by Will Rayner
“The thing is, my friends, the thing is, I come up here for a quiet chin-wag with my two private eye compatriots — Mr. Samuel Flood and Mr. Thomas Flood — and I find the vice squad throwing its weight around, in a manner of speaking. What do you have to say to that, Detective Wales?”
“Young Flood over there went to Turlock and appropriated a piece of vital evidence,” Mike said from his post by the door. “We dropped in to, ah, retrieve it.”
“Without a warrant and without properly identifying yourselves,” Sam added.
“You mean you haven’t had the privilege of meeting these two hard-working cops before now?” Bracken asked.
“Pop’s been too busy to visit the zoo,” T.J. sneered.
“Thomas, Thomas, Thomas, that’s not kind. Now, this piece of evidence Detective Wales is so concerned about, is that the evidence you turned over to homicide the other day?”
Sam swore later that he could hear Mike’s teeth grinding. “Why didn’t you share this with vice, lieutenant?” the big cop asked thinly.
“And why would homicide do that, my lad? You and Pat over there were concerned with Benny the Bundle’s death, yes, we know that, but not with the other murders. The thing is, if you reckoned they were connected with illegal smuggling activities, you should have approached us. Our door is always open to other departments.”
“Do I have to carry my cap in my hand to ...” Mike began before Bracken cut him off.
“I suggest the niceties of interdepartmental liaison in our police department be discussed over at the Hall of Justice, not here,” he said. “Perhaps the pair of you should repair to Kearny Street and fill out the usual requisition form. Messrs Flood and Flood are not really interested in our little lapse in communication.”
The hell we’re not, T.J. told himself, because another possibility had raised its head. Pat and Mike weren’t overly diligent about cooperating with homicide because they already had their copy of Wally Fenton’s piece of paper — the one they took off his dead body.
After the two vice cops had finally departed, Bracken crossed his legs and reached for a cigar. “Those laddies think they’re still on the docks, knocking heads and smashing open beer kegs,” he said. “But that doesn’t excuse you, young Thomas, from allegedly threatening anybody.” For once, T.J. kept silent. “So, Samuel, tell me about this little ocean voyage of yours.”
By a series of questions to both Floods, Bracken elicited the information that Sam did not really see the person who attacked him, and that the fisherman who rescued him was probably repairing nets before the fog closed in.
“Well then, we have a starting point,” Bracken said. “My boys can ask around, find out who was working on his nets that day. And if we can find this angel of mercy, perhaps he can recall seeing somebody else on this mysterious jetty of yours.”
“Nothing mysterious about it,” Sam said. “I was down at the wharf checking out an old rumrunner called the Amber Dawn, which seems to be connected to The Greek.” He had decided he and T.J needed to prepare the lieutenant for their suspicions about Pat and Mike. To do that, they had to volunteer more information.
“For the benefit of your client, Packy Shannon, of course. Well, the homicide squad thanks you for sharing this information. Of course we do. Would you suggest, then, that this Amber Dawn is one of those Greek letters on that scrap of paper Pat and Mike are so exercised about?”
Good for you, T.J. thought. You’re more on the ball than I give you credit for. “Yep, we think precisely that,” he said.
“And we think 230 California is one of the other points on that map, and the third one is a ship full of dope out in the bay,” Sam added.
“Which may explain why my two colleagues from vice seemed to be ready to tear these premises of yours apart,” Bracken said. “Info like that could mean a lot to them.”
“Or mebbe not,” T.J. said. Despite his father’s orders, he had decided to introduce the Oldsmobile angle. “Mebbe they were here to shut us up. Tell us, Jimbo, why do Pat and Mike go swanning around in fancy Oldsmobiles while the rest of you cops get stuck with plain vanilla Fords?”
“I must admit their nonstandard means of transportation has not gone unnoticed by some of us down at headquarters, but why does it concern you, precisely?”
“Because,” T.J. said. “Because, the last time I saw The Greek alive, he was getting out of a big, ol’ Oldsmobile over at Fisherman’s Wharf.”
Chapter 30
Sam Flood realized his pipe had gone out. Oh well, these old fellows can get pretty tired, just like me, he told himself. As Sam reignited it, Jimbo Bracken puffed on his cigar and regarded the elder Flood shrewdly.
