he’s never discussed with me the nature of his business there. I presume it has nothing to do with the bank.”
“Yes, perhaps. Well, what do you propose to do with your suspicions, Marston? I mean, after all, you can’t prove any of it, can you?”
Leake frowned. “No, but I have considered discussing the theory with the Treasury people. One of them might have enough imagination to recognize the merit in it. Then again, they might give me the big horse laugh.”
Grossmann smiled indulgently. “My dear friend. You’ve been working much too har
d lately. You tend to worry quite a bit. I’d advise caution before I said too much to the Treasury people. You know how A. J. is about drawing unwanted attention to the bank.”
Leake nodded. “You may be right. I’ll think about it.” He got up from his chair and walked to Grossmann’s office door. “I believe I’ll just clear up a few things in my office and then go home.”
“Yes. This kind of talk is rather dispiriting. I may follow your example.”
Leake left Grossmann’s office and strode wearily toward his office. As he walked, he noticed McCandless at the end of the hall, staring coldly in his direction. Without a wave, the bank president turned and disappeared into an adjoining hall.
Leake found letters waiting for his signature, along with some other paperwork he’d left undone when he went to Grossmann’s office. As he finished, he sat at his desk thinking. He had rarely been as troubled as he was at this moment. Acting on an impulse he wrote a letter to Agent Paul Ewell. After sealing it in an envelope, he gave it to his secretary to post with the others.
It was close to 5:00 when he took the elevator to the first floor. As he neared the bank entrance, he saw Grossmann about to depart. “Max. Wait up.”
The fat man turned, saw Leake. “Ah, you leaving, too? Splendid. Perhaps we can share a cab Uptown.”
“Sure,” Leake replied. “Why not?”
As they walked toward Canal Street, Grossmann glanced at his colleague. “You seem to be less distressed than earlier. Did talking about it set your mind at rest?”
“I needed to bounce my ideas off someone,” Leake replied. “So I suppose it did. I decided to contact the Treasury Department after all and let them decide what to do.”
Grossmann patted perspiration on his neck and forehead. “Marston, I’m dreadfully tired, but I’m hungry, too. What say we go to Kolb’s German Tavern? I’m in the mood for some bratwurst, sauerkraut, and some of that dark Lowenbrau to wash it down.”
“Better than eating my own cooking, I suppose.” Leake’s dry words evoked a laugh from Grossmann.
The sun had begun to wane, casting long shadows on the business district streets. The two were nearing a corner when a Negro in a dark green suit jumped from an alley into their path.
“Gimme your wallet,” the man said, waving a large pistol in his gloved hand.
“Good Lord,” Grossmann cried, stepping back instinctively. “Don’t get excited, I’ll give it to you. I’ll give it to you.” He reached into his pocket for his wallet with a trembling hand.
“Keep your hands where I can see ’em,” the Negro hissed. “Gimme that.” He snatched the wallet from Grossman’s chubby hand. “You—gimme yours,” the gunman said, waving his gun at Leake.
Leake’s teeth were bared, his eyes narrowed. He was already angry about the counterfeiting, angry at the idea his bank could be assaulted. He had taken the gun from his desk and was in the mood to use it. “I’ll give it to you all right.” His hand dove inside his coat, his fingers clamping the butt of his Colt, but before his gun cleared the pocket, the gunman’s pistol roared.
The shot was so close to Leake’s chest that the fire leaping from the bore set his suit aflame. The white-haired banker fell to the pavement like a bag of sand.
“Help, police! Help, murder, help!” Grossmann shouted at the top of his lungs, waving his arms. “Help, for God’s—”
The Negro’s gun roared a second time, and Grossmann fell to the ground, wailing in pain and terror. The Negro reached into Leake’s jacket, jerked the wallet out, then he ran back into the alley.
Grossmann’s cries and the gunfire attracted some attention eventually, and several people, a police officer among them, ran from every direction to where the two men lay on the pavement. Grossmann, by this time, had raised himself up on one elbow, looking down at Leake’s face.
“My friend. He’s been shot. For God’s sake, get a doctor. Get a doctor.”
The police officer waded through the small crowd and got down on his knees beside Leake. He placed his fingers against the carotid artery, waited for a moment, then put his ear down by the man’s mouth, listening for breath. His face took on a grim expression, and he looked over at Grossmann, shaking his head. “He’s gone, mister. Did you see who did it?”
“A—a Negro gunman. Marston was trying to give him his wallet, and he fired. When—when I cried out, he fired at me, too. Dear God! What a catastrophe.” Grossmann lowered his head, groaning.
The officer took a look at the wound in Grossmann’s shoulder, determined he was in no immediate danger, then walked quickly to a police call box across the street. He quickly relayed information to the dispatcher, then came back to interrogate the crowd. Before too long, sirens sounded, seemingly from every direction. The ambulance arrived, followed by two radio cars and a squad car bearing Israel Daggett and Sam Andrews. They walked toward the ambulance as the attendants were loading Grossmann aboard.
