A Body for McHugh

by Jay Flynn

  “He had none to my knowledge. I believe he was married at one time, but I have no idea where or when or to whom.”

  “We’ll find out,” Foote replied.

  Gilbert stood. “Will that be all, gentlemen?”

  “For now,” Foote said. “We’ll take a look at your file on the man as we leave.”

  It provided the usual information, all of which would be thoroughly checked. On the face of it, here was nothing unusual.

  Deane Walter Dant had been thirty-eight years old at the time of his death. He had been employed by Lawrence Gilbert for a period of five years and two months before he took a leave of absence. He had never served in the armed forces and claimed never to have been arrested. He was a graduate of an excellent business college and was a certified public accountant. He had been married and divorced, but the name of the woman was not given, nor was the place where the marriage had taken place. He had lived last in an apartment in Brentwood. He swam, he golfed, he water-skied.

  “We’ll dig into it from here,” the Los Angeles man said on the drive back to the airport. “We will also see what we can see about Mr. Gilbert.” He smiled faintly. “I don’t think Mr. Gilbert likes McHugh.”

  “Nobody likes McHugh,” Murrell growled.

  McHugh smiled. He was looking forward to waiting for his plane in the air-conditioned bar at the airport.

  He found the quality of the double gin-and-tonics excellent and drank three before excusing himself on the pretext that he had urgent business at the airport liquor store.

  The phone booth was a glass-enclosed torture chamber. Sweat streamed down his body as he waited for the call to go through. He reached Harts as the general was preparing to close up shop for the afternoon.

  Tersely he reported the day’s action. Harts grunted into the phone, then said, “You better not go to Mexico. I hear the next time you show up there they intend to stand you against a wall. I hear their reasons are pretty good.”

  “Yeah. Me, too.” McHugh wiped his face with his sleeve. “Look, it’s hotter’n hell here. What I want is for somebody down there to check on this Dant. He was apparently traveling legal, so it shouldn’t take too long. I don’t know which name he was using, or why he had to beat it out on a fish boat. I want to know what big things have happened there in the past few months, particularly since he quit Gilbert. The works. I’ll be back in the city tonight, either at the bar or the apartment Time enough?”

  “How should I know?” Harts retorted. “We’ll do what we can.”

  McHugh slammed the door open and unwound himself. He stopped at the liquor store, invested in a bottle of prepared Old Fashioneds and went back to the bar. He took on several more gin-and-tonics before their plane was called.

  From time to time he nipped on the flask of Old Fashioneds, a faint smile that could have been self-satisfaction on his wide mouth. He looked like a man with nothing more weighty on his mind than a choice of places to dine that evening.

  This was, in fact the case. For the moment the highly competent machinery of the FBI was doing all that could be done. There was no point to bothering his brain with problems that would be handled by others. He emptied the flask and dozed.

  At the apartment, he soaked himself in a hot bath and caught up on the local papers. He put on a dark suit that showed no sign of the gun on his hip. When the doorman telephoned and said Inspector Kline and two detectives were on their way up, McHugh and Loris departed via the freight elevator, which deposited them in the basement garage.

  Over brandy in a restaurant the tourists had never found, Loris filled him in.

  “The regulars have taken themselves off into the mists. Even the Dutchman hasn’t been around. But so many stiffs came around to see where murder was done we called in extra bartenders last night. Also, you are being checked upon by some swarthy types. One or two of them have taken a room with Harvey Dunn. A front room. They’ve got a round-the-clock watch on the door.”

  “Girolamo,” McHugh said complacently. “That man is going to have enough troubles of his own, so he won’t be thinking about me for a few days.” He finished his brandy and signed the check. “Back to work, girl. And while I think of it, don’t walk down dark streets alone.”

  She lifted her purse and let it thump of the table. “I brought Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson along.”

  He nodded approval. He knew there was no need to tell her to use the gun. She had used it before.

