The Hour of the Cat

by Peter Quinn

  “You’re under arrest, Mr. Dunne, for transporting a woman across state lines for immoral purposes.”

  Roberta seemed unsure whether she was truly awake or mired in an unpleasantly realistic dream. “Is this some sort of joke?”

  “It’s no joke, ma’am. There are any number of female inmates in the Federal Industrial Institution, in Alderson, West Virginia, who can testify to the seriousness with which the Bureau regards the Mann Act. Some of them have been put there by the Director himself, who’s personally involved himself in apprehending violators.”

  “Since when is it a crime to take a car ride to New Jersey?”

  “Miss Dee, let’s not kid each other. I’m aware of who you are. You know what the Mann Act is and, no offense, what’s meant by ‘immoral purposes.’”

  “The only immorality was the price of the steak at Ben Marden’s.”

  “The Mann Act doesn’t require an ‘overt act.’ The crime was complete the moment you and your companion crossed the state line with immoral purpose. I’m afraid it won’t take much to convince a jury what the two of you were up to.”

  The Manhattan-bound traffic was heavier than when they’d crossed the bridge earlier. An accident had slowed traffic to a crawl. In the distance, a small fleet of yachts, sails taut with wind, moved past Governors Island. Farther out an ocean liner proceeded with majestic certainty toward the Narrows and the open sea. The car inched forward. The ocean liner grew smaller.

  Roberta looked away from the window directly at Lundgren. “This is ridiculous,” she snapped. “For a car ride and dinner, you send people to the federal stir in Asshole, West Virginia? Law or not, it’s goddamn ridiculous.”

  “If I was a lady, I certainly wouldn’t talk that way.”

  “I was a G-man, I’d chase real criminals not act like a glorified truant officer.”

  “Save your breath,” Dunne said. “He’s only doing his job.”

  They rode in silence until they pulled up behind the Federal Courthouse on Foley Square. At the elevator bank, the other agent shepherded Roberta toward an adjoining corridor.

  “I thought we were being booked together,” she said.

  “First, a female attendant will do a search and see to any personal needs,” Lundgren said.

  The elevator arrived. “Wasn’t such a lucky night after all,” Fin said. “Sorry.”

  Lundgren barked out a floor number to the operator and ensconced himself in the back. Poised and self-assured, without a trace of intimidation, Roberta paused to blow an imaginary kiss in their direction.

  In a small room on the fifteenth floor, Lundgren removed the cuffs and left him alone. Except for a table, chairs, and a ceiling fixture that was both a light and a fan, the room was bare. The single window was covered with wire mesh. Below, the East River was busy with barges and ships. Midstream, a tug, struggling against a swift outgoing tide, appeared to be standing still as it inched upriver. Leaning close to the mesh, Dunne tried to look northwards, toward Drydock Street, the old neighborhood. His father turned that same corner every night. Sometimes Big Mike was singing loudly, not drunk, but lubricated enough to sing in a loud, pleasing way. A happy moment when he was like that.

  He heard the door open and close behind him. “I wouldn’t waste my time looking for a way out, Mr. Dunne. There is none.”

  He kept his face angled to the mesh. “Quite a view. You should sell tickets.”

  The fat slap of a folder sounded on the tabletop. “Enjoy it. Where you’re going the views will be decidedly less expansive.”

  Dunne pulled a chair away from the table and sat. The man across from him jotted notes in the folder. “I’m Michael McCarthy, assistant U.S. Attorney.” He didn’t look up. “You’re in serious trouble, Mr. Dunne. I suppose you realize that.”

  “If taking a date to dinner in Jersey is the charge, I plead guilty.”

  McCarthy closed the folder. He twisted the cap back on his fountain pen and placed it in his shirt pocket. “You were at Ben Marden’s, a notorious carpet palace that serves as a hangout for gangsters and gamblers.” He had the broad shoulders of a football player and a head of thick reddish blond hair that matched one of the colors in his plaid bow tie. Nice combination of brawn and good looks, with just the right dose of boyish innocence. Juries probably loved him. “You were accompanied by a woman who has an extensive police record that includes several arrests for prostitution.”

