“What do you want?” he asked.
“I need some special work done. Apart from the calling cards, that is.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know what you heard, pal, but you heard it wrong. I don’t do special work. I sure as hell don’t do it for people I don’t know.”
I’d considered bringing photostats of the loan documents he’d altered and using those to blackmail him into going along, but figured that might scare him off. Posing as the law would have clammed him up even tighter, I was sure of it.
“I’m Kelly Shaw,” I said simply. “I’m one of your customers. I just put in an order with you. So now you know me.”
“Beat it,” he said. “Before I call the cops. And get your cards someplace else.”
“What’s this gizmo?” I asked, reaching out to the edge of a black, boxy machine with rollers. It was a little bigger than a typewriter.
“Get your hands off that! It cost me two hunnert bucks!”
“For this little thing? Hardly any weight to it.” I picked up one end of the machine, wobbling it back and forth, dangerously close to the edge of the bench. Ferrier looked at me and held his breath for a second, fuming.
“Who sent you to me?” he asked.
I shook my head and smiled.
“Sorry, Mr. Ferrier, but I’m a man who knows how to keep his mouth shut. You ought to be able to appreciate that. But if it will help,” I added casually, rocking the machine still closer to the edge, “I can mention the names of a few people we both know. Alexander Hamilton, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin.” With my left hand I dug the money clip out of my pocket and tossed it onto the bench.
He looked at the money clip and back to the precariously balanced machine I was holding, thinking it over.
“Come on, pal, make up your mind. Make a few hundred or lose a few hundred, I don’t have all day.”
Finally, he asked me what I wanted. I carefully and securely set the machine back down on the bench and told him.
And so it was on Sunday that I left Ferrier’s print shop again, having paid him the second half of five hundred dollars and walking out with, among other items, my business cards and a Baltimore driver’s license in the name of Kelly Shaw. I rode the bus back to within a few blocks of the men’s athletic club I’d visited last week. The friendly folks I’d met the last time had graciously invited me to have the use of the place while I was in town. The older gentleman at the desk greeted me cordially and I managed forty-five minutes of hard exercise followed by ten minutes of relaxation in the thankfully empty steam room. I was told they had a first-class masseuse here, but I’m a little funny about strangers running their hands over me. Besides, for my money, hot steam is more efficient; it gets you everywhere at once.
I took a taxi to my first hotel, wanting to pick up a few things and figuring it wouldn’t hurt to put in an appearance at the desk. There were no messages for me and I got my key and took the stairs up to my room on the fourth floor. I was wondering what it would look like after several days at my suite at The Excelsior, but when I opened the door that particular curiosity shot right out of my head as I received two jolts in rapid succession. First, there was a man in my room standing by the window. Second, I knew him.
“Volnick?” How long had it been? Six, seven years? I’d worked with Volnick at Pinkerton’s in the Chicago office. He was your typical broad-shouldered, open-faced type with a capable if not exceptional mind. I’d never had any strong feeling about him one way or the other.
“What do you know, Dev?”
“I know this is my room. How’d you get in?”
“Universal passkey,” he answered, which meant he’d picked the lock. Which also meant he hadn’t announced himself at the front desk.
“Okay, next question: What the hell are you doing here?”
“Somebody’d like to see you.”
“Somebody who?”
Volnick paused a moment before answering. “Straker.”
Even the mention of the name soured my stomach. Straker had been my last boss at Pinkerton’s, and a big part of the reason I left. The man was a spineless, soul-less, apple-polishing, ladder-climbing weasel. And those were his good qualities.
“I don’t know if they put it in the newsletter, but I don’t work for you people any more. I have no obligation or reason to see Straker. And I damn sure don’t have any desire.” I stood away from the door, holding it open for him. “Now scram.”
“Come on, Dev,” Volnick said, trying the easy approach. “You know how we work. I’m up here in the room and Sanderson is outside covering the sidewalk.”
