“Come in, Mr. Caine.”
Bright sunlight poured through a big picture window at the end of the room, stabbing me in the face. I brought a hand up to shield my eyes.
“I beg your pardon. Tom, would you see to the blinds, please?” It was the same commanding voice that had bade me enter, and it didn’t sound like it was begging anything. A man’s silhouette moved to one side of the window and started drawing the blinds closed. Another silhouette, seated behind a very large desk, reached for a lamp.
I lowered my hand, blinking away the spots as I walked slowly across a rectangle of thick Persian carpet, letting the features of the room come to me as my vision cleared: floor-to-ceiling bookcases lining the lateral walls, a globe resting in a waist-high stand in one far corner, a tickertape machine clicking away under a glass dome in the other. The tickertape was on a small table next to a walnut cupboard that I took for a liquor cabinet.
The desk was massive and at least a hundred years old. Dark-stained wood with elegantly curved corners, you could see it sitting in the office of a British shipping magnate in Shanghai or a Colonial governor in India, and it had probably sat in both. The beveled edge had been handcarved into the wood in an intricate pattern, and a fitted sheath of green glass protected the horizontal surface.
The man behind the desk stood up as I drew near, and I had my first look at Ronald Graham in person. He was over six feet tall, rugged and slim in a double-breasted pinstripe done in dark blue, one lapel sprouting a fresh white carnation. I saw the same high forehead and firm chin from his photo, and noticed that the swept-back gray hair was beginning to silver. His face was remarkably unlined for a man in his sixties, just a hint of sag around the jowls and neck, and the sharp blue eyes – their color a perfect match for his bowtie – seemed to blink when they were good and ready. A pince-nez framed in tortoise shell was tucked neatly into his breast pocket, its black cord looping up and around his neck. He easily stretched a long arm across the desk and I took the large, open hand at the end of it, letting him set the shake.
“How do you do, Mr. Caine?”
“How do you do, Mr. Graham.”
Lundquist came around the desk from the window and we shook hands as well. He also apologized for the sun in my face and I let him pretend it hadn’t been deliberate. My mug must have been lit up like a movie marquee, whereas I’d needed several seconds for even a half-decent look at Graham. I assured him there was no harm done and Graham said flatly: “Let’s be seated.”
I sat in a wooden armchair in front of the desk – the seat, back and armrests upholstered in green brocade. Victorian, if I had to guess. Lundquist sat in a matching chair to my left, just far enough away where we could face each other without closing ourselves off from Graham, who had reseated himself in a high-backed, leather wing affair that was just small enough not to be called a throne. I glanced over the items on the desk. The lamp Graham had switched on was Tiffany, the stained-glass shade above the base now softly aglow in multiple, muted hues. There was also a gold pen-and-pencil set anchored in a piece of green marble, an ashtray and desk lighter in matching green marble, a small, handmade clock, three telephones (one of which was undoubtedly a private line just for the household), and a glass-topped cigar humidor which I didn’t expect would be opened for this visit.
“How long have you worked as a private detective, Mr. Caine?” Apparently, Graham wasn’t much for small talk, which suited me fine.
“About four years.”
“And before that?”
“I was a Pinkerton’s operative for seven years, mostly in Chicago.”
“Why did you leave?”
“I had the urge to strike out on my own.” Graham nodded approvingly at my entrepreneurial spirit. I was a man after his own heart.
“What was the nature of your duties at Pinkerton’s?”
“General and specialized investigative work. Shadowing persons of interest, researching personal and employment histories, locating people who’ve gone missing for one reason or another, recovering stolen property, assisting local and federal authorities, occasional bodyguarding when called for.”
Graham blinked once and went right back to it.
“Mr. Lundquist tells me you’re a veteran of the war.”
I nodded. “I was in the Signal Corps.”
“Doing what?”
“I started off laying communications lines, setting up antennas, that kind of thing. I also served as a courier.”
“Sounds dangerous.” Graham’s eyes stored blinks like a camel stores water.
“Not too many safe places on a battlefield, Mr. Graham,” I smiled.
He nodded briskly, muttering “How true,” a couple of times before asking: “And you have a college education?”
I nodded again. “I graduated from the University of Kansas, Class of ’Twenty-Three.” Graham asked me if I had a reason for choosing that particular school and I told him about Major Torrance, one of my commanding officers in the Signal Corps who’d been a KU grad and had talked the school up to me a good deal. It was the right answer; it showed I listened to my superiors. I waited for him to ask me about Rock Chalk Jayhawk, but he seemed satisfied with what he had for now.