“You gents better tell me what you’re really thinking,” he said.
“After Benny the Bundle got killed, T.J. told you, I believe, that he tailed Benny to 230 California Street. He was tagging Benny because our client wanted us to find The Greek.”
“Your client, Packy Shannon,” Bracken said.
“Never mind the name,” Sam continued. “T.J. spotted The Greek coming out of the building and followed him to Fisherman’s Wharf.”
“There was a new Oldsmobile waiting for him on California,” T.J. added. “He got in the back seat. I was busy trying to flag down a cab, but I got the impression there were two guys in front. They let The Greek out at the wharf, then took off.”
“So you couldn’t spot who was driving it,” Bracken said.
“Nope. I was paying more attention to where The Greek was going — aboard the Amber Dawn.”
“And these Oldsmobiles keep popping up — with Pat and Mike inside them more often than not — wherever T.J. and I happen to be,” Sam said. “An Olds made a couple of visits to Buchanan Street, where Wallace Fenton lived, and Pat followed T.J. for a while on California driving an Olds. And,” Sam said, glancing at T.J., “I haven’t mentioned this before but there was one parked further up the Embarcadero the day I got assaulted.”
“Also, Pat and Mike kept very close tabs on us, no matter what we were doing,” T.J. said. “I think they wanted to know how close we were to cracking this case.”
“What case is that, exactly, Thomas, me lad?” Bracken asked.
“You tell me. You think Packy Shannon hired us to find something. Well, mebbe he did. Mebbe he ...”
“Perhaps one of our clients, who shall remain nameless, hired us to help solve this string of murders,” Sam said, breaking in smoothly. “In the interests of justice, of course.”
“Justice, my sweet fanny,” Bracken said. “Flood and Flood, bless the both of you, are suggesting that two members of our vice squad are popping people off left and right. The thing is, what’s their motive?”
“There’s a ship loaded with opium out in the bay, which hasn’t been unloaded yet because of the dock strike,” Sam said flatly. “We think Detectives Wales and ... Dipstick are trying to take over that load of dope.”
Bracken chuckled. “‘Dipstick’ is right. That bozo’s a caution, believe me.” He took a long look at the ash on his cigar. “The thing is, boys, the thing is, a few of the lads down at the Hall are not so sure about Pat and Mike. I don’t like telling tales out of school, so you’d better keep this up your sleeve, but there were a few questions about their methods during their liquor-smashing days. It seems the number of crates broken up sometimes didn’t match the amount of booze seized.”
“So how did these two winners get to be vice cops?” T.J. asked.
“Well, the thing is, my lips are really sealed on that,” Bracken said. Although, he told himself, if these two sharp specimens stop to think about it, it’s obvious Pat and Mike had the goods on some senior brass in the department. “So you see, I don’t really care whether the Leaning Towers of Pisa — as Thomas here calls them — come to homicide for help or not. Wellington Koo and his Chinatown boys don’t like working with them. They may be great at breaking down doors, but sometimes the legal niceties are, ah, ignored.”
“Like
when those two clowns came bursting in here a little while ago,” T.J. said.
“Quite.” Jimbo Bracken gently deposited the dead stub of his cigar in Sam’s ashtray. “I’m going down to the Hall now to talk to those two boys. I want the pair of you to sit tight until you hear from me. Don’t try any cowboy stunts, hear that, T.J.?”
“What’s with this ‘cowboy’ crap?” T.J. groused after the lieutenant had left. “I want to get down to the Amber Dawn. I think we’re missing a bet there. We can’t just sit here on our fannies, waiting for Jimbo Bracken to wave his magic wand.”
Sam’s reply was cut short by the telephone. Agnes had Packy Shannon on the line.
“I’ve been talking to some of my people,” Shannon said without wasting any time on pleasantries. “The confab I had with your boy the other day got me thinking about whether anybody was around when we went to pick up The Greek.”
The ‘boy’ reference had Sam grinning inwardly. It’s just as well Thomas didn’t hear that, he thought, given the mood he’s in. “And what did they tell you?” he asked.
