Autumn, 1931
Is it truly possible for a fella to fall in love with a woman by merely seeing her portrait hanging above a fireplace? That’s the question I’d asked myself a thousand times since first gazing at the lady’s image. Again, on this fall evening, the issue gnawed at my mind as I drove along a remote road washed clean by the recent rains. Tonight, however, stars filled the clear sky. The top was down on my new LaSalle. Cool night air pushed around me and tugged at my fedora as I motored homeward.
Though lost in mixed emotions, I was in a good mood and in no hurry to get anywhere. So I slowed to a halt on the side of the road and cut the engine. Dried leaves, caught in my wake, skittered a short distance past my roadster before stopping to wait for the next vehicle to come along. A sweet fragrance wafted to me. Was it honeysuckle? Or was it my imagination assuming it was what she wore? In the growing dusk, a scan of the surrounding area, including a nearby tree line, lent no clue regarding the source of the scent. I took a deep breath and relaxed. I opened a fresh pack of fags, pulled one out, jabbed it into my mouth, and lit it. Satisfying smoke seeped down into my lungs.
My infatuation, as an alienist buddy of mine might have termed it, began with the start of an investigation around four months earlier. A politician’s name in an article from our state’s capital in this evening’s edition of The City Herald brought the memory to my mind again. I chuckled to myself when I considered the timing. April. Had I been a victim of Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s theory that “In the Spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love”? At twenty-eight, I didn’t consider myself as fitting into that category of male. Everything’s relative, I guess. “Old enough to know better, but young enough to participate,” as my old man used to say.
My mind drifted to April…, a bitter-sweet month.
* * *
Spring, 1931
That sunny morning, I sat at the desk in my detective agency, typing the last page of the client’s report on my latest probe. I stopped pounding the keys with my index fingers–I employed a thumb on the space bar for “speed and efficiency”–and dealt myself a cigarette from a deck lying within arm’s reach. As I set fire to the thing, I re-read the sheet still wrapped around the platen. I’d omitted his wife’s correct location with the phrase, “I cannot tell you where your wife is.” It was a lie. The truth would have been, “I won’t tell you.” Because I would not aid Glen Agar in his abuse of the lady.
They say money talks. Mine just waved goodbye. Otherwise, I’d never have taken his case. I hate myself when I compromise my principles, even for money. Especially for money. However, the depression gripping the nation helped ease any self-inflicted recriminations. Someone, I forget who, once told me, “Hardship makes morality more fungible.” I finished typing the summary, then sealed it in an envelope. I had a three o’clock appointment with Agar to deliver it.
I hate myself when I compromise my principles, even for money. Especially for money.
Since I had time before the meeting, I closed up shop and hurried to St. Joseph’s Hospital (photo). My mother had been admitted two days earlier. She had slowly declined during the past year. It was totally out of character for her. However, following several weeks of showing signs of an accelerated lethargy and a general run-down demeanor, my older brother and only sibling, Marty, and I forced her to go to her sawbones, Dr. Boyle. Upon Mom’s visit, Boyle had insisted on immediate hospitalization for observation and tests. She’d entered the facility that day.
Following a thorough examination during that time, the doctors acknowledged they could find nothing physically wrong with her. Just the same, she appeared to be fading fast. When the cutters imparted their findings to my brother and me, we merely looked at each other with regrettable understanding. Our old man had died in late 1929, shortly before my brother returned to our hometown.
Despite the fact her husband of nearly forty years was an abusive alcoholic, our mother loved him dearly. It reminded me of something the Frog named Pascal once wrote: “The heart has its reasons, of which reason knows nothing.” She had been grieving since his death, closing in on herself, and wasting away. To be supportive of Mom, her elder son moved into the small house we’d grown up in. Not anything Marty, now on the city’s police payroll, or I did would change her physical and emotional downturn.
* * *
Marty was already in Mom’s fourth-floor room when I arrived. She was reading her Bible as she had done faithfully for all the years I recalled. We talked quietly over her need to perk up and leave St. Joseph’s. Our visit served only to confirm that our mother would not be dissuaded from the downward spiral of her mindset. Unfortunately, an hour and a half later, I had no choice but to go to my appointment. Just before I departed, her primary treating physician, a gray-haired fellow called Keinan Fleishman, appeared at the door and asked to see the pair of us in the hall. There, he told us there was nothing more to be done for the woman. They’d decided to discharge her that day. My brother said he’d take her home and promised to telephone me. I thanked the doctor for his help and left.
* * *
The meeting with my client was mercifully brief. I was glad to see him in my rearview mirror. After a stop at my bank to deposit his last check, I returned to my agency and made a few final notes in Agar’s case folder before stuffing it in my file cabinet.
I tried to read the daily I’d picked up from the vendor on the corner outside my office building. There were a few recent news items I that interested me. In February, the Supreme Court had ruled the dry law unconstitutional. Prohibition was dying on the vine, pun intended. Knute Rockne, the head football coach of Notre Dame, had died in a plane crash less than a week earlier. Regardless, my mother’s condition flooded my mind. I couldn’t concentrate. I tossed the newspaper to one side and lit another Chesterfield.
As I fanned the match out, the phone started ringing. I answered the call with my usual business blurb.
“Mr. Tanner? Please hold for Senator Daniel Morgan,” a man said in a formal tone.
The name rang a bell. He was a big muckety-muck in state politics. I waited. There followed the indistinct mumble you hear when a hand is held over the receiver at the other end of the connection. Soon, a gravelly voice came on the wire. “Is this Investigator Gil Tanner?”
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
“A close associate recommended you to me, Mr. Tanner. I need your help. Are you available to come to the state capital for a job?”
“Who made the recommendation to you?” The answer to the question often communicated a lot concerning the situation I was getting into. No response was forthcoming immediately. “Senator?”
“Well, if you must know….”
“I must.”
“Okay, Mr. Tanner,” he sighed. “It was Maxwell Hathaway.”
Max Hathaway was someone I’d heard of, yet had never formally met. He’d been on the periphery of one of my inquiries. He was a behind-the-scenes mover and shaker on a state level. Opinions of the gent’s integrity varied drastically. Not everyone wanted their name affiliated with his. I needed the work Morgan offered. Nonetheless, the legislator had to understand I was not going to be pushed around. “Now that wasn’t too hard, was it?”
