I loved the city that was my hometown. I loved the granite it was built on. It was a metropolis of angles and shadows. The place was big, bustling, and full of bravado. Once in a while, that audacity turned ugly. Occasionally, the unpleasantness didn’t rise to a level requiring police involvement. Other times, the matter fell under the heading of something citizens were too embarrassed or too afraid to have exposed in the public domain. That’s when folks often called on me. I was a private detective, owner and sole operator of the Tanner Detective Agency.
The second of those two situations turned out to be the case when I was hired by a gentleman the first week of September 1933. For reasons that became apparent, my prospective client didn’t want to go to the police.
* * *
For the sake of his and his family’s reputation, I’ll just refer to the man who appeared at my door as “John Smith.” After taking a chair in my office, Smith said he’d come to me for help on the confidential recommendation of a business associate. I was familiar with Smith from his photograph and news items, which appeared in the local broadsheets occasionally relating to his business dealings. He was a wealthy manufacturer of cast iron cookware.
When it came to telling me his problem, he hemmed and hawed around, fidgeted in his chair uncomfortably, and had trouble making eye contact. Finally, I told the tall, raw-boned fella he was wasting our time. Reconciled to relating his problem, he folded his hands in his lap and stared at a wall as he decided where to begin. Following a moment’s hesitation, he started his story as I took a few notes.
Reconciled to relating his problem, he folded his hands in his lap and stared at a wall as he decided where to begin.
My visitor began, as many of my potential customers in similar circumstances do, by assuring me he deeply loved and was devoted to his wife and three children. I could see where this was going from five furlongs away. He stated the problem began less than a week earlier. After an evening of wining and dining an out-of-town customer in The Orchid Room at the St. James Hotel, both men had had too much to drink. John’s guest had called it a night and toddled off to his room.
Shortly thereafter, an alluring young woman bumped into Smith’s chair as she walked past. He told me he stood and apologized for the incident, thinking he’d had his chair too far out from the table. Following a brief exchange, he offered to buy the woman, Elizabeth Concannon, a drink. She accepted and sat down with him. They spent a couple of hours in friendly banter until she suggested they get a room. The intoxicated, roving-eyed Smith readily agreed.
Later that night, in the room he’d foolishly rented in his name, they became “paramours”-his word, not mine. They were lovers, that is, until the woman’s jilted husband had caught them in flagrante delicto, as the swells referred to it, red-handed and red-faced. During that confrontation, the cuckold slapped John around and adamantly demanded cash for what he termed “heart balm.” “Otherwise,” the irate spouse threatened, “you can expect more serious physical harm, as well as public humiliation!” It turned out the careless Casanova was more afraid of the latter than the former. When Elizabeth’s seducer had tucked his delicto back into his trousers and taken a deep breath, he sought his friend’s advice the next morning and later appeared at my office.
“Now,” Smith moaned in conclusion, “I’m being blackmailed by Charles Concannon.”
The sandy-brown haired Smith assured me he’d had only that one rendezvous with the young lady. He added that, even before he could get to my agency that day, the impatient, aggrieved husband paid a visit to his office, where he renewed his demands. The extortionist left, telling his pigeon he’d be in touch.
My visitor informed me that, after the encounter that morning, he had followed the mug. It was not something I’d ever recommend a novice do on their own. I admonished him, saying I considered it a reckless undertaking. When he balked at my assessment, I clarified why I thought so, expounding that he didn’t know how dangerous a character he might be dealing with. In addition, there are nuances in shadowing another person without being made. He merely nodded, showing he understood my points.
Anyway, he’d trailed the man to The Coach and Six, a seedier hotel in our fair city and commonly referred to as the “Cockroach and Six.” At that moment, Smith said he thought the better of pursuing the matter any farther on his own. But, he opined, something just didn’t feel right about the setup. John provided a detailed description of the Concannon’s. He ended his tale of woe by reiterating his need to keep this scandal away from his wife and three children and begged my help in handling the situation discreetly.
The Concannon’s gambit sounded like the purest form of an old hustle. I decided to learn more about the pair before I shared my suspicions with Smith. We agreed he was to make no payment to the man before we spoke again.
After receiving a hefty retainer and depositing the majority in my bank, I proceeded to The Coach and Six. At the front desk, I spoke with a clerk named Zach and inquired about their guests named Concannon. Hesitant to help me at first, he changed his tune when I flashed a five spot under his nose. He then informed me they had no one named Concannon registered. When I described the married pair, he laughed derisively and identified them as Dennis and Maggie Kelly. I asked him why he found humor in my inquiry. Zach told me they weren’t a couple in the wedded sense, as far as he could tell. He answered my surprised look by asking if I’d ever heard of a husband and wife staying in separate rooms at a hotel.
