The Devereaux File

by Ross H. Spencer

  Lockington had no knowledge of what the wily Cajun had been up to over the span of the previous fifteen or so months. He might have resigned from the Agency as he’d occasionally intimated during their non-baseball chats, or he might have been barging around in the hell of Lebanon, attending to whatever designs the CIA had in that area. If he’d withdrawn from government service, Lockington would find that out quickly enough. If he hadn’t, the subject probably wouldn’t come up. But one thing was certain—if Rufe Devereaux wasn’t back in Chicago on a liberal expense account, he was earning a respectable dollar on his own, because the International Arms wasn’t a hostlery for traveling housewares salesmen. It towered seventeen haughty white-stone stories above the lakefront, looking for all the world like what it was—simply the finest hotel in Chicago.

  Lockington pulled to a sweaty halt under its blue canvas sidewalk canopy, sensing the magnificent texture of the establishment, awed as is the bootblack about to enter Buckingham Palace. Then he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and went in, an oarsman riding the rim of a whirlpool, diligently rowing in the wrong fucking direction.

  8

  The lobby of the International Arms Hotel sprawled spacious and reservedly elegant—pearl gray sculptured carpeting three inches deep, pecan-paneled walls studded with copper-framed seascape oils—exquisite originals, every one. There were low-hanging crystal chandeliers the size of beach umbrellas, thick-cushioned blue velour sofas and chairs, highly polished leather-topped genuine Philippine mahogany tables strewn with copies of Fortune and the Wall Street Journal, huge beige-shaded brass lamps, and heavy bronze pedestal-type ashtrays. And there was silence, the silence of reverence—the International Arms and its trappings demanded it.

  Lockington spotted the desk, a massive hand-tooled expanse of hardwood half the size of a river barge. It was manned by a complement of five: a quartet of slim, dark-haired young ladies, all attractive, all clad in bluish gray tailored business suits and crisp pink blouses, all sporting white chrysanthemums on their left-hand lapels, all wearing plastic smiles, all under the command of a portly, balding man with haunted eyes and a nervous tic in his right cheek. He was fifty or so, he wore a brass-buttoned powder blue coat and his chrysanthemum was red—the badge of authority, Lockington figured. He lumbered back and forth behind the counter, riffling through sheafs of paper, answering telephones, issuing instructions, an impressive figure who reminded Lockington of a uniformed circus bear.

  Lockington, approaching the desk, suddenly remembered that his walk had been a hot and thirsty ordeal. He changed course, veering sharply to port and through the swinging louvered doors of the lobby lounge, the Never-Never Room, according to the discreetly recessed blue neon sign above its entrance. It was a dim, quiet, cozy cove with a large horseshoe bar, three white-jacketed bartenders, and music—distant whispering strings playing “Santa Lucia.” He slid onto a comfortable high-backed leatherette bar stool, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the toned-down lighting of the place. Rufe Devereaux might be present, Lockington thought. Bars had been like magnets to Rufe—he’d never been able to pass one.

  A bartender approached and Lockington ordered a Martell’s cognac with a water wash, scanning the Never-Never Room with a practised eye. There were fifteen or more customers scattered around the bar and none of them was Rufe Devereaux. The cognac arrived, the bartender swooping up Lockington’s five-dollar bill, nodding curtly, spinning on a heel, and marching away, never to return. Lockington registered the Never-Never Room as a place not conducive to the art of serious drinking, estimating that a man could run through upwards of fifty dollars before getting a buzz. There were those who had that kind of money and there were those who didn’t. Lockington was one of those who didn’t.

  He polished off his five-dollar Martell’s at a gulp, leaving his seat to return to the lobby and the desk. One of the trim, prim young ladies breezed to the counter, her smile frozen in place, her dulcet voice devoid of inflection. “May I be of assistance, sir?” She reeked of efficiency.

  Lockington said, “Yes, ma’am, I’ve been calling to reach a friend who was scheduled to register here last night, but you have no record of him. Would you run a check on that, please?

  She stepped to a computer. “Certainly, sir. The name of the party?”