Opinions of the gent’s integrity varied drastically. Not everyone wanted their name affiliated with his.
There came a “harrumph” from his end of the line. “I’ll ask once more, Tanner, can you come here to handle something for me?” His attitude had taken on a harsh manner.
“Certainly. What exactly do you need me for?”
“Uh, … I am not prepared to discuss the matter on the telephone. I’ll explain it in person when you arrive here. Understand you’ll be compensated for your time and travel even if you decide not to take the work.” The edge had left his words.
“When do you want me there?”
“As soon as you can get here. My staff will prepare a bedroom here for you. You–”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather wait to decide where to stay once I’ve heard the nature of your problem.”
“Suit yourself, Mr. Tanner,” he granted hesitantly.
“Fine. Oh, one other thing I need to mention. My mother has just been released from the hospital but is not doing well. I may have to come here briefly if her condition takes a turn for the worse. Of course, I’ll return as quickly as possible to complete the assignment.”
Following a pause, my caller consented to the proviso. I assured him I’d be there early the next morning. He furnished me directions on how to reach his residence once I entered the area. We planned to meet there for breakfast.
I glanced at my strap watch, realizing Marty had probably taken Mom home from the hospital by that time. I made a call to him at the house and detailed the circumstances of my likely out-of-town work. After telling him I’d contact him if the job came to fruition and let him know how to reach me, he promised to keep me apprised of her condition.
* * *
On the way to my bedsit, I stopped by O’Malley’s Gym on Orchard Street, a hangout for hopeful pugilists. It was owned and run by an old-time trainer, Pop O’Malley. Only he and I knew of a locker I had there where I kept a few select things. Uncertain exactly what this case might entail, I’d decided to take along a couple of items that could come in handy. As usual, Pop and I momentarily shot the breeze regarding the locals training there who thought they were the next Tony Canzoneri. Speaking of whom, we talked about the upcoming fight between Canzoneri and the English fella Jack “Kid” Berg later in the month. The gym owner never gave much credit to the boxers coming out of Great Britain. On that we disagreed, though I picked Tony to win.
* * *
Before dawn the next morning, I loaded my suitcases into the rumble seat of my LaSalle, gassed it up, and headed toward the state capital. In a little less than two and a half hours, I parked in front of the lawmaker’s mansion. I approached the door and worked the knocker, which was only slightly smaller than a ship’s anchor.
A starched jasper answered. I told him who I was and that the senator was expecting me. He nodded and introduced himself as Faversham, Morgan’s butler. The manservant stepped back and pulled the door open further for me to enter. He took my fedora, then advised me the gentleman I sought was involved in a meeting in his home’s office at that moment. He bid me follow him, then led me to a cozy locale he referred to as the study. Muffled voices, sometimes raised, came through a door to one side of the room. When I asked, my escort confirmed the door connected with the office. He offered me “refreshment,” which I passed on. Then he excused himself.
When I settled into one of the stuffed chairs clustered opposite a settee, around a coffee table in front of a hearth, something caught my eye. Over the fireplace mantel hung the portrait of a beautiful young woman. Illuminated by a hooded light above it, the picture’s subtle elegance dominated the dimly lighted area. Try as I might not to, I was unable to stop staring at it. It was so mesmerizing I found myself with flushed cheeks.
Over the fireplace mantel hung the portrait of a beautiful young woman.
Thankfully, the discussion in the next room soon tapered off and the door to the office opened. Through the gray pall of smoke drifting through the space, I saw the politician I sought standing behind his desk. Several men in business suits briefly milled around, quietly chinning before leaving through an opening directly into the hallway. While they filed out, a youngish, black-haired gentleman came in and greeted me. I rose and shook his hand.
“Mr. Tanner, I’m Frank Koons, the senator’s personal assistant. We’re very glad you were willing to come and help Daniel with this situation. He’ll meet us for breakfast. Shall we?” The fellow motioned with a hand, indicating we should join the others. I stole another longing glance at the lovely form depicted in the painting as we left. As we walked along a corridor to the dining room, my companion cautioned me not to mention the purpose of my presence in front of the other guests.
* * *
My prospective client sat at the head of a dining table in the large space. Several of the men I’d seen in the conference were seated on either side of him. Frank and I took chairs at the opposite end. A servant quietly scurried to serve the gathering. The breakfast progressed with random small talk.
Suddenly, a joker sitting near our host turned in my direction. “Excuse me, sir, your face has been bothering me during the meal.” Now, I’m the first to admit I don’t have the looks of a matinee idol. Before I took offense, the guy added, “I mean, I believe I’ve seen you somewhere before.”
I saw concern on Morgan’s puss and felt Koons bristling beside me. Laughing it off, I replied, “I don’t think so. I just have that kind of mug.”
He shrugged and nodded. “Oh, okay. Sorry. My mistake.” Although his face didn’t lose the expression of uncertainty, he dropped the subject. The other two men relaxed and moved on in their respective conversations.
Finally, the repast ended. The party dispersed.
* * *
When my host, his assistant, and I were seated in the study, my attention was again diverted by the gorgeous young woman in the depiction hanging nearby. My curiosity overcame my business sense. “Sir, I can’t help myself. I have to ask about the lady portrayed there. Who is she?”
He smiled, though I detected a sadness in it. “That’s my daughter, Celestine.” He released a barely audible sigh. “I commissioned that oil portrait of her…. Shortly before the artist was to begin her work, my wife, Katherine, passed away. Celestine and her mother were extremely close, and the death hit her very hard. So, instead of her gracefully standing beside or sitting in a chair, as I’d expected, the girl chose that pose. She said it reflected her mourning and calls it Solace.”
“She is a very beautiful woman,” I commented before adding, “please accept my apology for touching on a bad memory. And I’m very sorry for your loss.” I skipped asking the girl’s whereabouts, yet desperately wanted to meet her in person. I was sure I wouldn’t be able to stop glancing at the picture.
Daniel cleared his throat. “No, it’s fine.” He sat back in the chair, composed himself, and worked the half-smoked cigar around his mouth. The action didn’t detract from the distinguished look the touch of graying at his temples provided him.
“So, what can I do for you?”
Koons leaned forward and interceded. “The senator needs your help to find the persons behind an attempt to blackmail him.”