Hesitant to help me at first, he changed his tune when I flashed a five spot under his nose.
Before I responded, he nodded to someone crossing the lobby behind me. I turned to see a tall, husky man of around thirty. A receding red hairline peeked from beneath a snap-brim hat cocked back jauntily on his head. Beneath the lid sat a lean, hawklike, freckled face. That, Zach informed me, was Dennis Kelly. The man matched the description Smith had given me. My client, being willowy or boney, depending on your perspective, would be no physical match for the bulk of this lug. I saw why the ginger-haired man had intimidated him. After cautioning the clerk of the need for keeping my probe confidential with a vague promise of more dough, I bird-dogged the guy.
At a nearby taxi stand, my target grabbed a hack. I snagged the next one in line and followed. We ended up at the Market Street Diner, ironically just a block north of police headquarters. After Kelly entered and had a minute to settle in, I went inside to the joint’s pay station, from which I could watch the grifter, and faked making a call. The place was bustling with a scattering of uniformed cops among the crowd. The presence of the law didn’t seem to bother the redhead, who calmly sat with his back to me.
Seated across the booth from him was a man I recognized as one of our city’s leading aldermen. Their conversation was subdued, but I could tell it was not a happy one. Just before getting up to leave, the politician slid a thick envelope past a coffee cup and saucer across the table to the man opposite. I followed the city official out, walked half a block along Market, and waited as he disappeared toward the government buildings.
In short order, Dennis appeared, wearing a self-satisfied smirk. He headed west on Mitchell Avenue with me at a respectable distance. Kelly led me several blocks to the Western Union office. Inside, I stood at a counter, pretending to draft a telegram. Kelly pulled the envelope from a coat pocket and spoke to the clerk loud enough for me to catch the gist of his business. He was wiring money to someone in Boston. Dennis departed, none the wiser.
I approached the man who’d helped Kelly and asked him about the wire transfer. The teller refused me any information because of company rules. It seemed a five-dollar bill held sway over Western Union’s policy. He furtively glanced around the office and snatched the cash from my hand.
Without a word, he slid Kelly’s paperwork to me. I copied the information I needed. Dennis was sending a sizable sum of cash to a Mrs. Mary Kate Kelly. The pair had made their second mistake in carrying out their con. Their first was trying to extort a client of yours truly.
* * *
I had little familiarity with Boston. The only thing I knew of the city was my Cincinnati Redlegs had recently taken two of three ballgames from the Boston Braves on their home field. After losing the first outing of a Sunday doubleheader 7-0 behind the strong pitching of Tom Zachary and the bat of Buck Jordan, Cincinnati won the next two games on the slugging of Chick Hafey and Ernie Lombardi.
I had no contacts in Beantown. So I paid a visit to my friend, police Detective Sergeant Rob Waddell, as a potential source of information on a contact there. Fortunately, Rob knew of a detective on the Boston’s police force. They’d worked together on a fugitive apprehension once and had remained good, long-distance pals. From his office, Waddell placed a call to the man. The Boston bull recommended a private investigator for me to contact, a fellow named Joe Feeney.
* * *
At my desk first thing the following morning, I contacted the long-distance operator, ordered the call, and hung up to wait for a connection. Soon, the phone jingled, and the girl put me through to my party. The man on the other end of the wire answered in a flinty New England accent, advising me I’d reached the Feeney Investigative Agency. After I identified myself, told him where I was calling from, and explained we were in the same racket, I asked if he could help me locate somebody at his end. When I stated I’d pay his going rate, he assured me he’d do it as a professional courtesy if it wasn’t too involved. I told him I’d owe him one if that were the case.
The man on the other end of the wire answered in a flinty New England accent, advising me I’d reached the Feeney Investigative Agency.
When I explained I was looking for information on a woman named Kelly who lived in his city, he snorted a muffled curse. Feeney asked if I had any idea how many people named Kelly lived in the greater Boston area. I admitted I had no inkling but could give him a first name and a street address. That calmed his fevered brow. He took the address for Mary Kate Kelly. I clarified I needed to learn if and how she was related to Dennis and Maggie or Margaret Kelly. He understood time was of the essence and promised to check into it as soon as he could.
Meanwhile, I had to get the bulge on the dubious pair in case the Boston angle didn’t work out. That might take some doing, but do it, I would. Early in this racket, I learned you can only carry a bluff so far. And believing something to be true and having evidence of it being factual were two different things. But I needed a little leeway. I had to get answers from Feeney and to learn if and where the Kellys were further practicing their craft. So I convinced Mr. Smith to set up a meeting with his blackmailer at my favorite restaurant to convince him he needed a short delay to collect the money demanded. When Concannon contacted my client, John arranged a meeting for the next night at Cappacino’s Restaurant. He called me to give me the news of the get-together.
