“Like a little more?”
I held the scotch bottle over the glass of the broken man sitting across from me and waited. He shook his head sadly, his eyes still fixed on the photographs spread out on my desk. I put the bottle back down on and gave him a moment.
It was just after ten the next morning and I was in my office with Claude Schafer, the cuckolded husband who’d hired me to spy on his missus. He sat staring forlornly at the photographs fanned out before him, pictures of his wife being pawed at like zoo meat by some good-looking layabout in a suit. There she was, his bride of less than a year in the arms of another man. In a public park in broad daylight no less. Jennings had dropped off the photos along with the witness interviews this morning. I went through them and decided the car accident seemed genuine enough. The damage to the DeSoto looked to be the result an actual collision – none of the extra dings and dents you get from a sledge – and the interviews with the two witnesses matched up, though not so perfectly that it made me suspicious. I jotted down my findings and would have Gail type them up in a letter to the insurance company that afternoon.
I came to the photographs of the faithless Mrs. Schafer. The girl may have had shame in her wardrobe, but if so, she only took it out on Sundays. I made sure the scotch bottle and a glass were handy, then took out my lighter and torched a few of the racier pictures in the ashtray. The remaining prints would drive the knife in deep enough; no need to make sure it hit bone.
And now Mr. Schafer was slumped down in my office chair, his face reminding me of the mashed-up front end of the DeSoto. He gazed listlessly around the photos again and again, his head describing a small, sad circle, until I gently scooped them up and put them aside. He looked up at me, his eyes pretty moist, and asked: “How could she do this to me, Mr. Caine?”
I could have just told him the truth: Because you’re forty-five and she’s twenty-six, you stupid chump. What the hell did you expect? But I couldn’t see that being very helpful. Besides, the majority of people don’t spend their time, effort, and hard-earned dollars to uncover the truth. They do all that to hide from it.
“Mr. Schafer, if any man can explain why women do the things they do, he’s a better man than I.”
“What do I do now?” He sat small in the chair, his suit jacket bunching out over bony shoulders, lost. Christ, I hate this part. Some guys just blow up, stomp around my office and scream curses, occasionally punch a wall. Other guys break down crying, wailing like a jilted bride. Some guys do exactly what Claude Schafer was doing now: after they’ve hired me to yank the rug out from under them, they sit there in a daze trying to understand how it happened. The women who hire me for this kind of thing usually react a lot better. If they’re young enough, or still think they are, they’ll whip out a hanky and dab at a few croc’s tears before coyly asking if perhaps they should contact someone. The older dames don’t even bother messing up their face paint first. They narrow their eyes and ask for the name of a good attorney, preferably one who has a collection of men’s privates mounted on his office wall.
“Mr. Schafer,” I told him gently, “you hired me to confirm your suspicions. I don’t really consider myself qualified to offer marital advice.” The poor guy looked so broken-hearted I had to give him something, though.
“Look,” I said, “here’s what I’d do: Today, you do nothing. Take the day off work. Go to a movie, read a good book or something. Get a good night’s sleep and tomorrow find one person, and only one person, you feel you can trust. Someone who knows you well. A friend, a relative, someone from the office if you have to. Get advice from somebody who knows you better than I do.”
He nodded, not seeing me, not hearing me, and I knew exactly what he was going to do: let her bawl out apologies to him, cook him some hot meals for a few weeks, give him a little of what that dandy in the park had been getting, forgive her, then hire another detective the next time she got bored.
I brought up payment as tactfully as I could, and he nodded again and took out his checkbook. He was so far gone it would have been the easiest thing in the world to tack on a few bogus charges, but I didn’t. I took his check and then took his elbow and gave him a few soft words to ease him out into the hallway. I didn’t want Gail seeing that sad puss and letting him cry on her shoulder all afternoon.
I went back into my office, closed the door, walked over to the bookcase, and turned on the radio. The police had fished a body out of the Missouri River last night, and either hadn’t identified it as yet or weren’t saying. That qualified as news in this town, barely. The first game of the World Series would be played today at Navin Field in Detroit, and I hoped to be back in the office in time to catch some of it.