  The Door was jammed full. Every table was taken, and drinkers stood two and three deep at the bar, where the stools had been removed. Three bartenders and two cocktail waitresses were trying to keep up with the orders. Most of the faces were unfamiliar.

  “We should have a killing every night,” McHugh growled as he pushed an aisle through the people. “Does wonders for business.”

  Loris squeezed past a fat man and onto the bench behind the piano bar. The bench was already occupied by a chunky man who looked too big for his Ivy League suit. He was improvising something with a heavy bass, and without looking up from the keyboard he slid over. He talked around the cigarette holder between his lips.

  “Boss man has a call in for you.”

  McHugh nodded, wondering for a moment what Bud Chapman was doing in San Francisco. He was one of General Harts’ specialists, working under the cover of an international drifter who owned an airplane or two and would deliver anyone or anything anywhere, for a price. Cash, a lot of cash, in advance, but satisfaction guaranteed. McHugh cocked his head toward the back room and pushed through the people. Chapman hit a few more chords and followed.

  McHugh locked the storeroom door behind them and took the scrambler phone from its box. He reached for the dial. “You’re in on this one, Bud?”

  Chapman shrugged. “Could be. A charter didn’t pan out.”

  “Oh? Who was the client?”

  “That I don’t know. I got a thousand-dollar retainer with instructions to come here, hole up and meet my man here at The Door. The same night your man got knifed.”

  “You didn’t show.”

  “The plane got a sick engine at Denver. Took two days to fix. The man wanted to go to Mexico, but I’m not sure where in Mexico. I couldn’t make contact, and I haven’t heard any more about it.” He fitted a fresh cigarette to the holder. “So, if it wasn’t your dead man, the kill was enough to scare my boy off.”

  “Sounds reasonable.” McHugh spun the dial. Harts was not on duty, but an agent had a report.

  “Dant entered Mexico forty-three days ago, at Tijuana, by airplane. He then flew to Mexico City and took a large house in town. He’s had some callers, some of whom are big-time Mexican businessmen, others unidentified. He was last seen about two weeks ago, although people still come to the house. There have been two incidents there in the past six weeks. The Federal Police hit a big drug ring and picked up a lot of heroin and opium derivatives. They got some people and are still looking for others. The second case involves three or four foreigners who were apparently trying to peddle some three million Cuban pesos. Somebody knocked them over, and they made the mistake of going to the police. They were promptly booted out of the country and have long gone their way.”

  “That sounds good. Our man’s field was international finance,” McHugh said. He worked a cigar from its wrapper and snapped his lighter. “When?”

  “Twenty-five days ago.”

  “And what was the exchange rate on Cuban pesos?”

  “On paper, a dollar,” the agent said. “But they were going for thirty to thirty-five cents at the time. It would still make our man something like a million bucks.”

  “Okay. Thanks. That will hold us for now. If you get anything hot in the next day, I’ll be here.”

  McHugh hung up, puffing on his cigar. Finally he shook his head. “It wouldn’t fit.”

  “What wouldn’t?” Chapman asked.

  “So much money inside a candy box, or something that size.”

  “Depend on the size of the bills, would
n’t it?”

  “Anything spendable would be comparatively small. Nothing over hundreds. Make a pile big enough to fill a two-suiter.”

  “Let’s get me straightened out,” Chapman said. “This Dant was a money man. He was in Mexico legally. While he was there, a big heist took place. He beat it back here, using his old boss’s name, did some sleight-of-hand with a package and got himself killed. It begins to look like he wasn’t my passenger after all.”

  “You figure?”

  “I figure it doesn’t make sense for a guy who has managed to get away clean to sneak back to the scene of the crime.”

  “He couldn’t sell Cuban pesos in San Francisco.”

  Knuckles rapped on the door. McHugh put the phone away and piled whisky cases in front of it. His hand was on his gun when he opened the door.

  Nick Foote and Jim Murrell squeezed into the storeroom.

  “No room at the bar?” McHugh asked, grinning.