“Nothing much. The Greek was waiting for them on the boat, looks like. ‘Alright boys, you got me,’ he says. ‘I’ll go quietly.’ And he locks the wheelhouse door and puts the keys in his pocket. My boys say they didn’t see anybody else hanging around, but that doesn’t mean they wasn’t there. The boys were told to escort The Greek to my joint, nothing more. We didn’t realize then that he was playing a double game.”
“Thomas told you, I believe, that we think your, ah, goods are in a ship anchored in the bay.”
“Yeah, and I want at them. But I don’t want to run into any bent cops on the way. You gumshoes better wrap up this case pretty soon or I may have to lend a hand.”
“Packy Shannon says he hopes we can wrap up the case before long so he can go get his goods,” Sam told T.J. after hanging up. “Meanwhile, we wait. I suggest you utilize the time to get caught up on your reports.”
They didn’t have to wait long. T.J. was in his office, toiling away at his report-writing when Jimbo Bracken called Sam. “Pat and Mike have taken a powder,” he said. “They didn’t show up at the Hall like they were supposed to. They’re missing and you know what that means.”
“Yes,” Sam said. “It means they’re on the run and they’re going to try to snatch that shipment as insurance.”
*
Night was pooling in the hollows between the boats when T.J. Flood gingerly made his way along the narrow stretch of dock. A stiff breeze had come up and most of the boats at Fisherman’s Wharf were rocking gently. As he neared the Amber Dawn, T.J. reflected on the argument he just had with his father. Sam wanted to wait, to “get all the ducks in a row,” as he put it, before moving. T.J. believed time was precious, that Pat and Mike would have too big a head start if he waited until the next day.
“So I’ll be a target, a decoy,” he had told his father. “If they’re really going after the dope, they’ll need a boat and the Amber Dawn is available. Except I’ve got the keys.”
At least there’ll be no fog with this wind, he thought, as he came abreast of the rumrunner. It was nodding lazily in the slop of the basin, its fenders caressing the edge of the jetty.
The big brass key fitted in the wheelhouse door. It completed half a turn clockwise, just like T.J. knew it would, and a muted click signified the door was unlocked. T.J. turned the latch and the door swung gently toward him as the Amber Dawn heeled slightly to port.
On the inside bulkhead to his left, he felt a toggle switch. He flicked it and a yellowish light came to life in the center of the deckhead. At least someone has kept the batteries charged, T.J. thought. The wheel and control panel were off-center to starboard. An open hatch and a ladder led down forward, while a closed hatch at the rear of the wheelhouse indicated another compartment. Probably the engine room, T.J. concluded.
He slowly eased his way down the forward ladder into the darkness, feeling the bulkhead alongside him as he went. His fingers encountered another switch and he toggled it. A light came on above what looked like a compact galley. Now, T.J. could see two more switches on the bulkhead. He flipped both of them and more lamps were lit. Now the whole cabin was illuminated. T.J. could see a small table opposite the galley, with benches on each side. Further forward, there were double bunks on each bulkhead. Ahead of them was a closed door. Toilet, T.J. guessed. Or as they say on the seven seas, the head.
Some dirty dishes were in the tiny sink, and one of the lower bunks was unmade. Someone’s been living here, T.J. told himself, then chuckled derisively at his powers of deduction. Of course someone was living here: The Greek. This had been his hideout until the long arm of Flood and Flood tracked him down.
Methodically, he searched the cabin. There were canned goods, clothing, sea boots, foul weather gear, charts, navigation manuals and some scraps of paper which suggested the previous occupant had done some doodling.
T.J. found some of the charts extremely interesting, although they almost certainly dated from the Amber Dawn’s rumrunning days. The charts ranged from San Francisco Bay itself to the outer approaches, with a mysterious ‘X’ inscribed in a few places near the Farallones. Pickup points for the booze in the old days, of course. There was no notation indicating the position of the Hayashi Maru.
Some scraps indicated that The Greek had drawn up his Alpha-Beta-Gamma plan at the galley table. T.J. found some crude renditions of the triangle and some incomplete notes listing some of the agenda’s points.