  “If you want to frame me, you’ll need to do better. How about tax evasion? Maybe I don’t really put a quarter in the collection basket every Sunday.”

  “This office has never ‘framed’ anyone, and if the accusation came from a more reputable source, I’d resent it. But you’re someone no prosecutor, no matter how unscrupulous, would have to frame.”

  “You didn’t go to all this trouble just to nail me on a Mann Act violation. You know I’m not involved in transporting girls across state lines. The sooner you say what this is about, the sooner we can get to real business.”

  “Oh, this is real. And serious.” McCarthy’s folded hands had the same light sprinkling of freckles as his face. “But you’re right. The Mann Act violation, serious though it is, is overshadowed by your involvement with a known swindler who’s passed from mail fraud to arranging the transportation and disposition of stolen vehicles across state lines. Don’t try to tell me that you’ve never heard of Emile Jerroff.”

  “He can’t even pay the rent.”

  “I didn’t say he was successful. He’s new to this racket and hasn’t been circumspect. But then, that building you inhabit is a rat’s nest of pornographers, shysters, and con artists of every type. Once the FBI got Jerroff in their sights, it wasn’t long before they noticed his close association with you.”

  McCarthy paged through the file until he found what he was looking for. “Agent Warren Tucker followed you from a meeting with Jerroff and an unidentified female. You spent the night in a bar that serves liquor after the legal closing hour. Next morning, after a trip to Foley Square, you rode the subway to Brooklyn. Agent Tucker was able to ascertain from the building’s staff that you were visiting a Miss Roberta Dee. Upon leaving her building, you apparently caught on to being tailed, gave Agent Tucker the slip, and subsequently dropped out of sight.

  “The Bureau maintained a close watch on both Jerroff and Miss Dee. During that time, the police undertook an examination of your office in an unrelated case concerning a client of yours.” McCarthy glanced up from the file. “That client had committed murder. In your absence, the Bureau established that, like Jerroff, Miss Dee had an extensive criminal record. It was also observed that Jerroff made frequent use of your office and phone, regularly arranging for the transport of stolen vehicles to the Trust-tee Garage and Repair Shop in Bridgeport, Connecticut, where they’re repainted and prepared for resale through New England.”

  “Let me take a wild guess where this all leads,” Dunne said. “Either I stand trial on the Mann Act violation or turn informer on Jerroff, help you get the evidence you need to put him away, and receive a slap on the wrist for myself.”

  “Without suggesting a formal offer and barring the possibility of other crimes coming to light, the U.S. Attorney’s office might be open to some arrangement.”

  “And after Jerroff, I suppose, I could play professional informer full-time, maybe even incriminate the guy in the office on the other side of mine. Who knows? I might help put the whole Hackett Building behind bars.”

  “A far-fetched but not undesirable possibility.”

  “I got two words for you, McCarthy, and they’re not happy birthday.”

  “I have two words for you, Dunne. Think again. Think about the certainty of not only losing your license but of doing hard time in federal prison.” McCarthy put the folder under his arm and went to the door. “Think what it’ll be like to emerge from the pen in five or ten years with no way to make a living.”

  “I thought in America the accused still got to make a phone call.�
��

  “I’ll see about a phone. Meantime, think over what I said.”

  A wave of exhaustion washed over Dunne. He lay his head on the desk and fell asleep. When he woke, the sun was on the other side of the harbor, more than halfway through its daily commute from Brooklyn to New Jersey. He returned to the window. Except for the alteration in the light and the fact that the tide was now running in instead of out, it was the same scene as before. In a city precinct house, the cops could usually be relied on to make sure the most recent arrival wasn’t left idle or bored. Work him over till either he spilled his guts, they got tired, or a more inviting prospect showed up.

  Another hour passed before McCarthy reappeared. “We’re sending out for food.”

  “Make mine steak.”

  “Ham salad or chicken salad sandwich, that’s the choice.”

  “Forget the food. I need to make a call. No call, no deal.”