  “A fact,” Murrell replied. “We thought it might be good to have a little talk in private.” His eyes rested on Bud Chapman. “Before you fly out from under our noses, that is.”

  “So?”

  “Maybe we can do a little trading. We know you got a report from Washington.”

  “Not much to it.” McHugh’s cigar had gone out. He took his time relighting it.

  “We would like to be enlightened anyway,” Murrell said, eyes bright behind his glasses. “We now know where Dant was staying in the city. We have an idea of how the girl was found by whoever tapped the bank box.”

  “Okay.” McHugh told them about Mexico.

  “More complications. Now we’ll have the Treasury crew in it.”

  “Good lads. Sometimes when they capture some moon-shine they save me a swig. What’ve you got?”

  “We’ve got the motel where Dant stayed. He was alone, but he registered double, using Gilbert’s name. He was visited on several occasions by a woman, who, incidentally, is of the same general description as Miss Harnois. The woman checked him out—the morning after he was killed. The bill included a phone call the previous afternoon to Miss Harnois’ number at Big Sur. It was the only out-of-town call he made. The clerk said she took his suitcase and didn’t leave anything behind in the room.”

  “You haven’t got the woman.”

  “Half the agents in the state have been working all day to get this much,” Murrell retorted. “We know a woman, presumably the same one, inquired at the Big Sur post office for the girl. She wasn’t there, and a neighbor told the woman she spent a lot of time at Carmel. Her phone there is unlisted, but the power company office was a good bet. She got the address. We know that much. We know she went through the cottage, didn’t find any package but did find the safety deposit box key. She just put it all together and took a chance that paid off.”

  “Nothing on who the woman could be?”

  “Nothing. The people who saw her are going through mug books now, but it’s a long shot.”

  “You might start with women Girolamo knows.”

  “We’re working on that, too.”

  McHugh yawned. “Looks like you fellows have covered just about everything for now.” He reached for the doorknob.

  “Where are you going now?” Foote demanded.

  “To work. I’m running a saloon, remember? Got to sell drinks while the house is full.”

  He shut the door on their looks of exasperation.

  CHAPTER 9

  ABOUT ALL I CAN SAY in favor of this case,” Foote growled, “is we are not likely to die of thirst.”

  They sat in a back booth at The Door. The bar was not open for business yet, but he and Murrell and McHugh and Jensen, the Treasury man, were steadily lowering the level of beer in a keg.

  “Or loneliness,” McHugh added as Chester brought another fat pitcher. “So far we have the FBI, the Pentagon, Treasury, Immigration and State involved. We are about standing on each other’s necks.”

  “The striped-pants boys are worry warts,” Murrell said somberly. “They are sweating out an international incident. They are demanding to know everything we do that involves Mexico. They don’t even want us to ask questions without we clear them first. They are swinging enough weight to make it stick.”

  “How about Girolamo?” McHugh asked.

  “Nothing we can move on,” Foote said. “He’s a foxy one, and he doesn’t panic. Denies everything from bringing Dant in to knowing Leoni and Bomarito. We can’t tie him in so far with any woman who could have been the one we want. Which is about what we expected anyway.”

  “No link to Gilbert either, of course,” McHugh said.

  “Gilbert is a source of great woe and expense to us,” Jensen said. He was a youngish man with short blond hair and square features that testified to his Scandinavian ancestry. “The department has kept a full-time auditor on his operations for years. Nothing unusual in it-he’s just big money, and his books always check out. Now we’ve got a crew of nine checking on him. It happens he owns, controls or has a substantial interest in over a hundred corporations. They do business in about two dozen countries, a lot of it with each other. So far we’ve seen enough to make one educated guess. Gilbert is a front man for some big people.”

  “The Outfit?” McHugh said.

  Jensen shrugged. “FBI says he has no known contacts with the racket boys. Which, of course, he wouldn’t if he is really handling the take. We’d need months to check any specific deal all the way through. We don’t have months.”