“Hang on just a minute, fellas,” Daggett said. He took out his badge and held it up so Grossmann could see it. “Sergeant Daggett of the Negro Squad, sir. Can you tell us who you are?”
Grossmann’s face was pale, his mouth opening and closing as though he found it hard to draw breath. “Max Grossmann. I’m v-vice president for f-foreign investment—First National. My friend—Marston Leake. We were on our way to dinner when the bandit jumped out.”
“Did you get a good look at him?”
“Y-yes. Medium sized—chocolate brown in color. Had a scar on his right cheek. Green jacket, gray cap l-like a newsboy wears. B-big pistol.”
“A forty-five,” the first uniformed officer supplied. “I found the shells over where they were shot.”
Daggett, still looking down at Grossmann’s pale face, nodded that he’d heard. “What did he say to you, Mr. Grossmann?”
“Demanded money. Marston—Marston was trying to give it to him. He—he shot my friend for no reason. No reason at all.” Grossmann, his teeth clenched in pain, seemed grief-stricken.
“Okay.” Daggett nodded to the ambulance men, who put the big banker inside. Seconds later they were tearing away in the direction of Charity Hospital. As the siren died in the distance, Daggett went over to look at the dead man. He saw the expended .45 shells lying nearby. He stooped down to pick each one up on the end of a pencil before transferring it into an evidence envelope.
“Western brand .45 auto. Nothing special there,” Daggett said. “Looks like the killer surprised them at this alley.”
Andrews entered the alley and began looking around. He saw something and moved toward it.
“Hey, Iz?”
“Yeah?”
“The shooter was here for a li’l bit. He smoked two cigarettes while he waited. One of ’em’s still smoldering.” He poked at them with his pencil. “Look like Lucky Strikes.” He stood up and shined his light around the alley. “Must’ve gone back down that way.”
Daggett picked up the cigarette butts one by one, making sure they were out before he transferred them to another envelope. “Let’s see where the alley leads.” He stood up and followed Andrews until they reached the next street. There were a few cars parked nearby, but no pedestrians in sight.
“He could be anywhere by now,” Andrews said. “Even with the scar on his face, he looks like a hundred and twenty-five other colored men.”
Daggett said nothing, thinking. Finally he jerked his chin at Andrews and they retreated back through the alley to where the shooting had occurred. A morgue wagon and one of Nick Delgado’s assistants were there. Daggett gave the evidence envelopes to the lab man, then walked to the officer who’d been on the scene when they arrived.
“Officer, where were you when the shots were fired?”
“I was about three blocks away. When I heard the first one, I knew what it was. It was too flat to be a car backfiring. I ran like hell to get here, but by the time I made it, both victims were down and the gunman was gone. I’ve been questioning the civilians around here. None of ’em saw anyt
hing, just heard the noise and came to investigate.”
“Okay, you did everything you could. We’ll read your report later. What’s your name?”
“Art Manion, out of headquarters division. You’re Sergeant Daggett, ain’t you?”
“Yeah. We’ll get in touch if we get anything.”
“Right. See you around.” Manion turned and went back to help the patrol car officers control the crowd around the crime scene.
Andrews stared down the street. “Kinda funny, ain’t it? This boy had him some balls.”
“Uh, huh. A Negro stick-up artist all the way Downtown this time of the day. He’d stick out like a sore thumb. And then he’s in the alley smoking cigarettes.”
“Yeah, like he was waitin’ for something.”
“Or somebody. Let’s call in the description to R and I, let them see if they’ve got any suspects that match the description. It didn’t ring any bells with me.”
“Me neither. I’d remember a guy with a scar who likes shootin’ white businessmen in broad daylight with a .45. A man that stupid would sure be memorable.”
“Let’s go shake some trees, see what falls out.”
“Right behind you, boss.”
Chapter 8
Farrell paused at his car, glanced at his watch and saw that it was nearly 3:00 PM. He let his eyes travel up the street, then back to the front of Theron Oswald’s pawnshop. A man entered the shop, but the sunlight was behind him, and all Farrell got was a glimpse as he went through the door. Something nagged at him. It reminded him of the feeling he’d had outside Wisteria’s Riverboat Lounge, but he didn’t know why.
Oswald had been telling the truth about what he knew of Martinez’s movements, but Farrell doubted he would get a call from Oswald. Oswald had been terrified by something before Farrell even entered the room. Had the killer already been to see him? If so, why wasn’t he dead, like the two women?
He got into his car and drove away. There was a lot on his mind, not least of which was his promise to hand his old friend over to the police. He’d been angry with McGee when he’d made that promise, and he didn’t know how he could make good on it and still look himself in the face afterward. He knew his father had been forced to do this, not just once but several times. What part of him had he shut down in order to put a friend in jail? He shook his head irritably as he wrestled with the question.
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