* * *
At that point, I decided it was time to pay a visit to city hall and track down the man I’d seen paying off Dennis Kelly. By chance, I bumped into the alderman, a short, stocky, worried-looking man of fifty-five or thereabouts, in a corridor. When I stopped him to ask if I could speak with him informally on an important matter, he, being a politician, agreed. We stepped into a nearby men’s restroom. The place appeared to be vacant. As he watched with uncertainty marking his face, I checked the stalls for occupants. The alderman glanced around the room as if a trapped animal.
Once I’d finished, I turned to him, introduced myself, and explained I was working for a man who’d fallen into the same “honey trap” he had. I raised my hand to stop his protestations. “Save your breath, alderman. I followed your tormentor to the diner where I watched you pay him off. Was Concannon the name he gave you?” My companion’s face turned a deep red. His shoulders drooped and his chin dropped to his chest.
I’d struck pay dirt. “Yeah, I thought so. This pair may have their caper down pretty good, but they lack imagination on some levels.” I reached out and gently grasped his shoulder. “Relax. Your secret is safe with me. My only interest is bringing the Concannon’s to justice without involving either you or my client in any way. Who knows? We might even get some of your money back.” I dropped my hand to my side.
He raised his sad eyes to meet mine. “I’d rather lose the money than get involved any further.” With an audible sigh, he confessed, “I did a really stupid thing.”
“Yeah,” I chuckled, trying to lighten the moment, “well, there’s a lot of that going around right now. You’re probably not the first nor the last target of their scam. Look, all I need is for you to tell me where you met the woman. It was a nightspot here in the city, right?” His face took on an expression of disbelief. “Like I said, no imagination. Seriously, I’m working on getting them pinched, but I need to know where you ran into her.”
“But, if they’re arrested, my name will come out and I’ll–”
“If they give coppers the names of their victims, it’d be a confession of their guilt and pile on the charges against them. Not likely to happen. And, even if they do, the connections I have with police headquarters will keep my client’s name and, if you help me, yours out of the press,” I bluffed.
I thought my play hadn’t worked and he wasn’t going to answer, because he hesitated. After a long moment, he looked at me hard. Resentment replaced the sadness in his eyes. “The Concannon woman and I ran into each other at the Terrace Room in the Grosvenor Inn. I was celebrating a political victory of sorts and got pretty tipsy. When I do, I’ve been known to lose my inhibitions …,” his voice trailed off.
After a long moment, he looked at me hard. Resentment replaced the sadness in his eyes.
A man entered the bathroom. “Just sit tight,” I said low. “I’ll let you know what happens.”
“Don’t bother,” he whispered, matching my tone. As I turned to leave, he took hold of my arm. “Unless my name is going to appear in the newspaper. I’ll need to do damage control.” I nodded my understanding and left.
* * *
The following night, Smith and I arrived at Mama Cappacino’s restaurant around ten minutes ahead of the scheduled meeting. At the door, I explained to Mama, a close friend, I was there on business and couldn’t chat as we usually did during my visits. Then I arranged for my client to sit in the next-to-last booth. He was to stand so Kelly might see him when he came into the restaurant.
As Dennis approached him, Smith was to take the seat so the extortionist had to sit just on the other side of the high-backed partition from where I’d be in the rear booth. My location disregarded my die-hard rule to sit facing the entrance of any place I went, but put me in a position to better hear any conversation between the two. Also, it kept Kelly from seeing me as he approached John. I felt that might become important later.
The blackmailer arrived at the appointed hour and took a seat in the booth across from Smith.
“Do you have our money?” he asked, cutting straight to his objective.
“No. That’s why I asked to meet with you.”
“Well, my wife–!”
“Hold your horses just a minute!” Smith cut him off. After a deep breath, he went on, “You know things are tough and raising the cash you want is not easy. In this economy, no one can just snap their fingers and have it appear. I need a little more time to convert stock into cash. Maybe sell off an asset or two.”
“How do you think your wife and the kiddies might take your stalling about saving them heartache?” the crook sneered.
In my office, although intensely focused, Smith had shown himself to be soft-spoken. At that moment in the restaurant, I heard a transformation in the man. “Just a damned minute!” John growled coarsely. “I never said I wouldn’t pay you, Concannon! I just need more time! Maybe a week or two, at most!” I’d not shared what I’d learned of the true names of the blackmailing couple for fear Smith might slip up and spill something.
“Just a damned minute!” John growled coarsely. “I never said I wouldn’t pay you, Concannon!”