“Good, you can say hi for me after I throw you out the window.” Volnick had brought the image of Straker’s hatchet face fresh into my mind, which is enough to make anybody irritable.
“Dev,” Volnick said, a bit softer and quite seriously, “if you don’t come with me, Hoover’s boys will pick you up. We’re kind of working with them on this one.”
“This one what?”
He shrugged. “Straker’ll tell you.”
I rode the elevator down with Volnick and the two of us walked outside. Sure enough, there was Sanderson, an extra fifteen pounds on top of the extra thirty he carried around the last time I saw him. He smiled at me.
“Dev Caine! What do you know?”
“I know Straker’s mother, but then who doesn’t?” I wasn’t smiling, but both Volnick and Sanderson laughed. And these were Straker’s own men, which said plenty about their boss. I climbed into the back of a tan Ford, drab enough to pass for the local branch’s motor pool, and thought things over during a ten-minute ride across town.
What the hell was this group doing in Baltimore? And what the hell did they want with me? How had they even found out I was in town? (That one could be very important.) Why were they working with the Bureau? Did this have something to do with an old case I’d been involved with? Both Volnick and Sanderson had been congenial enough so far, none of the looking away and lack of smiles you’d see in men who’ve been given the unpleasant duty of leading a former colleague to his doom. I kept reaching farther back in my mind, looking for some clue to all this. And, of course, that brought me back to Thaddeus J. Straker.
Straker was my immediate supervisor during my last fourteen months with Pinkerton’s. I’d encountered his type in the military, but had never had the misfortune to work directly under one for so long. He was one of those who treated responsibility like the two ends of a magnet. If something good happened, he made sure the credit for it stuck to him. If something bad happened, he saw to it that the blame repelled away from him and clung tightly to someone else. He knew who to flatter and he knew what looked good on paper. He was the kind of boss who stuck his nose so far into the details of your work that you couldn’t see them yourself, demanding answers before you had time to find them. And after tying your hands and hobbling you every step of the way, he’d become positively hostile about your lack of progress on something. As I said, he was a big part of the reason I struck out on my own. The biggest part.
One hot August night back in ’Twenty-Nine, I was helping stake out a warehouse. A ring of thieves had been looting office furniture and I guess the man who owned the warehouse figured he wasn’t getting enough action from the police. Straker was in the car with the other three of us because he liked to be there “at the kill”. He especially liked to be able to make a point of it to the client.
We watched from across a wide street, sitting in the dark car and waiting. The gang showed up just after midnight. We let them start loading their truck and I was sent in close to get descriptions and the license plate number while another fellow was dispatched to find a telephone and notify the law. After a minute, I heard a faint moaning. It seemed to be coming from the other side of a steel fire door a few feet away. I don’t know if it was the moaning or my opening the door that alerted the thieves, but they jumped on the truck and high-tailed it with what little they’d already loaded. I was barel
y paying attention by then. Behind that steel door, lying in a heap at the bottom of a stairwell, was a fourteen-year-old colored girl beat to hell. Whether she’d been attacked inside or someone had done this to her and dumped her here, I didn’t know. I did what I considered to be the normal things: saw that she was still breathing, put my jacket under her head, and yelled for Banner to find a cop or a doctor.
Straker jumped out of the car, slammed the door, and came across the street in a fast walk. He was furious, cursing me at the top of his voice over the botched job. I ignored him, but he went on and on. We’d been hired to protect Mr. Goodman’s property, he reminded me, not play nursemaid to some jungle bunny who didn’t have enough sense to stay in at night. He added that if I had such a hankering for “this kind”, there were places in the city that could accommodate me, but not on company time and damn sure not in the middle of an important–
He’d been saying all this while the girl lay bleeding on the cold cement floor, conscious enough to hear him, and so I had to pay for a doctor to wire his jaw shut for the next several weeks (best money I ever spent!) and to replace the shirt and tie that he bled all over. And there was a nice little written reprimand in my work record the next day. He’d wanted to fire me, but some of the senior guys cooled him out with my war record and my spotless history with the agency. I was also out a couple of bucks for the messenger I hired to deliver a can of soup and a straw anonymously to Straker’s desk that week. Sitting at my own desk outside his office and seeing it through his window, I didn’t crack a smile, but three other guys couldn’t come out from behind their file folders for several minutes. One even had to rush out into the hall to find the drinking fountain; something was caught in his throat and was damn near making him choke.