I looked at the older fella, who remained silent. “Okay. What’s the bulge someone has on you?” Both men gave me a blank stare, so I restated my question. “What is the basis for this extortion effort?”
As Frank shot a questioning look at his boss, the latter shifted uncomfortably in his seat. I stole a surreptitious peek at the painting above the fireplace and waited. The politician dragged the dead cigar out of his mouth, looked at it, and stubbed it into the ashtray on the side table between the chairs. I bided my time. Then, Daniel yanked a fresh El Rey del Mundo from a humidor on the coffee table. He silently offered it to me. I shook it off, retrieved a Chesterfield, and raised it to my mouth.
Koons leaned to me with a lighted match from a book he held in his cupped hands. I bent toward it and put my gasper to the thing as I squinted at Celestine’s likeness. I cooled my heels a little longer while locking eyes with the lawmaker. He twirled the cigar between his fingers, contemplating his predicament.
Finally, the silence was broken. “Suffice it to say,” Mr. Tanner, “I’m receiving pressure from local nefarious people. Dangerous men. Is it necessary for you to know more than that?” the legislator asked.
“Absolutely! If you aren’t willing to trust me that much, I can’t take the job. I will not waste my time and your money stumbling around in the dark.” I turned my gaze to the third person in the room, then to my potential client. “Do you prefer to speak of it in private?”
“I will not waste my time and your money stumbling around in the dark.”
Casting a sideways glimpse at his aide, he grinned. “No. This young man has been with me for quite a while.” He gently took hold of his companion’s arm in an avuncular fashion and elaborated. “His father, Paul, and I had known each other from the time we were in grade school together. Best friends. When he passed away a number of years ago, I promised to take care of his son. The boy moved in with my family when his mother died and has lived here ever since. So, no, we don’t need privacy to speak. I trust this person with my life. He’s as close to me as my shadow,” followed several more pats.
“That’s fine. So, tell me what brought you to call for my services.”
“I anticipated your stance on my revealing the background of this attempted coercion.” He held his hand out to Frank, who removed two pieces of paper from a folder on his lap. Morgan handed them to me, then proceeded, “So I’ve taken the liberty of drafting this employment and non-disclosure agreement in exchange for a higher-than-normal fee for you. You can see that is it simply a contract concerning the confidentiality of our business dealings. It subjects you to extreme financial penalties should you fail to keep the matter secret. One copy is for you and the other is mine. If you sign them, I’ll do the same, and we’ll each retain one.”
I turned on the floor lamp next to me and read the document, which was precisely what Daniel had described. It included a fee that tripled my usual rate of twenty dollars a day, plus expenses. My chuckle brought an uneasy look from my client. To ease his concerns, I explained. “Senator, I assure you I never talk of my work or of those who use my services. When a private investigator runs his mouth, customers don’t come to his door. So, this is unnecessary, although it’s okay with me.” I plucked a pen from my coat and scrawled my signature on both copies before giving them to him. He endorsed both, transferred one to his assistant, and extended mine to me. I slipped it into a pocket.
He inhaled deeply and began, “With due humility, I draw a lot of water in state politics. Someone is threatening me to get my votes on particular major issues facing the legislature. Some are far more momentous than others. I won’t say what every topic involves. I will concede that one is related to the 18th Amendment, which was addressed recently by the U. S. Supreme Court and which President Hoover’s opposition has vowed to repeal.
“In my estimation, Hoover doesn’t stand a chance of being re-elected next year. In addition, the ‘wets’ will outnumber the ‘drys’ in Congress after the election. Subsequently, Prohibition is bound to die by another amendment, which then must be ratified by the states. My vote on that approval may prove critical in this state. And it will be very detrimental to the men who are menacing me.”
That was well and good, yet it didn’t tell me the basis for his trouble. “What exactly is the thing these people have on you that makes them think they can control your votes?”
The man’s face skewed slightly and his dignified demeanor changed as he leaned forward, dropping his hands between his knees and clasping them together. “Years ago, Mr. Tanner, before I met my wife, I was a rising star in my political party. During that time, I became involved with a girl called Esther Plunkett. My family had money and my father disapproved of our relationship. He thought she was ‘beneath my station.’ I found out too late he may have been right; she was likely of questionable character.”
He paused and seemed to be lost for a minute. Then, he inhaled deeply and let part of it out audibly before going on, “We were out one night when her ex-boyfriend came across us together. This hoodlum was named Biscari. First name was Franco or Francesco. Something like that.” He shook his head. “I forget. He was involved with a small-time pack of reprehensible characters. Anyway, he confronted us and attacked me with a knife. My assailant was strong as an ox, but somehow, I held my own as we fought over the blade. In the struggle, he was stabbed. Even though it was dark, I figured it was a pretty severe wound, because he dropped like a rock and didn’t move. In the shadows, I was sure I’d killed him. Scared out of my mind, I ran away, leaving Plunkett standing beside his body.
“… he confronted us and attacked me with a knife.”
“The next day, I searched the newspapers for any report of the incident or of Biscari’s death. There was not a single word. A week later, the last time I ever saw her, Esther told me my attacker had died. She said his fellow ruffians had appeared and carried off his corpse before the authorities discovered it. The woman swore she never disclosed to his pals who’d stabbed her ex. I lost track of her after that last encounter. Now, with the threats I have been receiving, I’m sure she lied. My supposed girlfriend had, in fact, revealed my identity to his friends.
All these years later, I suppose the gang is currently involved in racketeering and bootlegging. During the same period, I’ve pursued my career in public service and have become fairly prominent. I assume they want to use their knowledge of my past to force me to see things their way on particular topics. No doubt, they’re aware there’s no statute of limitations on murder.” Morgan cocked pleading eyes at me. “That, Mr. Tanner, is the unvarnished truth of my dilemma. I’m not proud of what happened, but you must believe it was a case of self-defense.”
As I contemplated the man’s story, I rubbed a thumb and forefinger along either side of my chin. “And you never contacted the police concerning the matter?” Daniel shook his head silently. “It seems pretty straightforward, except for what became of this Biscari goon’s body. One may well suppose his cohorts furnished him what might be considered an appropriate burial. It is surprising that, if these people were aware of your identity that long ago, nobody came for revenge at that time.”