Both men contributed to the silence that followed. It caused me a second or two of concern. Then Kelly spoke. “Okay. You have two weeks, but the extra will cost you an additional five thousand dollars. And no more stalling! I want to get my wife out of this city. Every day she has to spend in this city, she’s more torn up emotionally by your seduction. Frankly, so am I. Every–”
“My seduction?” Smith protested.
“Shut up or you’ll think a building fell on you right here, right now!” Dennis snarled. “I’m beyond giving a damn! Every time I think of the two of you … I want to kill you!” I thought I heard Kelly stand. “You have until two weeks from tonight! No more, bub!” He stormed out of the eatery.
When he’d gone, I moved to the seat opposite my ashen client. From the booth, I saw Mama’s worried face looking our way from her usual greeting location by the front door. I smiled and nodded as reassuringly as I could. She sent a waiter in our direction.
Smith was glaring at me. “What now, Tanner?” He looked up at the man who’d come to take our order. “I can’t eat anything just now,” he mumbled, shaking his head.
“Two coffees,” I told the waiter before returning to my client. “Now, I have a plan to break these two. But you have to swear to stay clear of them. Don’t try to do anything on your own. If you do, you may end up behind the eight ball in this thing even worse than now.” As the man waggled his head in agreement, I pulled a deck of Chesterfields from a pocket and held it out to my companion. After initially waving it off, he changed his mind, pulled one from the pack, and jabbed it into his mouth. Setting fire to both smokes, I slid an ashtray between us.
“I’m going to let you in on a little secret. I don’t think they’re a married couple.” He started to speak, but I raised my hand to stop him. “This con they’re playing is referred to as the badger game. Ever hear of it?” He shook his head, flicking a gray slough of ash into the receptacle. The oddity of the situation was that, just shortly before, Time magazine had run an article concerning a variation of the criminal trick being played on doctors by supposed female patients. As well-read as the manufacturer was, I’d have thought he might have seen the piece. But he apparently had only one “piece” on his mind just then. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll rid you of them. Just relax.” I was formulating a scheme in my mind.
… Time magazine had run an article concerning a variation of the criminal trick being played on doctors by supposed female patients.
* * *
With a little time before Smith had to pay the extortion money, I worked on another case, which kept me away from my office for a couple of days. Then, as I sat at my desk late one afternoon, my blower rang. It was Joe Feeney. He gave me a brief rundown of his findings. He’d learned Dennis and Margaret were brother and sister, the only children of Mary Kate Kelly, who ran a boardinghouse on Boston’s North End.
Feeney further said he’d gotten photostatic copies of their birth records from a contact in the recorder’s office. When he’d been unable to reach me by telephone, he’d sent the documents to me via airmail. He assured me they should reach me pretty quick. Joe guaranteed me the elder Kelly woman did not know of his work on the matter. When I told him I’d pay any fee he might have coming, he laughed and said it was no bother. But he added he might just take me up on that promise to owe him one someday.
During this interval, I also received a telephone call from my anxious client. I calmed him down with reassurances I was making progress on his case.
* * *
The next morning, I grabbed a quick breakfast at the Wayside Café, then motored to police headquarters in search of Det. Waddell again. He had the desk sergeant send me to his office. Rounding the corner into his doorway, I found Rob leaning back as far as he dared in his desk chair with his feet propped on a pulled-out drawer. His necktie was loosened. He had a fag in one hand and a cup of joe in the other. I’d not seen him looking so stress-free since our last night out drinking.
“Hey! How’s life treating you, hotshot?” Rob beamed without stirring.
“Life’s not ‘treating’ me. I’m paying my own way. But thanks for asking. And please don’t get up,” I added flippantly, dropping my fedora onto his desk and plopping into a chair across from him. “You look awfully relaxed, Rob. What’re you up to?”
He took a drag on a half-smoked Camel and a sip of java. “I’m up to six foot two inches.” I waved off his offer of coffee and lit a smoke of my own. He asked, “So what’s going on?”
“I need your help with something,” I said, looking around, then returning my gaze to my pal, “if you’re not too busy, that is.” I speak fluent sarcasm.
Rob let my smart-assed remark hang in the air before promising, “You know I’ll assist you if I can, old friend. Shoot.”
“There are a couple of grifters working the badger game around town, and I want to put a stop to it.”
“How do you come by that information? Have you been misbehaving, Gil?” Rob had his own brand of mockery.
I snorted, waggling my head. “Let’s just say they pulled it on a guy who’s now my client. He–”
“Then bring him in and file a complaint,” he cut me off. “We’ll investigate and, if appropriate, we arrest them. Tell me, who’s your client?”
