Nathan didn’t argue. In fact, he didn’t say anything at all. He just stared at me like I’d lost my mind and there wasn’t any use trying to reach me with reason. He walked on to his car and I believe that’s the last time we spoke. I get a letter from his wife Marie every so often, letting me know how the family’s doing, and I get a Christmas card every year, but that’s about it. Not that Nathan and I had been all that close before, really.
I walked into my apartment, threw my hat on the kitchen table, draped my jacket over a chair, then loosened my tie as I went over to the refrigerator. I wasn’t feeling especially ambitious; dinner was a sandwich made from cold, leftover pot roast, a slice of cheese, and an apple. I sat at the table and ate slowly, my mind still wandering around haphazardly through my youth.
Nathan Edward Caine. You never called him Nate and you damned sure didn’t call him Nat, not if you wanted your presence acknowledged in any way. Then again, he never used his full first name, Nathaniel, rebellious sort that he was. We were somewhat close as kids but grew out of it fairly early on. We didn’t even look like brothers, not really. Nathan took after our father, slender with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a fair complexion. I got Mom’s dark brown hair and eyes and darker skin. I also have a stockier build than Nathan, who eventually made it to our father’s height of six-foot-one, beating me by three inches.
Nathan had always been serious-minded even as a boy. He did well in school and rarely caused any trouble at home. I did okay with the books myself, but as for causing trouble, I was often accused of trying to carry Nathan’s load as well as mine. I wasn’t a bad kid, really, but when you have a perfect older brother, even your small sins tend to stand out in sharp relief. Nathan was no saint, of course, though as a boy he had briefly considered entering the priesthood. When he was told that the most important attributes for a priest were faith, fidelity, and compassion – attributes that were impossible to quantify and therefore easily fudged to Nathan’s way of thinking – the job lost its appeal. Or was it that priests were expected to spend a significant portion of their time listening to people confess to wrongdoing without laying into them for their weakness and stupidity? Either way, the Church dodged a bullet there if you ask me.
It wasn’t like I grew up jealous of Nathan. Far from it. I certainly never wanted to be like him. Nathan knew from a young age what kind of life he wanted. He knew before he started high school where he wanted to go to college, what kind of girl he wanted to marry, what trade he wanted to work in. He seemed to have his future all worked out, which was great for him but would have put me in a rubber room. I think moving around to different homes and different schools, seeing the parade of Mom and Dad’s slightly eccentric friends and neighbors, instilled in my brother a strong desire for a more solid, stable life. Me, I kind of like moving onto someplace new before I get tired of where I’m at, meeting interesting people here and there. And I’ve never been able to say with any degree of certainty what I’ll be doing the following year. There was never any bad blood between Nathan and me; we’re just different people. And our parents loved us both the same (which, I always suspected, rankled Nathan at times, their failing to take a stronger parental pride in his more stalwart nature).
I finished eating, washed and rinsed the dishes, then took the steel lid off the percolator and spooned in some coffee. Once the boiling and bubbling started, I went to fetch a cup, noting the time on the kitchen clock. I wanted to wait to call Nathan until I was sure they’d had dinner and the kids were likely in bed, though not past what I guessed Nathan’s own bedtime to be (which probably didn’t give me a very large window). Eight o’clock should do it; it’d be nine in Baltimore.
When the coffee was ready, I poured a cup and took it into the living room, turning on the radio and listening to the news for a few minutes. A commentator was throwing in his two cents about Hitler re-arming Germany in direct violation of the Treaty at Versailles and how we couldn’t let him get away with it. So what do we do about it, pal? I wondered. Start another war? Peace treaties are basically agreements where the losing side is forced to agree. It’s no great surprise that the coerced will try to break that agreement as soon as they’re able. Unless you’re ready to force their hand, it comes down to a game of “Or else what?” Historians will tell you that the end of each war seems to lead into the next, and I have no doubt they’re right. I just hope I’m too old to serve before the next one breaks out.