The intercom buzzed and I switched off the radio. Gail had a call to put through, a Mr. Benjamin Pearson. It took me half a second to place him as the bellhop I’d bribed at Carlton’s hotel the night before last. I grabbed the base and picked up the receiver.
“This is Caine.”
“Mr. Caine, it’s Benny, Benny Pearson from the Muehlebach. Remember me?”
His voice was low, probably calling from a telephone near the front desk.
“Sure, I remember you, Benny. What’s doing?”
“You was asking me the other night about one of our guests? Mr. Carlton?”
“Uh huh?” I was getting a funny kind of flutter in my stomach.
“You still interested in the guy? I mean, I could find out a little more if you want I should.” Instinct plays a big part in this business, good or bad. This could be nothing more than good old Yankee entrepreneurship, a young kid on the hustle trying to bring in a few extra bucks during the hard times. Or it could be something else. The main disadvantage to hiring snitches is they’ll pretty much work for anybody, and most of them will serve more than one master at a time. I had a clear vision in my head of Benny sitting in Carlton’s hotel room, Carlton hunched over the extension with his hand covering the mouthpiece, listening carefully and not breathing.
“Ah, that’s swell of you, kid, but I’m done with that case.”
“You sure?” Was that just disappointment in his voice, or fear that he wasn’t pumping me hard enough?
“I’m sure, Benny. Thanks for calling, though. If I’m interested in someone else there someday, I’ll know where to go.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Caine. I just wanted to maybe call and check, because, you know, you can never tell—”
“Good thinking, Benny. Goodbye.” I hung up the receiver and thought a minute. Had I thrown Carlton off the scent yesterday, or had he put Benny up to making this call? Either way, something told me that giving Benny the brush off had been the right thing to do.
I put in a call to Wilcox at the police department. I hated to bug him, but time wasn’t slowing down any. No, he didn’t have anything yet – he was still waiting to hear back from Chicago and New York. No, he didn’t mind me calling him, and he’d let me know as soon as something turned up.
I motored over to City Hall and had a look-see at the public records for Carlton’s subcontracting business. Kansas City Builders had hung out their shingle, oh, all of a week and a half ago, and there wasn’t much to the record but a postal delivery address at Union Station that I wrote down. Over at the Chamber of Commerce, there were already half a dozen endorsements from local merchants, which is pretty impressive for ten days in business and no jobs on record except for a single contract that had yet to start. That was definitely making good use of your venture capital. Graham probably had all this already, but at least I could show I was being thorough.
I looked at my watch and saw that it was close enough to lunch time, even if my stomach was running a little fast. I swung by the office, told Gail to wrap her liverwurst back up, and took her to lunch at The Green Parrot out on State Line, where we worked our way leisurely through some excellent fried chicken and cold potato salad. We talked for awhile about the weather and her mother and movie stars, and anything else that wasn’t work. Gail’s one of the good ones. She’s all business when I need her to be, and she has a first-rate memory for details. She knows who owes us money and how much and who needs to be paid and how much. She knows how to talk to clients, what to say and, more importantly, what not to say. Even better than being knowledgeable, she isn’t nosy. She had no idea who Lundquist worked for or what he wanted me to do, and she wouldn’t ask.
We finished up with some hot peach cobbler (ice cream on hers) and I drove us back to the office. Gail put her hat and purse away and brought her steno pad into my office, where I dictated a letter to Mrs. Pintner. I’d received replies by post that morning to a few of my letters of inquiry, all of them dead ends. Mrs. Pintner had agreed to pay ten dollars a month to cover what was a seventy-dollar fee so far. It couldn’t have been easy for her, living on her late husband’s railroad pension, but the checks came like clockwork. I wanted badly to advise her to drop the search for her sister, but I was still afraid she’d drop me instead and go get herself soaked at one of the big firms. I gave her the results factually, but tried to end on an encouraging note. Still other leads to check out, etc.