I shook my head decisively. “Uh-uh. No can do. That’d probably mean publicity. He has too much to lose if his shortcoming is made public. You know that fear of exposure is what these bunco artists count on for their payoff. But he’s not their only victim. I’ve tracked them down and learned they’re sending at least part of their ill-gotten gains to someone in Boston. That’s why I came to you earlier for a contact there. Since then, I’ve learned the pair are a brother and sister working in your city!” I barked pointedly.
Waddell abruptly swung his feet to the floor and edged forward in the chair for emphasis, resting his elbows on his desk. One hand stubbed out his coffin nail while the other slammed his coffee mug on the desk and stretched a long, accusatory forefinger at me. “Don’t try that cheap trick on me! I don’t rate that, Gil!” Following a deep breath, he withdrew the offending digit and protested, “You, of all people, know the work I do for this town!” Another pause. “So, are you going to tell me who your client is?”
“Don’t try that cheap trick on me! I don’t rate that, Gil!”
“I’m sorry for that comment, Rob. You’re right. You don’t deserve it. But I cannot and will not name the man. Remember the Fisk case? You solved the thing without learning all I knew concerning it. I wouldn’t tell you everything then and you’ll get the same from me now!” He glared across the desk at me. Although our friendship was solid, it was not without its conflicts-some harsher than others.
“Listen,” I continued, “I’m bringing you the inside dope on a pair of flimflam crooks working the city. If they keep it up, somebody’s liable to get hurt. The male half of this pair is not above roughing up his mark, as he did my client. Or it might happen that one of their patsies acts in self-defense or metes out his own brand of justice. Either way, you could have a murder on your hands. I’m just trying to give you notice of a crime being committed on your patch.”
While I’d been talking, Detective Frank Devereaux came into the office. When the tall, broad-shouldered guy started to back out, Waddell waved him in. “No. Don’t go, Frank,” Waddell urged. “I may want your input on this.” Even though I saw the second detective’s presence as stacking the deck against the outlandish proposal I planned to make, I shrugged and nodded my assent. Frank and I had crossed paths several times without crossing swords. So he was a right gee in my book.
He walked in and dropped a file on Rob’s desk. “These are the last of the reports on the capture of Harry Garvey for those filling station heists,” he pointed out. Our municipality had recently experienced a rash of robberies of the gasoline stations sprinkled around the city. It hadn’t made the headlines yet, but apparently the law had pinched the culprit. Then the big gumshoe eased into a chair and, mirroring Waddell’s mood, stretched back, and threw two of the biggest shod feet I’d ever seen on the corner of the detective sergeant’s desk. He leisurely lit and started puffing on a cigar. My anxious mood made me feel out of place with these two.
“So fill us in,” Rob prompted.
I gave the detectives the details of what had transpired in my anonymous client’s circumstance and what I’d learned afterward, leaving out the names of the offending parties and their location. I included that the “wronged spouse” was the brother of the round-heeled woman in question, and at least one of their prey had been a powerful local politician. When I finished, I suggested it might be best for prosecution purposes if they caught the chiselers in the act, to which both men agreed.
Then the discussion turned to how that could best be accomplished. Waddell initially wanted to follow the pair until they cornered another quarry. I reminded him the pair apparently only pursued well-heeled citizens and argued his tactic could possibly put a prominent citizen in the limelight and involve unforeseen political entanglements. He switched approaches and said they’d employ an undercover cop as the “lover.” I offered myself in that role as a substitute and recommended using the second copper to back up Rob in making the arrests.
The conversation between Waddell and me then became somewhat heated until Devereaux broke in. “Say, Rob, you may not appreciate my thoughts, but you said you might want my opinion.” With that introduction, my pal’s face flushed slightly, but he nodded without conviction for his fellow officer to continue. Frank’s close-set eyes moved between me and his sergeant. Instead of taking his superior’s side of the argument, he surprised both of us. “I’m kinda inclined to agree with Gil on this thing. Doing it his way eliminates the possibility of repercussions from city hall over some politically connected muckety-muck getting in the headlines.
Frank’s close-set eyes moved between me and his sergeant.
“Also, Gil could testify in court later without the public shame that would come to a leading citizen, even if they were willing to appear. Finally, it reduces the number of lawmen who have to be involved. Easier to maneuver around a hotel that way.” Then, he shot me a hard glance. “As for your client, he must’ve missed the Sunday school lesson when they covered Proverbs 5.” Stabbing the stogie in his mouth and working it around, Don sat back and clasped his hands behind his head, waiting for a response. I cut my eyes to Rob.