I switched off the radio, picked up the novel I was reading, and sat down on the divan. After thirty pages and two cigarettes, I refilled my coffee cup and picked up the telephone. I gave the exchange and waited while the long-distance operator connected me.
“Caine residence. Nathan Caine speaking.” I almost mouthed it with him, then let the operator announce me.
“Hello, Nathan.”
“Dev! Thank you for calling. You got my telegram?” We were both speaking loudly through the thousand miles of copper wire, pausing for the delays so as not to talk over one another.
“Yes, I got it this morning. What’s up?”
“To tell you the truth, I’m not quite certain where to start.” This wasn’t the Nathan I knew. Must be a hell of a problem.
“Just pick a place and jump in,” I advised. “I’ll stop you if I need to.”
Nathan informed me that he’d received an important promotion last November. He was now Vice President of the department that oversaw loans to small businesses. We were being charged by the minute for this conversation, but Nathan still graciously allowed a brief pause so I could congratulate him. He went on to explain that earlier this week he’d been going over the books on various loans open in his department and was having a difficult time getting the numbers to balance. After starting over and going through them several different ways, he was forced to acknowledge that some money was missing. A lot of money.
“I see.” I could sense Nathan didn’t want to use a word like “embezzlement” on the telephone so I tried to avoid it as well. “You think maybe someone who works there…?”
“I’m afraid that’s the only possible explanation.”
“I see,” I repeated uselessly. What I couldn’t see is why this wasn’t a matter for his superiors at the bank, perhaps even for the police, rather than a private detective who lived several states away.
“There’s another part to this I haven’t told you,” Nathan said.
“Then why don’t you tell me this other part, Nathan.”
Whoever was responsible, he explained, had taken some pains to make my brother look like the culprit. I whistled softly into the mouthpiece.
“That’s a problem, all right.”
“Yes it is,” he agreed. “I was wondering, Dev…is there any chance you could come out to Baltimore for a few days? Maybe give me a hand with this?”
I wasn’t sure what to say to that. I did a quick mental review of my my workload at the office. Nothing that couldn’t wait a few days but…
“Nathan, I don’t know a whole hell of a lot about banking. I’m not sure how much help I’d really be in this kind of situation.”
“I’ve considered that. I still think it would be a benefit to me, your time with Pinkerton’s and heading up your own agency. I’d be willing to pay for your travel. You’d be welcome to stay with us. Or I could put you up in a hotel if you’d feel more comfortable there.”
I managed not to drop the phone. So far he’d ponied up for a telegram and a long-distance telephone call. Now he was willing to come across for a train ticket and even a hotel stay? He had to be rattled good. I still wasn’t sure what help I could be, but I could remember clearly how many times Nathan had asked for my help in his whole life: This would make exactly once.
“Sure, I can come out if you think it would help. I have to tie up a few loose ends at the office. I could hop a train and be there towards the end of the week if that works.”
“Would you have any objection to flying?” Reflexively, I gripped the phone a
little tighter.
“Yeah, sure, I can fly out.”
Nathan asked how long I needed to get my office in order. Hell, if it was this important to him, I could take care of things tomorrow morning and fly out in the afternoon. Nathan told me he’d have a ticket waiting for me at the airport, that he’d telephone my secretary with the particulars tomorrow.
“I guess we’re all set then,” I said.
“Please telephone me at the bank if you can’t get away for some reason,” he asked. I wrote down the number he gave me on the pad I had ready. “Thanks for calling, Dev. And for coming up on such short notice. I appreciate it.”
“No problem, Nathan. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
I hung up the receiver and went into the kitchen to warm up my coffee. My brother, who hadn’t spoken to me since our parents’ funeral (nor I to him, to be fair), wanted me to fly up to Baltimore and help him out with what sounded like a serious problem. Serious enough that he was willing to foot the bill for my travel, anyway. And what exactly did he expect of me? Figure out who the real embezzler was? Advise him on how to handle the situation? Or just be there for moral support? If a client walked into my office with a problem like this, I’d get rid of him fast. Sure, I’d give him a few suggestions on where he could go for help, maybe recommend some people, but that’d be it. Maybe that was all Nathan wanted, to have me hear him out in detail and help him work out his next move. Easier to do face to face than over the telephone. More breathing room that way, time to cover all the angles thoroughly.