  “Your only ticket out of here is the deal I offered. You call a lawyer, better be a damned good one.”

  “For once we agree.”

  McCarthy led him to a small office. The framed diplomas on the wall testified it was McCarthy’s. “One call,” he said. “I’ll be right outside the door.”

  One call. The secretary who answered at the other end did so in the way any good executive secretary would under the circumstances: “Sorry, sir, Colonel Donovan’s unavailable, but I’ll give him your message. Yes, Mr. Dunne, I’ll tell him it’s urgent.” She hung up before he could start the next sentence.

  McCarthy delivered Dunne to the same room as before. “Think some more.” He grinned as he closed the door.

  Dunne put the phone number back in his wallet. He had carried it there a long time. He’d copied it down without consciously believing he’d use it, keeping it less as a resource than as a reminder of a spontaneous decision to risk his life. Maybe all such decisions were spontaneous, but every soldier went into battle with his own expectations, and Dunne’s didn’t include jumping into a smoldering trench as the screech of the next shell retraced the trajectory of the first.

  He staggers badly under Donovan’s weight at first. Donovan yells to put him down and run. Dunne hurtles several yards, Donovan’s weight adding to his momentum, and falls into the nearest hole just as the shell strikes. He lies there for several minutes, struggling to catch his breath, unsure if he’s been hit.

  “You all right?” Donovan is stretched prone next to him. Their faces almost touch.

  Dunne nods. He says nothing but thinks of the one expectation he’d brought to France: he’d take death before he’d desert his buddies; otherwise, he wasn’t going out of his way, and that goes double for officers. Live and learn, Fin.

  McCarthy returned an hour later. Grimly silent, he escorted Dunne back to his office. The door was shut. “Your lawyer’s inside.” He turned and walked away.

  Opening the door, Dunne was nonplussed to see a short, stocky man in a white dinner jacket pacing back and forth. He stopped immediately and shook Dunne’s hand. “Please, take a seat,” he said, pushing aside his hat and some files piled on the desk. He positioned himself sideways in the place he’d cleared. “You’re in some fix.” He took a gold lighter and pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He offered one to Dunne.

  Dunne stuck the cigarette in his mouth and inserted it into the lighter’s flame. The lighter was engraved with the same initials as the man’s gold cufflink, WJD. Some men made a practice of attending the regimental reunions. Not Dunne. It had been almost twenty years since he’d last seen Colonel Donovan. That final handshake at the end of the parade down Fifth, when the regiment disbanded. After, there’d only been a few phone calls. Yet, though grayer and stouter, Donovan hadn’t changed that much. Recovered from his momentary mental scramble, Dunne didn’t need any more prompting. “Colonel,” he said, “I didn’t mean to drag you here in person. I thought we could talk on the phone.”

  “I wasn’t getting anywhere with Mr. McCarthy on the phone. Now he’s fully explained what he intends to charge you with. Is it true?”

  “It’s a set-up.”

  “You’re innocent of everything?”

  “Innocent of what he accuses me of, yes.”

  “On your word.”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, I’ll see what I can do.” Donovan picked up his hat. “I’m on my way to a dinner. I’ll talk with someone who might be of help. Still, no matter what happens tonight, you’re going to need legal representation. Call my office in the morning.”

  “I’m very grateful to you.”

  Donovan started toward the door, then paused. “When I first identified myself to Mr. McCarthy on the phone, he volunteered that I was one of his heroes. When he learned the reason for my call, it was a great disappointment. Men hate nothing more than to lose their heroes. I’m counting on the fact that you’re telling me the truth.” He left without closing the door.

  If McCarthy was surprised by the brevity of their meeting, he didn’t say so when he returned. Nor did he express any curiosity about why a former assistant attorney general of the United States, U.S. Attorney for the Western District of New York, candidate for governor, winner of the Congressional Medal of Honor, and highly respected lawyer had involved himself. Donovan was right, Dunne surmised. Anything was better for McCarthy than discovering war heroes and paragons of the law were in the clutches of lowlifes and criminals.