He shrugged. “I have no idea. Perhaps before someone formulated a plan, they determined my family was well off or saw my rise in the political ranks and decided I’d be of better use to them at a later date.”
Two questions were rattling around in my skull. “Who else is aware of what you’ve told me here?”
“Aside from those trying to blackmail me, only the three of us. Over the years, I never mentioned it to my family or even to my best friend. Frank learned of it by accident when, in the course of his regular tasks, he opened an extortion letter that had come in the mail.”
“I need to see that note.”
The aide withdrew an envelope from the folder and handed it to me.
“And let me assure you there is not a thing else in my past which lends itself to such an endeavor on their part,” Morgan put in before I examined the communication.
The envelope and the enclosed paper were of a nondescript sort, available at any five-and-dime. The thing was addressed to the senator’s home. There was no return address, front or back. Both the mailing address on the envelope and the communication itself had been typed. The note gave no clues, no leads as to its origin.
I read the somewhat enigmatic missive. It made a vague threat regarding an unspecified incident in the politician’s past. The writer promised to be in touch in the future. Something about the correspondence jumped out at me. A couple of letters were out of whack. The letter n was offline, slightly higher than the rest of the line of type. Likewise, the a was misaligned, but it was below the other letters on the machine it came from. In the body of the note, the typist had attempted to fix the problem by re-typing the letters. The effort only mad the problem stand out more.
I read the somewhat enigmatic missive. It made a vague threat regarding an unspecified incident in the politician’s past.
Other than that, the message triggered more questions than it answered. “Can you be certain,” I asked, handing it to Koons, “that this isn’t from this Plunkett dame?”
“I’m positive,” my client avowed, shaking his head vigorously. “I’ve now concluded Esther had a dark side. Be that as it may, she’d be well out of her depth on something like this.”
Regardless, I planned to pursue that possibility. “Okay, if you receive any more of these, you need to notify me immediately.” Both men nodded their understanding.
To get my second query out of the way, I asked, “In a city this size, wasn’t there a single private detective to be hired to take care of this problem for you?”
My host glanced at his associate, then at me. “To be perfectly blunt, I employed a local PI, a fella named Donald Burgett.” He paused as if I might recognize the moniker.
“Sorry, I’ve never heard the name. We don’t have a guild, you know.”
Morgan reddened slightly and quickly responded, “Of course. I thought there may be the slightest possibility you had crossed paths. Anyway, Mr. Burgett worked on the matter for around a week.”
“And then?”
Daniel coughed into a hand several times. It struck me as a stall. So, I waited yet again. “Unfortunately, Donald was killed in a single-car traffic accident four nights ago. He … he ran off the road and into a steep ravine close to here.” The two men opposite me peeked at each other.
I was growing weary of pulling hen’s teeth from this pair. Shifting my eyes between the men, I demanded, “Okay. Spill it. What happened? Or what do you think happened?”
Frank again stepped into the conversation. “As the senator said, the police listed the wreck as an accident. They reported it was brought on by driving while intoxicated. Nevertheless, we know that not to be true. Mr. Burg–”
“Don Burgett was a teetotaler!” the legislator exclaimed impatiently. “So much so that it was all I could do to talk him into taking on an investigation where my vote on repealing Prohibition hung in the balance!”
“So you’ve concluded the source of the threat murdered him?”
“Yes! Absolutely!” Morgan’s voice dropped as he added, “The night of the ‘accident’, he came here with information on his research. Because of his stance on alcohol, Burgett had not been drinking before his arrival here, and he had nothing to drink while he was here. The crash occurred within a half hour of when he left.” He caught my hard gaze. “Of course, I was going to inform you of the incident,” he murmured awkwardly.
I let my suspicions on that drift. “So, what was it he wanted to tell you?”
“Don related to us he’d come across a scoundrel who was involved in this scheme.” The aide slid another piece of paper from the file and passed it to his boss. “The joker’s name is Mark Santini. Neither of us has ever heard of him.” Koons waggled his head in agreement. “And what his connection with this circumstance is, we don’t know. Burgett was cryptic. My guess is he, though certain of the guy’s involvement, was unclear on some aspect of it.”
I took the sheet Daniel extended to me and held it where the light hit it better. It was a handwritten note on a piece of the dead PI’s letterhead. The thing showed the lug’s moniker with the addition of “438 Kershaw Avenue, flat 22.” There was a certain irony in the man’s handle being Mark and him being my “mark.”
“So, neither the name nor the address means anything to either of you?” Both shook their heads. “Can you tell me something about the area around this galoot’s apartment building? Is it a well-to-do neighborhood or middle class or what?”
“I’m vaguely familiar with it,” Frank chimed in. “It’s in a rougher section of the city. Not the best, not the worst.”
“Okay. I’ll look into it. My priority is ferreting out the crumb or crumbs trying to intimidate you, but who knows? I may get lucky and turn up something on Burgett’s death, too.” I gazed at the portrayal of the beautiful woman. It made my loins ache.
“I may get lucky and turn up something on Burgett’s death, too.”
Morgan interrupted my reverie with an envelope. “Here is my payment to retain your services, Mr. Tanner. It should cover the next two weeks.” He cleared his throat and went on, “I’m certain you don’t mind receiving it in cash, considering the uncertain status of many banks at present.” I agreed. “Please keep us aware of whatever expenses you encounter. It occurs to me you may need to ‘grease some palms,’ as they say. Now, what of your accommodations? The offer of a bedroom here stands.”
I wondered just how unfamiliar with the term “grease some palms” a long-time politician truly was. But I let it go without a response. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to stay in a decent hotel in the city, preferably one relatively close to what I assume is this fellow’s place. Not necessarily the best. Still, not a fleabag joint either. If the investigation involves coming and going at odd hours or requires me to leave in a hurry, it’ll save disturbing your household or your staff.”
“As you wish. Koons shall arrange it. And we’ll pick up the tab. That will be one less item for your expense account.”
“Empire Hotel, sir?” the junior man inquired. “It’s only several blocks down the same street from that guy’s residence.”