  “Devereaux—Rufus Devereaux. That’s D-E-V—” Lockington pulled up short. She was staring at him as if he’d crawled from under a flat, mossy rock, her eyes widening perceptibly. Instinctively, Lockington glanced down at his fly. It was zipped. When he looked up, the girl was gone, having scurried to the far end of the desk to confer with Rear Admiral Fluttervalve. The conversation was brief and subdued, the admiral throwing a furtive squint in Lockington’s direction before picking up a white telephone to punch a single button and speak tersely. Lockington shuffled around for a time, lighting a cigarette, soaking up the plush atmosphere of the International Arms, wondering what the hell the delay was all about. He felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder and he turned to see a horse-faced, lantern-jawed man in a baggy tweed suit. The man grinned, shoving out his hand. “Lacey Lockington, you beat-up old wardog, how’ve you been?”

  Lockington’s Devereaux-welcoming smile was fading. He knew this one from up the road a piece—Webb Pritchard, an eager-beaver cop who’d brown-nosed his way from traffic detail to detective rank. They’d never been close or anywhere near it. Lockington hadn’t liked Pritchard. He couldn’t recall his reason for that but he still didn’t like him. They shook hands. Pritchard’s grip was a clammy, limp-wristed thing. He said, “I understand that you’re trying to locate Rufus Devereaux.”

  Lockington nodded. “You know Rufe?”

  Pritchard shook his head. “I wouldn’t know Devereaux from Mahatma Gandhi.” He snickered, indicating that he’d appreciated his own line.

  Lockington said, “Well, Devereaux will be the one who ain’t wearing a bed sheet.”

  Pritchard said, “Devereaux—he was with the Agency, wasn’t he?”

  “Yeah, last I heard. What’s with the past-tense stuff—did he quit?”

  Pritchard took Lockington by the arm, leaning toward him, lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper. “Uhh-h-h, Lacey—Devereaux’s dead.”

  9

  The shock wave rolled over him like an Andes landslide over a sapling. There was a surging roar in his ears and the lobby lights seemed to dim for a moment. A great gray net had engulfed Lockington but his reflex questions wriggled through it. “Dead—when?”

  Pritchard said, “Couple hours ago—nine, nine-thirty, they figure.”

  “Where?”

  “Room Three thirty-three.”

  “How?”

  “Heavy caliber weapon—silencer, probably. Soft-nosed slug—took off half of his head, as I understand it.”

  “Who, for Christ’s sake—why?”

  “They ain’t saying much, but money wasn’t the motive—there was over a grand in his wallet when they found him.”

  Lockington was steadying. “Hold it! They—who’s they?”

  “The Agency—the Agency phoned us for assistance. Seems that they happened onto this thing through an anonymous telephone call.”

  Lockington said, “Look, why don’t we sit down for a few minutes?”

  Pritchard said, “Sure thing—ain’t no law against sitting down.” He snickered and Lockington wanted to whack him in the mouth for it. Pritchard was one of those people who take pleasure in delivering bad news—the role carries a sense of importance.

  They parked on a blue velour sofa. Lockington put out his cigarette and lit another, noting a slight tremor in his hands. He said, “The Agency’s running this circus?”

  “Wire-to-wire. They’re using the Chicago police department to secure the third-floor hallway and to intercept Devereaux’s visitors. Those are our only functions.”

  “How many visitors so far?”

  “So far, just you.”

  Lockington shook his head emphatically. “It doesn’t rh
yme. This is a Chicago murder—it’s a Chicago police matter.”

  Pritchard said, “Don’t you believe it. National security transcends all that municipality stuff—we’re on the outside looking in.”

  Lockington sat in silence, watching his personal fog dissipate a wisp at a time. Webb Pritchard was saying, “What was Devereaux working on the last time you saw him?”

  Lockington snorted. “C’mon, Pritchard, you know better than that! CIA people don’t talk shop. He rarely touched on his job.”

  “Well, all I know is what I’ve heard, but I’ve picked up a few items. The CIA thinks that maybe somebody turned the tables on Devereaux.”