  “For sure, McHugh agreed. “Find any significant money transfers to Mexico lately? Something that could buy three million in Cuban pesos on the black market?”

  “Nothing,” Jensen said. “Which is not significant. Gilbert lists sizable holdings in Mexico.”

  McHugh carefully unwrapped a cigar and lit it. “So Gilbert wasn’t quick enough to dump what he had there. Which brings us to the lads who had some weak money to peddle. What about them?”

  Foote scowled. “They got taken in a hotel room, just how we don’t know yet. There were three men and one woman. They put up a squeal, and when the authorities found out they were in Mexico for business without government permission, they slapped heavy fines on them and ran them out of the country. They were booted into the States at Brownsville, Texas. We’re working on the angles.”

  “One thing we’re not short on,” McHugh said. “Angles. And we’re just making a wild guess that Dant and the big heist tie in. There could be no connection at all.”

  “So why did he sneak out of Mexico right after it happened?” Murrell demanded.

  “Any number of reasons. Maybe he got himself in some kind of jam and figured he’d better move out smartly,” McHugh argued. “And I know a man who just might be able to tell us. A general in the Mexican Federal Police named Rodriguez.”

  “Any inquiries are supposed to be handled through State,” Murrell reminded him.

  “So they tell me.” McHugh reached for his hat. “I’ll see you all later.”

  McHugh made the call from his apartment, sipping on a bottle of beer while he waited for the Mexico City line. The precise voice of the general was distorted by the phone.

  “Broken up any revolutions lately?” McHugh said in Spanish.

  The general laughed. “No. But then we have not had any crazy Norteamericanos around since you left. What can I do for you, amigo?”

  McHugh explained quickly. He settled himself in an armchair, with a notepad on his knee. Rodriguez was an official of great power, a man who believed in simple and direct methods of keeping that power. One was keeping fully informed on everything that happened in his country.

  “Ah yes. A most intriguing matter,” Rodriguez said. “I interested myself in it. I regret to say we have made little progress. It is a simple case of skillful and lucrative robbery. You know the details, McHugh?”

  “No.”

  “Ah. Well, the victims were four, representing themselves to be Cuban nationals. They had Cuban passports which
were in order. The names are Carlos Real, Juan Quesada, Miguel Olivera and Carlotta Artellan. They occupied a five-bedroom suite in one of our better hotels for eleven days prior to the robbery. In that time, they had numerous visitors. Three maids maintained the suite—”

  “Hold on,” McHugh broke in. “Would one of the visitors happen to be a North American named Dant? Deane Dant, of Los Angeles.”

  “Yes.” Rodriguez’ tone sharpened. “We have been looking for Señor Dant. At his house here, we are told he has gone fishing, that his return is expected at any time.”

  “Says who?”

  “The servants. Also a gentleman named Gonzales, who was to be his Mexican partner in a business venture.”

  “Dant won’t be back. He’s dead. He was killed here in San Francisco four days ago.”

  “Ah! I shall have to talk further with Señor Gonzales.”

  “I would if I were you. How about the actual theft?”

  “It bore the marks of a technical mind,” Rodriguez said. “The suite was equipped with its own air-conditioning system. An anesthetic gas was fed into the ducts. Those in the place were overcome for a sufficient time. About an hour. They suffered no ill effects.”

  “All four?”

  “The three men and two maids. The Artellan woman was not there at the time. It was she who discovered the theft.”

  “They had the pesos with them?”

  “In two suitcases. Señora Artellan had been out for the evening. This was-confirmed both by her escort and a large number of people who saw them in the places they visited. She is a lady of striking appearance.”

  “What’s she look like?”

  “Tall, possibly five feet seven inches. Light complexion, black hair, eyes that are almost black, exquisite features. Quite slender. By the way, she was not a Cuban by birth. She was born in your country and evidently married several times. Her current husband operated a casino at Habana under the previous regime.”

  “Would Dant possibly be one of her ex-husbands?”

  “She claimed she never met the gentleman until coming to Mexico City.”