Waddell leaned back in his chair again and sat quietly, lighting another cigarette and rubbing a thumbnail against his stubbled jaw. With steady eyes, he looked first to Frank, then at me. After a time, he spoke. “So what if I go along with this play of yours, Gil?” He continued with a gentle grin, “No offense, but what makes you think you can get this broad to zero in on you?” He paused, weighing his words with care. “Maybe a motion picture buff such as yourself can appreciate a comparison that comes to mind. You’re my friend, but you seducing the woman seems to me to be as likely as Hollywood putting a New York-accented character like Cagney or this new fella, Humphrey Bogart, in a cowboy flicker.”
I smiled at his inference. As an uncle of mine was fond of saying, “A man’s got to know his limitations.” Admittedly, I was no William Powell, but I wasn’t Eugene Pallette either, both of whom, according to the “coming attractions” at the movie houses, were in another Philo Vance movie Hollywood was getting ready to release.
Nonetheless, I persisted. “Based on what my client has told me and what I’ve seen of another victim, you don’t have to be a silver-screen heartthrob to get her attention. The dupe’s physical appearance doesn’t play into it, as long as he has money. If you’re sufficiently drunk and splash around enough cabbage, she’ll find you. The pair don’t appear to case a sucker much beyond knowing he’ll not want any publicity because of his family, standing in the community, and so on. Their gambit seems to be finding a well-to-do drunk and making a quick strike on a happenstance target.
“The dupe’s physical appearance doesn’t play into it, as long as he has money.”
“My guess is, even as amateurish as they are, they won’t work the same posh nightclub twice. They’ve already snagged a fish in The Orchid Room at the St. James and one at the Terrace Room in the Grosvenor. All I need to do is learn where they’re working next and set myself up as bait.”
After what seemed a long silence, my pal exhaled audibly. “Okay. Okay. Things are unusually slow around here right now. So, we’ll try it your way. But if it doesn’t work, you’re going to have to name your client or there’ll be no charges brought. Understood?”
“Yeah, sure,” I reluctantly agreed.
We spent the next hour ironing out the details of how to put the trap in place. I’d play my part with Waddell and Devereaux waiting in the wings to make the arrests.
* * *
From the police headquarters building, I drove to The Coach and Six to speak with the desk clerk. Fortunately, Zach was manning the counter. For another fin, he supplied me with a description of Maggie Kelly. Like the portrayal of Dennis, it, too, matched the one given to me by my client. I departed to set my ploy to catch these two redheads red-handed in motion.
Meanwhile, the birth records arrived at my office.
* * *
Eight-thirty that night, I sat with Waddell in his Ford outside and a short distance from The Coach and Six’s entrance, waiting for the Kellys to show their pusses. I was uncomfortably decked out in a rented tuxedo, complete with top hat. Looks aside, I felt more like Powell than Pallette at that moment. I’d withdrawn enough cash from Smith’s retainer to foster the role of a rich drunk. The night passed with no activity from the couple and my pal deposited me back at my apartment.
* * *
The same hour the following night, we took up our surveillance position. During our wait, we again went over the general plan for how we were to pinch the grifters after they’d given the law enough rope to hang them, so to speak. When I’d first proposed my idea in Waddell’s office, it hadn’t seemed that complicated to me. What with the changes and additions made in the interim, it now sounded more complex than the Battle of Gettysburg. Frustration clouded my mind.
After around twenty minutes, the Kellys appeared and hailed a taxi. It was my first sighting of Margaret Kelly. She was taller than I’d understood her to be from the descriptions I’d been given. Rob cranked his heap, and we followed at a distance. The hired heap stopped outside The Florentine Gardens, a swanky nightclub on the far north side of the city.
My detective pal pulled to the curb a few spots behind the hack. As we watched the couple climb out of the cab and go inside, he said, “Looks like you were right about these two not working the same nightspot twice. And I’m willing to bet, if the dame sets her cap for you, you’ll end up there.” I ignored that tinge of doubt he had regarding my ability to attract the woman and glanced his way. One of his hands resting on the steering wheel was pointing to a building farther along Market Street.
I followed his gaze to the Sumner Arms Inn several doors down from the Florentine Gardens. The Sumner Arms was a slightly older but refined, respectable, and relatively expensive establishment. “I’ll telephone Devereaux to join us and then go arrange a room for you. Remember, I’ll be in the adjoining one when the action starts. And don’t forget to douse the lights.”
“Got it, coach,” I responded sarcastically.
“Just check in using the name….”
“Hal Cooper,” I filled in his blank.
“Hal Cooper, it is then. The clerk will know what to do.”
We crawled out of the car. While Rob went into the club in search of a pay station, I retrieved a hip flask into which I’d previously transferred a suitable quantity of Jack Daniels. I chugged a sufficient amount to give my person an appropriate drunkard smell. Then, may Bacchus forgive me, I smeared a little on my face and dabbed the rest on my tux coat to finish the illusion.