There was a sharp knock at the door and Felding wheeled in a small cart bearing refreshments: a silver tea service and coffee in a small, squarish pot of white ceramic. The scent of the tea, well-steeped and no doubt of the highest quality, couldn’t compete with the strong, rich smell of excellent coffee. I wondered if the other two men found the aroma overpowering, if it was perhaps encroaching on their enjoyment of a cherished afternoon ritual. I kind of hoped so; that bit with the blinds had been a cheap trick.
“How do you take your coffee, Mr. Caine?” Lundquist asked. I wasn’t so important that Graham had to play host personally, but neither was I expected to fend for myself with the help. Or had Lundquist merely wanted an opportunity to be sociable? There are a great many subtle customs and protocols among the affluent; you have to be born to the life to pick up on most of them. I glanced at the fresh cream in the tiny pitcher next to the single cup and saucer, all of the same white ceramic as the pot.
“Black, please.” Felding poured the coffee and served it on the saucer to Lundquist, who in turn served it to me.
“We can offer you something stronger if you like,” Graham told me, his face blank.
“Bit early in the day for me, thank you just the same.” Nice try, Graham, but your sockwasher already cast that lure. I waited patiently while Felding used the fine silver tongs to add two lumps of sugar to Lundquist’s tea, then cut a fresh slice of lemon for Graham’s. Only after the other two had been served did I pick up my steaming cup, a rich Arabian brew that was several grades up from the mug of Eight O’Clock I’d downed at lunch.
Graham took a sip of his tea, then set it down and looked at me.
“What has Tom told you so far?”
“Exactly what you told him to tell me, I imagine.” That was getting a little fresh, maybe, but Graham wasn’t going to be impressed by a yes man. “That you may be entering into a business venture and that you’d like to have some background information on a potential partner. That you’d like this to be done discreetly. And that your normal man is unavailable.” Felding had quietly disappeared while we were talking, pushing the cart on its silent wheels, opening and closing the sliding doors on their whisper-quiet tracks.
“That sums it up well enough,” Graham said. “My ‘normal man,’ Brenner, is away on another matter just now and I can’t really wait for his return.”
“I take it he’s expected to be awhile yet?”
“If that’s of some particular concern to you, Mr. Caine, yes he is.” I could tell Graham wasn’t accustomed to casual questions from underlings; the coffee in my cup dropped ten degrees from his tone. I held his stare politely, waiting for him to continue.
“I am entertaining a business proposal at present,” he said after a moment. “I expect to have to make a decision quite soon. The potential partner is a Mr. Craig Carlton from New York City. He’s currently residing at the Muehlebach Hotel.”
“What type of business?” I asked, and Graham’s eyes flinted at me for a second.
“How does that matter?”
“Well, sir, if this man has been in the trade previously – and I’m assuming he has unless you’re taking a chance on a complete novice – it would give me some ideas of where to hunt down information.” Was the man dense? Did he really need me to explain this to him?
“Construction,” Graham answered simply.
“How did you meet Mr. Carlton?”
“Through a mutual acquaintance.” I had the urge to yank that gold pen out of its marble base and announce that I’d better write down important information like this. At least that was one of my urges regarding the pen. I calmed myself with the vision of that same pen signing the check back in my safe.
“All right. Is there anything else you can tell me about this Mr. Carlton?”
“That’s rather what I was hoping to hire you for, Mr. Caine.” Graham said it with the petulant tone of having won some minor victory. I set my cup and saucer down on the edge of the desk.
“Mr. Graham,” I explained, “if you want me simply to shadow this man, report on his movements, I can do that for you. But if you want any real depth on him, his background, his known associates, that kind of thing, the more you can tell me about him now, the more I can find out for you later.”
“Mr. Graham,” Lundquist broke in, “Mr. Caine comes to us with excellent credentials, as well as some equally strong recommendations. I think it would be best to avail ourselves of the full measure of his service.” I thought about asking Lundquist if I could quote that on my office stationery. It sounded pretty good, I thought.
Graham picked the pince-nez out of his pocket and rubbed it against his lower lip for a moment while he mulled over Lundquist’s suggestion.
“What I’m about to tell you,” he said, “is highly confidential business information. I’d like to know what your obligation is under the law to protect such information.”
I let out quick sigh and answered him.
“Private detectives aren’t exactly in the same league as priests and lawyers in the eyes of the law, but like any professional, we have a legal right, and an obligation, to protect our clients’ privacy. A detective who doesn’t honor that obligation doesn’t stay in business very long.”