“I believe that’ll be fine,” the lawmaker concurred. The assistant left us. Turning to me, Daniel explained, “The Empire is an older inn described by locals as ‘aged elegance.’ If you settle in and it doesn’t satisfy your needs, simply call Frank here at the house, and we’ll make different arrangements. By the way, the bartender in the nightspot downstairs has been there for ages. His name is Bill Ryder. He is a true mixologist,” he beamed. He stretched back in the chair. “I’ve negotiated more than a few legislative measures in that watering hole in years past,” he chuckled.
When the third man joined us again, he advised me a suite awaited me and provided me with written directions to my hotel. I got the telephone numbers for the household and their capitol offices in the event I had to reach the senator or his aide. Before departing, I received my lid from the butler at the front door. In my LaSalle, I removed the money Morgan had given me from the envelope. I stopped counting at a thousand dollars. When I slipped the packet into an inside coat pocket, it felt all warm and snuggly.
* * *
On my way to the hotel, I found a Western Union office and wired the bulk of my newfound wealth to my brother. I added a telegram to him with instructions to use it as he saw fit concerning our mom’s medical care. I kept just what I thought I might need to complete the job.
As I drove on from there, I considered my first order of business. It was to get to my room and telephone Marty to check on our mother’s condition and alert him to the money I’d sent. Then I needed to locate the building Santini called home.
Luckily, I found a parking spot on Kershaw Avenue only a short walk from the hotel. The neighborhood and the Empire were pretty much as I’d been told.
The temporary lodgings were more than adequate. I tossed my travel bags onto the bed, then made the long-distance call to my mother’s house. Marty answered. He said she was resting comfortably for the time being. I advised him of the money I’d wired. Then, I filled the big lug in on where I was staying and gave him the phone numbers for the hotel and the senator. He thanked me for the dough and promised to contact me immediately should anything worsen in our mom’s condition.
The next item on my agenda was the desire to put the double O on my target. I unpacked while trying to decide the best means to achieve that. It had to be done without my pigeon seeing me or knowing I was watching him.
At the front desk, I asked the clerk how to get to 438 Kershaw Avenue and received directions. I thanked him and made my way out to the pavement. Scanning the street as far as possible in the opposite direction from my prey’s bedsit, I saw a working mug’s version of a vibrant business district, despite the current economic downturn. The neighborhood comprised lunchrooms, a candy store, a barber shop, at least one motion picture theater, various mom-and-pop emporiums, pool halls, a grocery market, and a pawn shop.
I turned and started toward my quarry’s abode. It was a ten-minute walk along three blocks inhabited with a similar assortment of businesses. Our state’s capital city was no different from my hometown. An average male may well enjoy a full life without ever leaving the five-block area.
When I reached the Kershaw Avenue location, I found myself outside a diner, Mel’s Place, and across the road from my gull’s digs. His building was your typical run-of-the-mill structure. A group of young girls were playing hopscotch on the sidewalk out in front.
I crossed to the building, trotted up the steps, and walked inside. Ascending the stairs to the second floor, I located twenty-two. A name card on the door designated it as the right bedsit. When I got my bearings, I realized it was on the front side of the joint. So far, so good. I crept to the door and listened. Ozzie Nelson’s rendition of Dream a Little Dream of Me was airing within. Someone was home, but how many someone’s lived there? That information was vital if I planned to conduct a frisk of the walk-up. And the day being Saturday, it could be the chinch alone or him and his family.
Ozzie Nelson’s rendition of Dream a Little Dream of Me was airing within.
I dropped downstairs to the ground floor and knocked on the door labeled “Manager.” A stout, older woman in a patterned housedress, who smelled of body powder, answered. When I told her I was looking for a married couple named Robinson who I’d been informed lived in apartment twenty-two, she advised me that a bachelor occupied the flat. I pushed the bluff further by saying that perhaps I had the wrong number. She assured me that no Robinsons lived there. To bow out gracefully, I chortled embarrassedly, apologized for disturbing her, and thanked her for her time. Before leaving, I checked for other means of coming and going from it. There were none. Nor did I see any pay telephones in the ground- or second-floor hallways.
The kernel of an idea hit me as I crossed to the diner side of the street. I strolled into the eatery. A pay station hung on the wall just inside the entrance. In the telephone directory hanging from it, I found the listing for a cab company. As I eyeballed the edifice through the large front window, I dropped a nickel in and dialed. The telephone trilled twice prior to someone coming on the line. Cupping my hand over the receiver to keep the other patrons from hearing me, I used Santini’s name and address and ordered a hack to fetch me. Then I added that there were some kids outside my building. I suggested the driver send one of them to my apartment to let me know he had arrived.
I grabbed a stool at the counter where I continued to observe the street and the residence. Then, I ordered a cup of java. The waitress, named Alice, delivered the piping hot liquid and lingered.
“Excuse me, mister. I accidentally overheard your phone call. Santini, huh?” she chuckled. “What’s that about?”
Ignoring her question, I shot one at her. “You know the fella?”
She showed me a scornful smirk and grumbled in a low voice, “Yeah, I’m acquainted with the creep.” She paused as she wiped the counter. “He used to come in here to eat sometimes. We had a couple of dates. He thinks he’s a sheik, a real lover boy. Believes he’s something to write home about.” Alice paused again and looked past me with a scowl, before continuing. “He ain’t. Besides having no personality, the snake’s taken a permanent holiday from hygiene. His breath would take the paint off a new Ford.” She caught herself as she started to carry on with her tirade, lifted a shoulder, then walked away. There was a tough story behind her words, but I let it drift. I returned to my vigil.
Before long, a taxi edged to the curb across the street. Taking off my suit coat and hanging it over the seat, I laid down four bits, told the waitress I’d be right back, then sauntered outside. Though unable to make out the words, I heard the cabbie call to the nearby kids. The largest of the girls responded and hurried inside.
I rolled up my shirt sleeves as I crossed to a jalopy parked behind the new arrival. There, I crouched on the curb and pretended to fiddle with a tire. Moments later, a tousled fella, dressed only in A-shirt and slacks, bolted out of the door. My luck was holding. The youngster who’d volunteered to fetch him was close on his heels, gaping bug-eyed. Hitching up his pants, the barefooted Italian hustled to the passenger-side window of the waiting auto and excitedly explained he hadn’t summoned a ride. Subsequent to a bit of back-and-forth, the taxicab pulled off. The thin, swarthy, dark-eyed mug surveyed the street in both directions, rubbing his stubbled face angrily. I could tell by looking at him he wasn’t a cautious man. When he turned my way, I pivoted my face to avoid his gaze. I now knew what he looked like.