I still have the written reprimand. It’s in a walnut frame hanging in my apartment bedroom. I look at it now and then, and I think about all the headaches I suffered working for that ass. I think about that young girl (with a few inquiries I managed to find out that she was going to be okay, that she was a good student who wanted to be a teacher some day). I think about that kid in the organ grinder’s monkey uniform walking into Straker’s office to deliver one tin of Campbell’s soup, one straw, and the simple message “Mm mm good!” But mostly I think about the sound Straker’s glass jaw made when it crunched under my fist, and I smile and remind myself that life isn’t all bad.
“What’s funny, Dev?” Volnick’s question brought me out of my reverie. I guessed we were here.
Another hotel. At this rate, I might get to see the inside of every hotel in Baltimore before leaving the city. I followed Volnick and Sanderson up in the elevator and down the hall to a good-sized suite.
For a minute I thought I’d been brought to some miniature gala reception. At least ten men in suits were gathered around carts full of food and drink. The atmosphere wasn’t festive, but it wasn’t quite formal, either, though there was definitely a crispness to the proceedings.
Straker was in the center of the spread-out group, talking seriously with a sober-faced government type he was trying to impress. His jacket was off (Straker liked to let people know he was a working man) and he stood there in his vest and perfectly-knotted tie. Six feet tall with narrow shoulders and a wiry build. Bald on top and dark hair on the sides, and dark eyes that always looked out at you from his thin, angular face like he was deciding whether you were a handhold or a stepping stone. The man acknowledged no third categories.
“There’s the man himself,” Straker called out. “Devlin Caine. Used to be one of our best and brightest until he took it into his head to take all of our careful training and go into business for himself. Well, they do call it free enterprise after all. Dev, I’d like you to meet Special Agent Joshua Mattling of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
I walked casually forward during Straker’s patter and stationed myself halfway between the two men. At least Straker hadn’t been fool enough to try and shake my hand. Mattling and I gave each other the once-over. He was tall and sturdy, with bushy eyebrows, a prominent Adam’s apple, and ears that stuck out. He stood there munching a small sandwich while Straker prattled on and I offered single-syllable responses when necessary. After a moment, the three of us took a seat around a low table while the other men in the room took up positions on sofas and extra chairs.
“Mr. Caine,” Mattling began, “may I ask what brings you to Baltimore?”
“I’m here visiting family.”
“But you’re not staying with them?”
“I don’t like to crowd people in their own homes.”
Mattling snapped his fingers and one of the men jumped up and grabbed a photograph off a desk and brought it over to him. Mattling slid the photo across the low table toward me. It was of Clay Stanton, taken from several yards away and clearly without the subject’s knowledge.
“Do you know this man, Mr. Caine?” asked Mattling.
I picked up the photo and studied it. I had to be very careful here. If these people caught me in an outright lie early on, it could make the rest of the conversation difficult.
“I take it this is someone you’re interested in?” I asked, stalling.
“Please answer my question, Mr. Caine.”
I tossed the photo back onto the tabletop. “I don’t know him as well as I’d like to. I’m trying to get to know him a bit better.”
“For what purpose?”
“A client is paying me to.”
“You said you were here visiting family.”
“I am, but I’m also doing a little work on the side. I’m afraid a working holiday is all too common for the self-employed.”
“And who is your client?” asked Mattling.
“I’m sorry, Agent Mattling, but as a matter of the strictest professional ethics I maintain complete confidentiality regarding my clients. And that has to include their identities.”