“I see.”
He didn’t sound especially convinced, so I added: “Apart from all that, any information I receive from you would be up here.” I tapped the side of my head. “Somebody would have to know it was there first, and then that somebody would have to find a way to get at it and know they were getting at it accurately.”
I wasn’t being too subtle for him; he seemed to unbend a bit.
“You are doubtless aware,” began Graham, “that a great deal of construction is going on in the city these days.” That was an understatement. We were in the midst of a Ten Year Plan of building and development to fight the economic Depression we and the rest of the country were in. It also seemed to be a Ten Year Plan to use as much Ready-Mix Concrete – owned and supplied by Tom Pendergast himself – as possible. Skyscraper after skyscraper had gone up in the last few years. Off the top of my head, I could think of the Fidelity Building on Walnut, the Power and Light Building on Baltimore, and the four-million-dollar County Courthouse that was nearly finished. And things weren’t slowing down any. The Municipal Auditorium was going up across the street from the old Convention Hall, and there’d been talk of plans for a new city hall as well.
“I’m heavily involved in a great many of these projects,” Graham continued, which was no great surprise. If tens of millions of dollars were changing hands over the course of a decade, it’d be a safe bet that one pair of those hands belonged to Kansas City’s leading industrialist. Graham went on to peddle a bit of soft soap about how much good all this building was doing for the city, how jobs were being created and new industry was being drawn to us. I sipped my coffee and let him spiel.
“Naturally, I’m eager to protect my investments,” he concluded. “They’re important not only to me but to the community at large.”
“Naturally. How does Craig Carlton tie into this?”
“I met Mr. Carlton through Joseph Trianna, a business acquaintance of mine. Mr. Carlton plans to bid as a subcontractor on several ongoing and upcoming construction projects. He’s expressed an interest in purchasing raw materials from some of my firms, and in using my transportation line for delivery of these materials to the building sites.”
That actually cleared up quite a bit. Trianna was a known mobster in town, and while it was no surprise that a successful man like Graham had mob connections, he’d still be careful about advertising them. A guy like Trianna wouldn’t have been invited over to Graham’s home for his daughter’s coming out party, but Graham would be willing to do business with the Triannas of Kansas City if he could keep his skirts clean and cut himself a thick enough slice in the process.
As for the building contracts, Graham would have already negotiated with the Pendergast Machine for his prime cuts. Now he was just reaching for the gravy. I could see it clearly. Carlton would purchase raw steel or copper or what have you from a foundry Graham owned, then pay another Graham enterprise to machine it for him, most likely selling the finished product to another subcontractor already working under Graham and billing the city on his behalf, and all this stuff moving from point A to B on down courtesy of Graham Trucking. This wasn’t even taking into consideration any under-the-table kickbacks along the way. I wondered how many times a guy like Graham got paid for the same bolt. Business has a fair share in common with gambling: you can really clean up if you go after some of the side action.
“You want to know if this Craig Carlton is reliable,” I said. If Carlton turned out to be a flake and couldn’t deliver, he could get scrapped from a project, and Graham would have to hustle to find another stooge to hold up a house of cards that had already been built.
“I want to know everything I can about him, Mr. Caine.”
“How soon will you be wanting this information?”
“I’ll need to make a decision no later than this time next week.”
I cocked my head at that.
“Frankly, Mr. Graham, depending on the level of detail you’re expecting, I’m honestly not sure how much I can dig up in one week.”
“I understand it’s not a great sufficiency of time,” he consented. “Still, I need whatever information you can uncover. Naturally, your final fee will reflect the level of detail you are able to provide.” The man knew how to motivate his people.
I told Graham I’d be happy to do what I could. We stood and shook hands, and he handed me off to Lundquist, who treated me to a ride down in the private elevator while we worked out the particulars. He closed the grate, pulled the lever, and laid it out for me. I was to check in with him daily by telephone, no later than seven each evening, to report my progress. I was to deliver personally a written report to him at the house this coming Saturday, and to make myself available in case Graham had any questions while reading it. Above all, I was to be discreet. No one was to know what I was doing and for whom, especially Craig Carlton.
Felding was waiting on the first floor to see me out. I shook hands with Lundquist, then collected my hat from Felding and followed him to the door. I walked out thinking I had a pretty routine week ahead of me for a pretty good chunk of change. When I got to my car, I paused and glanced up at the mansion’s windows for a moment. No, I didn’t see Melinda Graham with her nose pressed to the glass, a forlorn look on her face at witnessing my departure, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to make sure.