When he scampered into his building, I stood, rolled my sleeves down, and ankled to the diner. Shooting me a curious expression, my waitress poured me another cup of joe yet said nothing. I waited to see what happened next across the street. As I sat and drank, the alluring vision of loveliness reflected in the portrait of Celestine kept going through my mind. Some may have claimed I’d fallen for the skirt just by seeing her painting. Nah…. Okay, maybe.
Half an hour later, something unexpected occurred. As I sat nursing my third cup, I spied my sucker, clean shaven and dressed for business in a shiny blue serge suit, exit and cross the street heading toward me. He came straight into the joint. Before I repositioned to avoid him seeing me, he stopped by the door, clawed the pay telephones receiver off the cradle, and inserted a coin. I glimpsed over my shoulder and found he was facing away from me. Peeking in his direction, I studied him as he dialed. I gleaned all but one digit. So, now I surmised he didn’t have a blower in his flat. That tidbit of knowledge might prove useful.
“Hey,” he said softly, but loud enough for me to hear across the short distance between us. “This is Marco. Something’s happened, and I think we have to talk… Huh? … No, nothing really serious, only queer … Okay … Yeah, what time?” He glanced at his strap watch. “Yeah. See ya there in an hour.” He slapped the receiver on its hook. Then he pushed through the door to the sidewalk, looking around furtively, before he raced off.
“This is Marco. Something’s happened, and I think we have to talk…”
I stepped to the front window to observe my dupe, now identified as Marco. He walked hurriedly, scanning the area as he moved. My gut told me he showed no sign of going to a waiting car. Returning to the waitress’s location, I laid a buck on the counter and slid it to her. She tossed me a wide grin and reached for the bill. I held it fast under my hand and, sharing the smile, asked the location of the nearest taxi stand. There had been one in front of the Empire. I hadn’t passed another on my journey along Kershaw since.
Her expression didn’t change. “The closest is on a corner a couple of blocks that way,” she informed me, jerking her chin in the direction my objective was walking.
“Thanks, dollface,” I said, releasing the dollar. She swept it up and coyly tucked it into her bodice, beaming at me. All for a buck. Times were tough.
I shadowed the sap, who traveled at a decent pace. In the distance, I saw several hacks waiting at a corner outside a movie theater. As he approached the first one in line, I stepped into the embrasure of a clothing store and waited. When he jumped in and the heap drove away, I rushed to the next cab, whose lanky, ginger-haired driver was leaning against the hood and chewing on a toothpick.
Approaching him, I called out, “Follow that cab!”
He sent me a cocky grin as he pushed off from his crate. “Same as in the dime novels, huh?”
“Let’s move it!” I demanded.
“No need to rush, mister,” he replied casually. “I heard the address that fella threw at Norton. It’s the Wabash Building downtown.”
As we scurried into his automobile, I stormed, “Just get moving! I don’t want to arrive there too much after him! I have to know where he’s going in there!
He teased the motor to life and pulled off. By the first traffic signal, my driver had wrangled to only one car behind Norton’s. Both cabs maneuvered their way to what appeared to be the heart of the city. Finally, the vehicle ahead of us eased to the curb outside a fair-sized structure. The passenger scrambled from his ride, then across the wide sidewalk, and in through the entrance. Paying the cabbie as I piled out, I tailed him.
In a mad rush, I made it to the elevator as the doors began to close. I slid in next to the Italian in the car. He reached around a lady and pressed the button for level six. As the lift rose, I recovered a tract on the city I’d picked up in the Empire’s lobby. On the sixth floor, I tagged my patsy off. When he turned right, I did likewise, pretending to refer to the paper in my hand as if lost.
Once, my chump glanced over his shoulder at me. I immediately held the page close to my face, feigning nearsightedness. He ambled on, unconcerned. I shuffled past him while he stepped into an office and spoke with a secretary. After going a little further along the hallway, I doubled back and checked the title on the door. His destination had been the business of a shyster by the name of Arthur Basilone. That was as far as I dared to take the pursuit for the time being.
I waited by the elevator for his return. Less than fifteen minutes later, the dolt popped into the hall and walked to the lift. He never seemed to notice me. We returned to his digs in separate taxis. He went inside, and I resumed my watch from the diner’s counter. My target didn’t show his face the rest of the day. On a positive note, I chinned a lot with and became great pals with the waitress. In addition to her being a sweetie, I figured she was a good person to know, considering her proximity to 438 Kershaw Avenue.
… I chinned a lot with and became great pals with the waitress.
* * *
Watching out for the guy the next day, which was a Sunday, turned out to be a bust. I saw neither hide nor hair of him.
* * *
Early every morning for the following four days, I drove to Mel’s Place, ate breakfast, and took up the surveillance of my client’s supposed nemesis from my car. From the local rags, I was able to catch up on the latest in the world of baseball now that the season had begun. Unfortunately, the news regarding my Cincinnati Redlegs was not good. The Reds lost their first three games to the St. Louis Cardinals, my bartending pal Harry’s favorite team. At least I didn’t have to sit in his tavern and listen to his smug comments about them. Based on a small sampling thus far, it appeared to be another banner season for the Redbirds and a dismal year for Cincinnati.
The only two news items caught my eye during that time. One was a supplemental story of the million dollars’ worth of opium the New York police had seized on the second of the month. The other was the report of mob boss Joe Masseria being shot and killed in a restaurant on Coney Island on the 15th. That should stir up the criminal underworld there. I looked forward to hearing the law enforcement scuttlebutt from my hometown pal, city Detective Rob Waddell, concerning the assassination and its repercussions.
I spent the first half of each stakeout restless, thinking of Celestine’s portrait. The second half I felt uneasy until his appearance snapped me into sudden alertness. Then the dope’s dull grind began. Each day I shadowed him to a billiard establishment or a back-room betting parlor or both. His lone sources of income seemed to be from hustling pool and playing the ponies. That is to say, his only cash intake other than through proposed blackmail schemes. The simp ate lunch three of the days at a hash house in the business district.