T.J. was checking for anything hidden in the thin bedding when the Amber Dawn heeled slightly again as somebody came on board. He had left the light on in the wheelhouse for the express purpose of attracting attention, and now it seemed like it had.
*
Sam Flood didn’t permit himself to start feeling anything resembling panic. A certain concern, perhaps; a feeling of unease; an inner sense of disquiet. But not panic. He stood at his office window, puffing on his new pipe and watching the lights come on one by one. Waiting. Waiting for the phone to ring. Waiting for Jimbo Bracken to call back.
Agnes had volunteered to stay with him and man the phones, but he had sent her home. Waiting was a lonely occupation. Sharing it wouldn’t have helped. When he had called Bracken to report T.J.’s visit to the Amber Dawn, the lieutenant was out of the office. The detective answering the phones promised to pass on Sam’s message as soon as possible.
The message, of course, was that T.J. could probably use some backup at Fisherman’s Wharf. Unless Bracken was in the process of nailing Pat and Mike at this very moment. Sam tried to decide how much longer he would wait. An hour more? Ten minutes? When my pipe goes out, he told himself. If Bracken hasn’t called by then, I’ll be T.J.’s backup.
Chapter 31
By the time T.J. had disentangled himself from a blanket and tried to reach his Detective Special, Mike Wales was halfway down the ladder and pointing a .22 pistol at him.
“Well, well, well,” he said. “Look who’s trespassing on private property. Young Mr. Thomas Flood, the master sleuth.” Mike jerked the little gun skyward. “Up. Get them up, as they say in the talkies.”
T,J. snorted, but raised his hands just the same. “Tell me another one,” he said. “I’ve as much right on board as you do, flatfoot. I was the one with the key, wasn’t I?”
“Yes, we rather thought you and your father were more diligent than we were in that regard. When we couldn’t find the keys at 230 California, it stood to reason you had them. That’s why we decided to concentrate on this particular area of Fisherman’s Wharf.”
“That’s why you two gorillas were hell-bent on wrecking our office today. It wasn’t about Turlock at all.”
“Oh, we did want to find the original of Mr. Gatopoulis’s fussy little action plan, alright. If too many eyes saw it, someone was bound to figure it out. But we were really after the keys. It is unfortunate Lieutenant Bracken arrived when he did.”
Behind Mike, Pat came slowly down th
e ladder. His bulk forced him to accomplish the manoeuver sideways. “Golly, it’s Mr. private detecative,” he leered. “Caught in the act.”
“Don’t give me that load of malarkey,” T.J. barked. “You’re the ones who’ve been caught. Murder, by the looks of it. Dope-running, too, once you figure out where the opium is.”
“We ain’t done murdered nobody,” Pat protested.
“Never mind that, partner,” Mike said. “Mr. Flood here has probably deduced that because I’ve got a .22 levelled at him, I’m the one who bumped off all those unfortunate people who got in our way. A logical — and correct — assumption. Besides, Thomas is most certainly not going to leave this vessel alive, so it does no harm to clear the air.”
“Why the killings?” T.J. asked. “Seems to me things may have got a little out of control.”
“Only a little,” Mike said. “Benny the Bundle was going to spill the beans about our connection with his cousin. I caught up with him just in time.” T.J. had a flash of insight. When Benny was shouting in the outer office, he was hollering at Mike, not at me. “And poor Wally Fenton had The Greek’s map,” he said.
“He also heard me shoot The Greek on the fourth floor, just before you showed up,” Mike said. “And Gatopoulis, I might add, was totally unreliable. He was playing both ends against the middle. He insisted in drawing up that crazy plan that no one but himself understood. Trust a bookmaker to try to reduce everything to neat columns of probability.”
By now, T.J. had sunk down to perch on the edge of one bunk. He tried to think of a way to get his .38 without being plugged by Mike’s gat. Perhaps distract him in some way.
“The dwarf, of course, saw us take The Greek away and then we saw him chatting with your very astute father. And don’t try anything funny, Mr. Flood. Stand up while Pat searches you.” Pat quickly found and removed the Detective Special, then T.J.’s wallet. “Why, lookee here, Mr. private detecative has got a license,” he said, flipping the wallet open.