  “All right, go on.”

  “They got a hunch it was a guy Devereaux was looking for—the Copperhead. You ever hear of the Copperhead?”

  Rufe had mentioned the Copperhead once, but Lockington lied. “No. Who’s the Copperhead?”

  Pritchard shook his head. “They know what he does but they don’t know who he is.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He kills people for money—it’s his trade.”

  “And Devereaux was on the prowl for the Copperhead?”

  “That’s my impression. He must have been working on something. He was traveling under an assumed name—J. A. Pfiester.”

  “Jesus, I wonder where he got that one. What was in his luggage?”

  “All he carried was an attaché case. It’s gone. So is the woman.”

  “What woman?”

  Pritchard spread his hands. “Who knows? She had no reservation, she didn’t register, Devereaux didn’t account for her at the desk, but she was with him, no doubt about it. And that ain’t all—one of the night crew guys said that she’s stayed at the International before—he remembers her.”

  “When did she stay here—who did she stay with?”

  “It was about a month ago—he doesn’t recall the guy she came in with, but they were in Room Four-seventeen. They looked up the registration—fella named Frank Schulte.”

  “They’re sure of that?”

  “Yeah, it was the only time Four-seventeen was occupied that week.”

  Lockington shrugged. “She may have been an O’Hare field hooker—some of ’em are getting five hundred a night.”

  “Devereaux would have paid five hundred?”

  “Devereaux would have paid five thousand if he had it.”

  “Could be she shot him and hauled ass with the attaché case.”

  “And left his billfold with a grand in it? No way. Maybe she was kidnapped by the killer.”

  Pritchard made a deprecatory gesture. “The CIA had three men in the lobby.”

  “Three men in the lobby and nobody in the Three thirty-three hallway.”

  Pritchard’s head snapped up. “How did you know that?”

  “I didn’t, but it figures. They saw Devereaux and the woman go up, but they didn’t see ’em come down?”

  “Guess so.”

  “What was in the attaché case?”

  “Whatever it was, the CIA certainly wants it. Look, Lacey, off the record, just what was your business with Devereaux?”

  “That’ll be off the record for about ten minutes, and you know it.”

  Pritchard snickered. “Yeah—it’s a question they told me to ask.”

  “Okay, Rufe called me late yesterday afternoon—said he’d be in last night, that he’d be staying at the International. He was supposed to contact me at my office this morning but he didn’t. I tried to phone him and they told me that he wasn’t registered here. I got curious and walked over from Randolph Street. Tell the CIA to make something sinister out of that.”

  “Why did he want to see you—was it important, did he say?”

  “No—I gathered that it’d amount to no more than a get-together. I hadn’t seen him in fifteen months, give or take.”

  “You knew him well?”

  “Well enough to like him. We did some drinking, talked some baseball—hell, what else is there?”

  Pritchard winked a man-to-man wink, snickering. “Broads?”

  “Hundreds—movie starlets, fashion models. You’re a man of the world, Pritchard—you know how it goes with gigolos.” He’d just remembered why he’d never liked Pritchard. It’d been that abominable snicker.

  “Where did Devereaux call from?”

  Lockington said, “I was foggy on that—Ohio, I think.”

  “That’s what they were saying upstairs—he flew in from Ohio.”

  “What about the woman—a good-looker?”

  “A phenom, according to the night clerks—young, brunette, fabulous blue eyes, leggy.”

  “Maybe she wasn’t a pro—maybe she flew in with him.”

  Pritchard shrugged. “There were sixty-seven women on that flight from Cleveland. It’ll take time to sort ’em out.”

  “It was Cleveland?”

  “Yeah, they have that nailed down. Where did Devereaux go when he left Chicago?”

  “Ohio, apparently.”

  “That’s where he came from, not necessarily where he went.”

  Lockington yawned. “It isn’t my problem, Pritchard. Any information on his wake?”

  “Nothing.”

  They lapsed into silence, listening to music drifting from the Never-Never Room, a tango, “Orchids in the Moonlight.” Lockington recognized the melody. So did Webb Pritchard. He said, “Damn, Lacey, ain’t it funny the way a song can take a man back?”