On Tuesday afternoon, he took in the movie The Blue Angel. I bought a ticket and joined the male-dominated crowd. From where I sat, monitoring him, the lug was close to drooling over this Dietrich dame. Of course, based on the breathing patterns I heard from the other men in attendance, he wasn’t the only one. However, my thoughts didn’t get past the gorgeous woman in the painting in the senator’s mansion.
Thursday’s lunch was capped by our attending a showing of The Big House at a theater downtown. I snickered at the idea of a hoodlum such as this mug seeing a movie involving doing hard time in stir.
By the time he returned to his place late Thursday evening, I’d had enough of the routine. I might spend weeks wasting hours bird-dogging this mutt. Something had to give. I needed to search his second-floor walk-up. Simultaneously, I didn’t want to miss trailing him in case he met with whoever was in on this caper with him. Santini had struck me as being as sharp as the cue balls he banged around daily. No, someone else was pulling the strings on this squeeze of Morgan. My first guess was Basilone. Mark had been too quick to run off to the mouthpiece’s office when a stranger came around his residence so soon after Burgett’s arrival on and “departure” from the scene. Possibly, shaking down his flat could give me a more definite lead. I had to goad the jerk into action.
Santini had struck me as being as sharp as the cue balls he banged around daily.
With the mope ensconced in his rooms for the night, I rambled into Mel’s for supper before heading to the Empire. My daily breakfasts, sporadic lunches, and frequent suppers in the joint had caused Alice to proclaim me a “regular” and her best customer. I reckoned the generous tips didn’t hurt any.
Over a bowl of the “house special” chili, I thought through possible ploys to move my prey out of the way long enough for me to rifle his place. At the same time, I had to control where he was going somehow. Then I recalled he apparently had no phone. A plan developed in my mind. I’d be okay if it worked. The plan, not my mind.
* * *
As had become my habit, I had an early breakfast at Mel’s diner. As I walked to the beanery, I noticed a cluster of kids jumping rope on the sidewalk in front of my dodgy subject’s building. A few of them appeared to be the same ones who’d been playing hopscotch several days earlier.
I asked Alice why the youngsters weren’t in school. She merely flashed her hazel, Kohl-rimmed eyes, set below wavy brown hair, and shrugged. The reason didn’t matter, because it likely enhanced my scheme in a big way.
When she brought my coffee, I ordered my usual fare and inquired, “Do you know the landlady of the apartment house across the street?”
“That building?” she asked, pointing. I nodded. “Yeah, sure, that’s old lady Lausmann. She eats in here a lot. Doesn’t like to cook. Crazy over our chili.” The girl stopped talking as she eyed the “chef,” passing behind her. Then she grimaced and whispered. “It’s her stomach, not mine.”
The cutey’s statement brought back unpleasant memories of my upset digestive tract after ingesting their chili the night before. I stretched across the eating surface closer to her face and spoke in a low voice. “Do you know if she has a telephone?”
“Sure! The number’s written on the wall by the pay phone,” she smiled. “It’s next to her name there.” She spelled the woman’s moniker for me.
Following a big slug of my java, I eased off the stool, strolled to the horn, and located Lausmann’s info. I fished a nickel from my pocket. When the coin found the bottom of its slot, I dialed. On the third ring, the business-like voice of the proprietor came on the line.
Fortunately for me, diners in the eatery were scarce. Nonetheless, I kept my tone low. I identified myself as Attorney Basilone and asked if she’d take an emergency message to the occupant of apartment twenty-two. She readily agreed to help. Trying to sound as urgent as possible, I requested she let her tenant know I needed to see him in my office at once. I emphasized he was not to call me. The issue we had to discuss could not be dealt with on the phone. The woman promised to get the communication to him immediately.
When I rang off and returned to my seat at the counter, I found my waitress giving me an odd smile. I wasn’t certain if she’d overheard the conversation. Still and all, she remained silent behind a broad grin while serving me my meal.
Within the hour, a spit-and-polished rendition of my pigeon appeared and jogged toward the cab stand.
I stepped out to the pavement, watched his receding form, and waited. Once he passed me riding city-bound in a hack, I ankled to where the children were playing. The kid who had offered to retrieve my victim that past Saturday was among them. She looked to be ten or eleven years old. I took her aside. The girl said her name was Peggy. I confirmed she knew Mr. Santini on sight.
Then, I asked her to help me play a trick on him. At the same time, I told her it had to stay a secret. She giggled and agreed. I knew in passing that girls sang songs or chanted while jumping rope. When I inquired if there was a ditty Peggy and her friends liked to sing, she replied with It’s Raining, It’s Pouring. Upon my pledge to buy them all ice cream from the diner across the street, she promised they would sing it at the top of their lungs when he showed up.
Relying on the vow of a ten-year-old, I slipped inside past the manager’s door and climbed the stairs to the swarthy man’s digs. The second-floor corridor was deathly quiet. A quick glance at the entryway to number twenty-two revealed it had a simple locking system. With a piece of hard celluloid I always carried in my billfold, I snipped the door open. The aroma of cooked food hit me when I entered. A hotplate and a trashcan full of empty soup cans proved to be the source. I quickly crossed the space to a window that overlooked the sidewalk. I opened it around four inches so I could hear the song that was to be my warning signal.
With a piece of hard celluloid I always carried in my billfold, I snipped the door open.
Then I frisked the only bedroom. I rummaged through the drawers of the dresser and a bedside table. A partial box of ammunition was the only thing I found of note. A book of matches from a joint called “The Whisper Club” lay on the bureau. Thinking a visit to it may lead me to the person behind this scheme, I dropped it into a side coat pocket. Otherwise, the space and its closet of hanging clothes and stacked shoeboxes revealed not a clue that helped me in my quest. The flat’s small bathroom also provided only goose eggs.
I returned to the parlor and checked the tiny bookshelf there. Another zero. Initially, nothing jumped out at me as relevant to my investigation. The search of the rooms confirmed its resident didn’t have a telephone installed.
Then a little side table pushed up against a wall caught my eye. It wasn’t anything extraordinary except it held a potted plant. Now, I didn’t know that much concerning the goon living there. However, a nearly dead houseplant didn’t line up with a middle-aged bachelor who ate soup from cans and enjoyed the “Tijuana Bibles” and Dawn magazine, which were lying on his unmade bed. It piqued my curiosity. I sauntered to the stand and set the pot on the floor. When I dragged the thing away from the wall, I discovered it had a drawer on the opposite side. Inside was a revolver matching the ammo I’d come across and a thin tome.