“Dev,” Straker interjected quietly, “Agent Mattling is from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He needs this information.” I didn’t even look at him.
“Mr. Caine,” Mattling said, “this is a matter of some importance to the Bureau. I assure you I wouldn’t be asking you otherwise.”
“I’m sure that’s true, Agent Mattling.” I appeared to mull it over. “I’d be happy to contact my attorney in Kansas City and consult with him over this matter.” Mattling’s bushy eyebrows knotted slightly and the corners of his mouth pulled south a little; attorneys slow things down.
“We’re entering a new era of law enforcement in this country, Mr. Caine,” Mattling stated, which relaxed me a little. If he was going to extemporize, that was a good sign. A better sign than threats, anyway. “Our organization has fought very hard in Congress to put some real teeth into the law. Criminals can no longer evade justice simply by crossing over state lines. The Bureau has full authority to pursue them and arrest them wherever they go. We’re also working hard to increase cooperation, not just with local police forces but between various government agencies. We’re not all of us with the Bureau. Mr. Conklin over there is with the Treasury Department, Internal Revenue, and Mr. Palmer is with the Securities and Exchange Commission. We’re all of us interested in this man in the photograph. He is suspected of numerous criminal acts. And the fact is, Mr. Caine, we need your help to bring him to justice.”
It was a nice speech and it told me a few things. It told me chiefly that Clay Stanton was under surveillance by multiple government agencies, which in turn told me that my chances of making a play against him were now almost nil, not with all this federal scrutiny.
“I appreciate everything you’ve told me, Agent Mattling,” I said. “I’m even more willing to consult with my attorney and see if I can help you.”
It clearly wasn’t the answer he’d been hoping for.
“Dev,” Straker began, but Mattling shut him up quick with a small shake of his head.
“Sometimes, Mr. Caine, “it doesn’t aid the pursuit of justice to slow down long enou
gh to dot every ‘i’ and cross every ‘t’. The government of this nation has a duty to protect its citizens.”
“Agreed. Just as the citizens of this nation have a duty to protect their freedoms.”
We were at an impasse. Mattling might have tried carting me off to a back room somewhere and trying some variation or other of the rubber hose treatment, but he didn’t look quite that dumb. He could tell that, when pushed, I pushed back. And cooperation freely given is always more valuable than the type of coercion that could find its way into the papers and give the Bureau a black eye.
“Is there anything you could tell us about this man, then?” he asked.
“I’ve had dinner with him a couple times,” I said. “Goes by the name of Stanton. He claims to be some kind of investment guru. Stocks and bonds. Claims to be quite successful at it. Me, I think he’s nothing more than a confidence man.” This was telling them nothing. Unless Stanton had some other criminal enterprise on the side, they had to know at least this much about him already.
“He most assuredly is,” Mattling confirmed. “He’s been one most of his life.”
“How did he manage to warrant all this attention?” I asked, making a sweeping gesture that took in the room. “He put the touch on a senator’s kid or something?”
Mattling didn’t answer and I didn’t hold it against him. I wasn’t playing ball with him so why should he cough up for me?
“Thank you for coming by, Mr. Caine,” Mattling said. “Let me walk you to the elevator. No, that’s all right, Mr. Straker. You stay here.”
Mattling and I were alone in the corridor, waiting for the elevator car. He handed me a card with his name and an official logo on it.
“Mr. Caine, if there’s anything more you can tell us about Mr. Stanton, or about your client for that matter, I’d appreciate you calling me at that number. Anyone there will be happy to take a message.”
“If I find evidence that Mr. Stanton is committing some crime–”
“Yes, that too, of course. But anything at all could be helpful. We’ve been pursuing this man for some time, separately for the most part and only recently in concert. You never know what small piece of information will be the key that puts it all together for us, gives us a chance to move on him.”
A Shared Confidence Page 18