  Lockington said, “Yeah.”

  Pritchard said, “In ’fifty-eight, my family lived on the southside, and we had a mailman who always whistled ‘Orchids in the Moonlight.’”

  “Remember his name?”

  “Naw, kids don’t pay much attention to names. We could hear him coming, soon as he turned the corner, whistling ‘Orchids in the Moonlight.’ Geez, those were wonderful days, Lacey.” Pritchard’s voice trailed off.

  Lockington nodded. “In ’fifty-eight, we lived on the northside. My uncle was staying with us, and every morning he’d run across the street and hop in bed with Sam Holterhofer’s wife.”

  Pritchard said, “Where was Sam Holterhofer when all this was going on?”

  Lockington said, “On the southside, delivering mail.”

  Pritchard said, “Did Sam Holterhofer go around whistling ‘Orchids in the Moonlight?’”

  Lockington said, “I never noticed, but the sonofabitch shot my uncle.”

  10

  He emerged from the International Arms and drew back as four huge women approached, walking abreast. He pinned himself against the International’s white stone wall, watching them rumble by, one thousand pounds of bad news, resembling a southbound tidal wave. When they were gone he heaved a sigh of relief and made his way back to the corners of State and Randolph, weighing the murder of Rufe Devereaux, trying to contain the thunderbolt and minimize its damage. He was without a sense of direction and, lacking one, he had no course of action. He wasn’t certain that a course of action was called for—this was the CIA’s ball game, certainly not Lacey Lockington’s.

  Information Brown wasn’t at his newsstand, which indicated that Information Brown was either dead or at the Squirrel’s Cage. Lockington took a chance on the latter, slipping unobtrusively into the shabby saloon, running a glance down the stretch of battered mahogany to spot Information Brown at its far end, hunched over, head down, staring sorrowfully into an empty shot glass. He was a graying, fragile man with bloodshot hazel eyes, thinning hair, a three-day silver stubble on his chin, and traces of egg at the right-hand corner of his thin-lipped mouth, a burnt-out case seemingly dedicated to drinking himself into the Great Hereafter. Lockington eased past the jutting rumps of the career drinkers to slide onto a rickety stool next to Brown’s. He said, “Walker’s Deluxe?”

  Information Brown said, “I can think of no reason that would prompt a negative response.”

  Lockington flipped a twenty onto the bar, motioning to a wide-shouldered, ham-handed barkeep nam
ed Avalanche MacPherson who claimed to have gone five with Marciano back in fifty-one. Lockington believed that he’d gone five. He’d have believed ten. Avalanche MacPherson’s face looked like the target area of a howitzer range. MacPherson located a bottle of Walker’s, and Lockington turned to Information Brown. He said, “Whatcha got on the festivities at the International Arms?”

  Brown frowned, watching the amber elixir stream into his glass. He jolted it down, shoving the glass to the inner rim of the bar, nodding to Avalanche MacPherson’s questioning stare. MacPherson poured the encore and Information Brown said, “Very little at the moment, Lacey, but it’ll get here.”

  Lockington said, “I want to be the first to know.”

  “An Agency guy got scragged. Why the concern?”

  “He was a friend of mine.”

  Brown shook his head. “You were Devereaux’s friend, Devereaux wasn’t anybody’s. Devereaux used people.”

  “Hell, he was CIA—he had to use people.”

  Brown shrugged. “I’ve heard nothing but bad on him.”

  “Maybe you listened to the wrong people.”

  “They don’t come any wronger than Rufe Devereaux.”

  “Whatever—just keep me in mind, will you?”

  Brown nodded. “I could have something this afternoon or in the morning. A pair of his stablemates had me cornered when you went by earlier.”

  “Yeah, I saw that you had company. What’d they want?”

  “Anything they could get. Better leave this one alone, Lacey—it rings out of key.”

  “I’ll be listening.” Lockington picked up ten dollars of his change, leaving the remainder on the bar. He said, “Drink it up.”