To hell with it, I thought. All I promised Nathan was that I would show up and listen. If he was expecting more for the money he was putting out, he should have said so.
I walked into the bedroom and took a battered, brown suitcase out of the closet, quickly filling it with enough clothes for three or four days. I’d put some toilet articles in my shaving kit and toss that in tomorrow morning after I dressed for work. Next, I sat down at the kitchen table with a pad and pencil, making some notes about what I’d need to go over with my secretary and one of my operatives before I left. I went to bed early, read some more of my book, and put out the light.
I was sitting at my desk at ten the next morning when I heard a knock and the door opened. A tall young man in a pea coat and cloth cap stood in the doorway, a lazy smile on his face.
“Morning, boss,” he said.
“What say, Jennings?” I smiled back. “Come take a pew. How’s the leg?”
He pushed air out through slack lips. “It’s fine, Mr. Caine.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Brad Jennings had been working for me for close to a year now. He’s one of the most resourceful young men I’ve ever come across, and I have yet to give him something he can’t handle. I tried not to let on how carefully I was watching him as he walked over to the empty chair in front of my desk. Last October, Jennings got himself thrown out of a four-story window doing some work for me, yet for some reason he still wanted to remain in my employ. He’d been without the cane for months now, and try as I might, I couldn’t detect even a trace of the limp he’d had for so long. Oh, to have the healing powers of a twenty-four-year-old, I thought.
“Got anything special going on the rest of this week?” I asked.
“Nothing I can’t get out of,” he said, his gray-green eyes coming alight under lazy lids.
“I have to leave town for a few days,” I explained. “How’d you like to watch the office for me?”
“Sure thing,” he said, poking a lock of straw-blonde hair back up under his cap. “What do you want me to do?”
“Mostly it involves showing up here in a suit and tie and sitting behind this desk. Introduce yourself to clients as my junior associate, listen to their problems, write down the particulars, tell them I’ll get back to them in a few days, and stay out of the liquor cabinet.”
“No sweat,” he grinned. “You keep the good stuff in the safe anyway.”
“If it gets too slow, I have a few things you can run down for me.” I went over my notes and threw him some details, which he wrote down in a small notebook he’d taken to carrying. “Just be sure to let Gail know where you’re going and when you’ll be back. You can use my car if you want,” I fished out my keys and dropped them on the desk, “but remember, it’s for business, not joy-riding. Can do?”
“You know it,” he assured me, picking up the keys.
“Gail will know where I can be reached if anything comes up. I expect to be back by next Monday at the latest. And speaking of Gail,” I nodded toward the closed door to the outer office, “she’s a terrific secretary, best I’ve ever had. She likes it here. She better still be here and still liking it when I get back.” Jennings is a sharp kid and a good one, but he’s young, and the last thing I needed was him putting Gail off by trying to boss her around or cozy up to her or something.
“Sure thing, Mr. Caine,” Jennings said, his face serious. “I hear you.”
“Good man.” We settled on a daily fee. There was no need to shake on it; he trusted me.
I grabbed an early lunch – a bowl of soup and a sandwich at the diner I’d taken Ryland to last week – then headed back to my office to pick up my suitcase. Just before heading out the door, I paused and opened the lower right-hand drawer of my desk. Two guns were inside: a .45 and a Colt .32 I sometimes carry, both automatics. Did I really need a gun for this trip? I doubted it, but I tend to look on guns like umbrellas: the surest way not to need one is to have it with you. I favored the Colt. In fact, I’d picked this one up to replace the same model I’d had to ditch last year. I placed in my suitcase and fastened the snaps.
I said farewell to my secretary and walked downstairs to the taxi she’d called. My wristwatch read a quarter past twelve when we climbed onto the auto deck of the Hannibal Bridge. We’d reach Kansas City Municipal Airport in under fifteen minutes or less.