I met Waddell outside the nightclub’s entrance. He told me we were set; Frank was on his way. Laughing, he departed toward the hotel, saying I certainly smelled the part of a drunken philanderer.
Inside, I took up my performance in this little farce right away and swayed past Dennis Kelly at the hatcheck counter. When I paused for the headwaiter to come seat me, I spied Margaret seated nearby. As the man steered me to a table on the edge of the dancefloor, I made a slight detour and stumbled into Miss Kelly’s chair along the way. Making a Hollywood production of an inebriated apology, I bowed slightly, tipped my top hat, and offered in somewhat slurred speech to buy her a drink for my clumsiness. She courteously refused my proposal with a sweet smile. Nonetheless, I laid a sawbuck on her table for her trouble and wobbled off, hoping the geetus would be suitably impress the woman. Her gaze followed me. The lure was in the water. Now, to see if my “fish” took the bait.
When I paused for the headwaiter to come seat me, I spied Margaret seated nearby.
I ordered a drink, flashed an amount of cash I suspected a gold digger might look for, and set about enjoying myself. Meanwhile, Dennis had come into the club proper and had himself seated at a corner table. The Kellys passed subtle signals to each other.
Around thirty minutes had come and gone before Miss Kelly rose and moved toward the lady’s powder room, which took her near my location. When she reached my table, she bumped my shoulder. I staggered to my feet, apologized for blocking her way, and offered again to buy her a drink. She initially declined, but then, after a pause, acquiesced. I helped her take a seat, resumed mine, and ordered drinks.
As the waiter moved away, I got my first proper look at the woman, who appeared to be in her mid-twenties. With reddish-blonde hair–more the former than the latter–and dark eyes set on a stunningly attractive face, she had pale skin and a rounded slenderness, giving her a deceptively fragile appearance. Behind my best drunken, lecherous grin, I slurred, “I’ve spent a week celebrating the closing of a huge manufacturing deal, and this is the first time I’ve landed in the right nightspot! You’re too pretty altogether!”
She smiled demurely, introduced herself as Elizabeth Concannon, and asked me about myself. I gave her the name Hal Cooper. Then, I fed her a line regarding my business, obliquely referring to a large local company I hoped she’d not know much about, and concerning my family, complete with a home full of kiddies. I liberally laced the concoction with subtle references to my wealth.
Over several drinks during the next hour or so, she wove her web of lies about being a stranger in town and feeling the despair of loneliness. Although not quite as beautiful as Jean Harlow, my companion’s sexual vivaciousness reminded me of the actress’s role in Red-Headed Woman, which I’d seen last year. I played along, making the appropriate sympathetic responses of disbelief that someone so lovely could ever be lonely and that “any man would give his all” to hold her in his arms.
Kelly did her part, building up my ego as a wonderfully warm and understanding man. Finally, she delivered the pièce de résistance. The darb drained the last of her Southside Cocktail, slid the glass aside, and took my hands in hers, seductively saying she’d love to feel my arms around her. After a poignant pause, Maggie suggested we find some place we could “be together in private.”
Feigning a brief uncertainty over her proposition, I hesitated before giving her an intoxicated smirk and telling her I was willing if she was. She tossed me an alluring smile and a nod.
As we stood away from our table, I noticed Miss Kelly giving a nearly imperceptible signal to Dennis. Meanwhile, I laid an amount of cash on the table that more than covered our tab. “That’s too much, Hal,” she protested quietly, putting her hand on mine.
“If we must be vulgar about such things,” I assured her, “it’s only money.”
Maggie gave me a knowing grin with a slight shrug. I could almost see the dollar signs in her eyes. After pretending to be unsteady on my feet, I allowed her to “prop me up” while we made our way to the sidewalk. There, I suggested we take accommodations at the Sumner Arms down the street.
* * *
When we crossed the hotel’s lobby to the registration desk, I noticed Det. Devereaux had taken a plant and was watching from behind a newspaper. We checked in and proceeded to our room on the second floor.
Still playing the part of a lit Lothario, I gave Kelly the key to get us in the room. As we entered, I turned on the overhead lights. The dame retraced her steps to the door, which she caught before it closed. Under the pretense of checking the corridor, she nimbly pushed the upper button of the locking mechanism on the edge of the door, giving anyone access to the room from the hallway.
She then closed it and told me to turn on a bedside lamp, which I did. Maggie turned off the ceiling lights and strolled over to me. With a long, passionate kiss, she pushed my tuxedo coat back off my shoulders and started unfastening my shirt. As our embrace ended, I began helping her with her dress. She pulled away, saying she’d take care of it. I think she was afraid I, in a drunken stupor, might tear something.