  Dunne didn’t volunteer an explanation: two bewildered, frightened men in a blasted, smoking hole had reached an unspoken but inalterable estimation of each other.

  It didn’t lend itself to explanation.

  McCarthy’s face was slumped and pale. The undone bowtie hung around his neck like a loose thread that, if pulled hard enough, would make him unravel.

  “My constitutional right to relieve myself has been violated,” Dunne said.

  “There’s a public restroom at the end of the corridor.” McCarthy nodded toward the open door. “Use it on your way out.”

  “I’m free to go?”

  “For now. But don’t imagine you’re going to get away with anything. This inning goes to you. The game’s still got a long way to go.”

  “Win some, lose some. What about Miss Dee?”

  “She doesn’t have the same friends you do.”

  “I didn’t cross the state line with immoral purpose, neither did she. Last I heard, it wasn’t a crime to grind your own organ. Or has there been a change of policy?”

  “Since you’ve been direct with me, Dunne, I’ll return the favor.” McCarthy cleared his throat. “My father spent his career walking a beat in the Bronx and never took so much as a dishonest cent. He was an honorable, hard-working cop who managed to put three sons through Fordham University. But due to scum like you, men who drag the entire profession into the gutter, honest cops live under a shadow of corruption and suspicion. You disgust me. You’re a walking disgrace.”

  “That’s not a crime, either.”

  “Don’t think I’m finished with you, Dunne, because I’m not.”

  “Next time I’ll be sure to order the chicken salad.”

  WALL STREET, NEW YORK

  Donovan spent the next morning working on the pile of legal briefs that had accumulated in his absence. He tried to put out of his head the memories that last night’s visit with Fintan Dunne had stirred. Faces of the dead. Scanlon’s startled expression. Three boys cowering at the moment before death. Are you all right, Major Donovan? Dunne was the last person in the world he’d expected to hear from. The evening before, when he’d finished dressing in his office for the Bar Association dinner and glanced at his list of unreturned phone calls, he almost skipped over Dunne’s name, which was halfway down the list. A question mark drew his attention: Fintan (?) Dunne. He’d buzzed his secretary on the intercom and asked her to step into his office.

  “Fintan Dunne,” he said, “What did he want?”

  “He wouldn’t say. Just that it was urgent. Colonel, your bo
wtie is crooked.”

  “Did he say where he was?” He lifted his chin.

  “He said hardly anything, except that he needed to speak with you and that you’d know who he was.” She stood close and adjusted his tie. “Your car is waiting downstairs. You’re sitting at the head table, with Mr. Dewey and Mr. Dulles.”

  “I wasn’t sure about the first name of the gentleman on the phone. But he hung up before I could ask him to spell it.”

  “You got it right.”

  “He’s from the regiment, isn’t he?”

  Donovan nodded. “Call him back, and let me know when he’s on the line.”

  The person she had on the line, his secretary reported, was a Mr. McCarthy, and he’d identified himself as an assistant U.S. Attorney. Polite but distant, McCarthy was reluctant to discuss why Dunne was in custody. When Donovan told him that he was acting as Dunne’s legal counsel, there’d been a prolonged silence.

  The Bar Association dinner had been more lighthearted than usual. Perhaps it was the effect of summer. In most cases, the men’s wives were already gone to Maine or Cape Cod or Eastern Long Island, where they’d soon join them. The courts were in virtual recess. Tom Dewey was in particularly good spirits. He worked the room with a practiced bonhomie that seemed almost, if never quite, sincere. He was attentive to Donovan’s request and summoned one of his assistants to call the U.S. Attorney’s office immediately. After the speeches, the assistant returned and whispered into Dewey’s ear. On the way out, Dewey put his arm around Donovan. “It’s been taken care of,” he said. “I offered my personal assurance that you’d see to it that your client would be available for further questioning. Your word is gold in our profession.”

  “I’m in your debt, Tom,” Donovan said.

  “There are no debts between friends.” John Foster Dulles said as he joined them. “Just a mutual willingness to lend a hand when it’s needed.”