Chapter Five: Seeing a Man About a Loan
The cabbie fetched my suitcase out of the trunk and I paid him for the ride. He touched his cap, wished me a safe journey, and started looking around for a fare back into town. I picked up my suitcase and walked inside to the T&WA counter. No, I reminded myself, it’s just TWA now. Transcontinental Air Transport and Western Air Express merged five years ago, the new company making its headquarters in Kansas City. The merger had been busted up last year in the wake of the Air Mail Scandal, but Transcontinental got to keep the new name.
The man at the counter found the ticket Nathan had reserved for me and took my suitcase. I strolled over to the newsstand and grabbed some newspapers and magazines to read on the flight, then found a bench and looked over the crowd. Mostly businessmen and a few of the idle rich. I’d been to this airport a handful of times, to meet arriving passengers or to tail someone, but I’d never flown out of it. It had been dedicated in ’Twenty-Seven by Charles Lindbergh, along with about every other new airport dedicated that year. Being the first man to fly solo across the Atlantic brought publicity in pretty hefty bags. Not that I begrudged the man for making the most of an impressive and daring accomplishment, but it was a damned shame for him that it’s all too easy to draw the wrong kind of attention when you’re riding that wave. I was thinking of the kidnapping, of course. They’d made a conviction just last month, but that wouldn’t bring Lucky Lindy’s boy back.
I killed twenty minutes skimming my papers and watching the foot traffic entering and exiting until the announcement came for my flight. Papers and magazines stuffed under one arm, I made my way with the other passengers out onto the tarmac. Sitting on the ramp, gleaming in the afternoon sun, was the Douglas DC-2 that would take me to Baltimore. It was an impressive-looking ship, all anodized metal from the rounded fuselage to the large wings supporting the twin propellers. I knew from articles I’d read that the cabin was largely soundproofed and otherwise secured against the elements. I climbed up the stairs with the other passengers, smiled back at the uniformed pilot standing inside the hatch to greet us, th
en found a seat. My elbows fell on padded armrests. Not what I remembered; air travel had gone commercial in a big way in the last five years.
I thought back to my first ride in an airplane almost twenty years ago. My Signal Corps unit was setting up a communications tower somewhere in the south of France. We were due to perform maintenance on another such setup about forty miles away, and my commanding officer got the bright idea that I should travel on ahead with the mail pilot, get a jump on things. The pilot, grinning cruelly at me from under raised goggles, said he’d be happy to give me a lift. I was nineteen years old – nowhere near brave enough to chicken out in front of the others. I grabbed my gear and climbed into the passenger seat of the open-air biplane. The pilot got in behind me, the ground mechanic got the propeller started, and off we went. It was the most exhilarating experience of my life up to that point, in the sense that I was pretty sure I was going to die. Between the engine rattling the fuselage and the wind whipping at the wings – and never forgetting that we were a thousand times heavier than any bird – I spent the better part of an hour grabbing whatever I could hold onto and waiting for my stomach, which always seemed to be a climb or a dive behind. I was tempted to kiss the ground when we landed, but had to settle for a different kind of offering: my breakfast. The pilot graciously gave me a moment’s privacy before strolling over to offer a hand on my shoulder, a cigarette, and a winking confession that he’d done the same thing after his first time up.
Flying was better in the Twenties, but not by much. Depending on the route, trains were usually faster. Still, I had to fly maybe half a dozen times for business. The cabins weren’t anything like the well-protected enclosure I was sitting in now. They were cold and noisy as hell. Young fellows staggered up and down the seats, doling out blankets and hot coffee from thermoses, and chewing gum to keep your ears from popping. The planes were made mostly of wood, the wings basically glued on. And too many hours flying through wind and rain and ice could dissolve that glue. That’s how Notre Dame lost their beloved football coach. He was heading out to Hollywood but only made it as far as Kansas when the Fokker Trimotor he was flying in went down in a field.
A Shared Confidence Page 6