With a long, passionate kiss, she pushed my tuxedo coat back off my shoulders and started unfastening my shirt.
In the low light, we each disrobed. Before I knew it, the gorgeous woman stood before me, wearing only a slinky, red silk chemise. The white softness of her breasts shifted under the smooth fabric as she moved. My mouth went dry in anticipation of what was to come. What followed was both a wonderful and a terrible experience. I’d say thirty-seventy. Thirty wonderful, until, as she reached to remove the garment, the door to the bathroom our lodgings shared with the connecting room flew open.
Det. Waddell hustled in and grabbed my would-be lover, who was so taken aback by the situation, she didn’t have a chance to utter a sound. Rob clamped a hand over her mouth and dragged the partially clothed, now-struggling redhead into the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind them. Though it was pre-planned, I was stunned by the timing of my pal’s coitus interruptus maneuver. So, you can figure why I gave the scene that rating.
As prearranged, I jumped up on the bed and disconnected the incandescent lights from the overhead fixture, turned off the lamp on the nightstand, and waited.
In short order, Dennis flung the room’s door open and yelled, “What the hell is going–?” The unexpected darkness of the room caught him off guard. “Elizabeth?” he called out, keeping up the charade while frantically trying to find the wall light switch. I turned on the lamp. He scanned the room and screamed, “Where’s my wife, you son of a bitch?”
“Wife?”
He ran to me and grabbed me by my throat, shouting, “Yes, my wife! Where is she?”
“The woman who brought me up here is in the bathroom!”
He moved to the door and tried the knob. It was locked. His ear pressed to the thing, he called out again, “Elizabeth? Are you all right?” A muffled cry came from the other side. I reckoned Waddell had his hands full, trying to control the woman in her current state of undress.
Dennis turned to me. “You’ll pay for this, you bastard! You seduced my wife!”
“Not on your life, mister!” I yelled. “She did this! She brought me up here!”
Fists clinched, he rushed me. Standing in nothing but my underwear, I felt a little vulnerable and braced myself for the slaps that quickly followed. “You seduced my wife, and I demand satisfaction!” After a pause, he continued angrily, “I think ten thousand dollars ought to just about cover the harm you’ve caused! We’ll just call it heart balm! Or I could go to your wife and the newspapers with what you’ve done!”
Fists clinched, he rushed me.
At that moment, Devereaux, silhouetted by the hallway lights, appeared in the doorway behind him. “Police! Hold it right there, mister!”
Kelly spun, shouting, “The man’s having sex with my wife!” In the same instant, he threw a roundhouse punch at the detective. Frank deftly stepped away from the blow and hung a snot-knocker wallop on Kelly’s jaw. The blackmailer went down for the count.
While Frank revived and handcuffed Dennis, I reconnected the lights in the ceiling fixture and turned them on. Eventually, Waddell joined us, dragging Maggie with him. He pushed her toward her clothes, lying folded on a nearby chair. “Get dressed, sister,” he told her. “We’re going for a ride downtown.” Maggie did as Waddell ordered.
“Frank, take her downstairs with you. I’ll be right behind you.” Devereaux disappeared with his two prisoners. Rob turned to me as I dressed. “It took me a while to get back in here. When I got her into the next room, Miss Kelly started spilling her guts regarding her and her brother’s con. She blames the whole thing on him, claiming he was abusing her in order to get her to play along. Says she’s scared to death of Dennis. Hates him for the things he made her do. Wants to testify against him.”
He paused and smiled, “Maggie’s a case study of regret becoming revenge. For now, that is. But wait until some mouthpiece gets involved in the case. They’ll screw that up for us. Well,” he sighed heavily, “we’ll see how it plays out.” We started to leave the room. At the door, Waddell stopped and turned to me. “You said you have documentary proof these two really are brother and sister, right?”
“Yeah.”
He chuckled, “Swell. A provable lie is as good as a confession to my way of thinking.”
I grabbed his arm as he turned to leave. “This pinch went okay, don’t you think, Rob? There’s enough to go after them for blackmail.”
“True enough,” my pal snickered, “but I still don’t think they’ll ever put Cagney or Bogart in a cowboy movie.”
“Maybe, but I have one question. Would it have killed you to have given me another few minutes with the dame before you barged in?” The detective shot me a knowing yet disbelieving smirk. “Okay,” I countered, “at least enough time for her to get completely undressed.”
“You’re not going to badger me about that, are you?” I looked askance at the copper. He sported a broad grin, proud of his play on words. My friend then slapped me on the shoulder and laughed. “The woman saw you in your BVDs and she’s going to prison, Gil. That’s punishment enough.” ©