I picked the latter item up, found it to be an address book, and started flipping through it. Only a few pages into it, a half-sung, half-yelled, off-key version of It’s Raining, It’s Pouring came to me from below. Glancing at my watch, I realized I’d spent more time than intended going through the place. I only hoped the vocal performance wouldn’t arouse the Italian’s suspicions. In a rushed moment, I returned the table and vegetation to their original positions. Then, I took a split second to close the window quietly. I dropped the book in my other side coat pocket and hustled out of the bedsit. The chance that the volume’s owner might discover its absence was one I needed to take, despite the risk of ending up like Don Burgett.
Out in the hall, I gently shut the door. The sound of my “co-conspirator” loudly asking a question rose from downstairs. The chinch mumbled a response to the girl, then a door closed. That brief discourse allowed me a chance to ascend to the third level. I paused in the hallway and listened as my sucker mounted the stairs to his lodgings and went inside. He gave no indication of perceiving it was unlocked. I made a mental note to buy Peggy as much ice cream as she could eat.
The older girl and her group of “troubadours” met me when I descended the steps outside the apartment house. I peeked at my watch. The day was pretty well shot. Much the same as the pied piper, I led the youngsters across the street and treated them to the largest ice cream servings the diner offered. Alice laughingly called me “Father Goose.” There was a certain sweetness in the way she teased me. It only made me crave to see Celestine’s portrait once more.
Before I left the kids in front of Santini’s building, Peggy advised the bunch was available anytime I wanted to be “serenaded.” That brought a chorus of agreements from the half-dozen urchins with ice cream “mustaches” gathered around me.
* * *
In my hotel room, I realized I was bushed, too tired to go out to eat. Nevertheless, I still needed to get something done before I called it a night.
I sat at the small desk in my suite and opened the address book I’d taken. Scanning its contents, a few items struck me as significant, or possibly so. I made notes as I read through it. The senator’s name, address, and telephone numbers were listed. Koons’s data was written beside that entry. Lawyer Basilone’s contact information was there. As I expected, his number was the same as the one dialed by Santini from the diner the day before, including the single digit I’d missed seeing.
Several entries were made with only initials and the means by which to reach them on a blower.
The balance of its contents was a roll call of women with various descriptive notations in the margin. Not every jotting was flattering, whereas all were interesting, to say the least. Indeed, if the compilation wasn’t a work of fiction, this thug had a very active “social” life. Of course, if Alice’s perception was accurate, the egotistical would-be Lothario simply couldn’t keep a woman.
Perusing the gaggle of chippies, I came across something that got my brain racing. An “Esther H.” was among the harem. This broad had no additional notes recorded; merely the name and a phone number. A screwy idea then started rattling around in my mind. Now, in my part of the world, that moniker never seemed to be that common except for the Bible. What if this skirt and the Plunkett frail were the same? If so, she might get me closer to the man running this show. It rated further looking into, but there was no contact information for the woman. I pulled the telephone to me and dialed. After a dozen rings with no answer, I hung up.
What if this skirt and the Plunkett frail were the same?
That having failed, I pushed back from the desk and lit a cigarette, hoping for a spark of investigative creativity. Nothing came to me right away. Maybe the result of weariness combined with too much Jack the night before. Nah. I ignored that likelihood. The book of matches from The Whisper Club laid just beyond the address book. I picked it up and decided to get a slant at the joint.
* * *
Using the directions I received from the fellow at the hotel’s reception desk, I drove to the nightspot and strolled in just before eight that evening. It appeared less a “club” and more of a dive, conceivably a shell of its former posh self. As with many such establishments that had been saloons before Prohibition became the law, The Whisper Club had reverted to openly serving booze. The nation’s growing defiance of the 18th Amendment mirrored the attitude of Senator Morgan; they were ready for it to end. Even coppers had shown a reluctance, if not a refusal, to enforce the mandate. The results of next year’s elections were expected to reflect that mood.
The gin mill was a hub of activity. I slalomed through the crowd to an open space at the bar, where I was greeted by an enormous, friendly sommelier of sorts. I ordered a Jack Daniels neat. When the fellow set my refreshment in front of me, I told him I was looking for a friend, an older woman named Esther Plunkett. I added that a mutual acquaintance mentioned she frequented this joint. And perhaps she had a different last name.
The fella’s shaggy eyebrows arched over a florid, pockmarked mug. Dull brown eyes stared beyond me as his face took on the look of someone searching their memory for an answer. When he turned his peepers over to me, he shook his head. “Sorry, sport. Don’t recollect any frill called by that handle comin’ in here.”
“Thanks, anyway,” I sighed.
He waggled his melon and ambled off. Just as I reconciled myself to hitting a dead end, a gaunt man, standing a short distance away, caught my notice with a grunt aimed at me. Then he slid toward me, never lifting his elbows from the counter. He moved as if suffering from a touch of lumbago.
“Say, mister, I overheard your conversation with Carl,” he opened, nodding to the departed barkeeper. I glanced in the Carl’s direction and saw him talking agitatedly on the horn. “Said you’re looking for a woman. Esther, was it?” I nodded. “Sure! Every regular in here knows her!”
I glanced in the Carl’s direction and saw him talking agitatedly on the horn.
“Esther Plunkett?” I asked, trying to narrow the topic.
“I dunno her last name, bub. This filly’s an older twist, a widow.”
Now I was getting somewhere. “Well, let me buy you a round, pal.”
“Fine by me, but I’m not looking to bum booze for more dope,” he mumbled reluctantly. “I’ve told you all I know.” He reached out and touched my arm. “Just the same, I’ll take that drink, if you’re still offering.”
I snorted. “Sure.” I ordered another round for both of us. My gut warned me to be wary of Carl. So I waited until he ankled away to ask my new “friend” if he had any idea where this dame he knew of lived. He didn’t. Neither did anyone else in the tavern who I gently pumped for information under the remote scrutiny of the bartender.
I returned to the hotel and decided to go on to Plan B the next day. In the meantime, I retrieved a bottle of Jack Daniels from my luggage and drank my supper. Soon enough, I surrendered myself to sleep’s undertow. ©
To Be Concluded Tomorrow