Gail went to type the letter and I put the radio on, listening to the ball game while I went through some paperwork. An hour later Gail knocked on the door and brought in a worn manila envelope.
“A messenger boy just dropped this off,” she said. “I tipped him a quarter.”
I fished a quarter out of my pocket and sent her back to her typewriter, then grabbed the envelope and untied the flap. Inside were several loose sheets comprising Craig Carlton’s criminal records from New York and Chicago, teletyped in from their respective police departments. Brian Wilcox had come through again. I got up and turned down the radio, then sat back down, lit up a cigarette, and started reading.
Carlton had been born in Queens, New York, in 1902. Picked up a few times for theft and assault in his teens, nothing major until a two-year stint at Joliet for armed robbery at the age of twenty. From then on, there was a laundry list of arrests for vagrancy, parole violation, carrying concealed weapons, transportation of stolen goods, assault, running an illegal lottery, gambling, consorting with known prostitutes, and racketeering. Most of these were on the Chicago record, but he’d apparently made enough trips back East to get picked up there as well. Of all these arrests, only two had resulted in trials, and he’d been handily acquitted in both of them. In all other cases, the charges had been dropped for lack of evidence. Not a single conviction since being let out of Joliet. Carlton had made the right kind of friends in prison. The last arrest on record was nearly two years ago on the Chicago beat. He was moving up in the world, cleaning up his act it seemed.
I decided to focus on Chicago. I grabbed the telephone and put a long-distance call through to the Pinkerton’s branch there. After a few minutes, I was talking with Arch Trawley, one of my former colleagues who still works for the Eye That Never Sleeps.
“Devil!” I’d never cared for that nickname. Arch seemed to think it was the height of wit.
“How’s things, Arch? Shooting it out with any big-time gangsters these days?”
“I had to reload twice before breakfast,” he laughed. “How’s it by you? Peeking into any good bedroom windows lately?”
“Just my own. Trying to catch the landlady stealing from me. Listen, Arch, I need a favor.” I told him what I wanted, basically the same public records search I’d done here in Kansas City: businesses owned or otherwise involving Craig Carlton. I could have called their City Hall and Chamber of Commerce directly, but you never knew who was going to answer the phone or how long it might take. Or what they might miss.
“No problem, Dev. Might take me a couple days to get around to it. Early next week work for you?”
“Get it to me tomorrow and you can bill me full price,” I told him.
“Must be nice working for rich clients,” he grumbled, which was a laugh. Pinkerton’s had more rich clients than I’d see if I lived to be a hundred. Still, times were tough, and if Arch could rake in half a day’s hourly on the fly like this, it wasn’t going to hurt the branch’s bottom line for the month. He promised he’d get right on it and call me tomorrow.
I stretched, walked over to the radio, and gave the volume a boost. The home team advantage wasn’t doing much for the Tigers; by the end of the sixth inning, the Cardinals were leading eight to two. I opened the desk drawer and looked at Schafer’s check lying there, thinking of calling my bookie and bumping up my bet. I still had Graham’s check in my safe, but I really needed to come through with something solid before I’d feel comfortable cashing it. I closed the drawer, reminding myself that today was only the first game of the Series.
Around five-thirty I picked up the phone and called Lundquist. I gave him the dope from Commerce and City Hall, let him know that one of my sources in Chicago would be contacting me tomorrow with a similar report, then summarized the criminal records for him. He wasn’t exactly bowled over.
“Frankly, Mr. Caine, I must say that checking a few records and waiting for return telephone calls doesn’t really have the flavor of a full day’s work.”
I made a rude gesture at the mouthpiece.
“I do have other clients, Mr. Lundquist.”
“To be sure,” he said smoothly, “though I had rather hoped that Mr. Graham had been successful in conveying to you a certain urgency regarding this matter.” I thought back to Lundquist’s first visit to my office, and considered that I was now seeing the steel under the velvet lining. Nothing I haven’t seen before, and it was time to set this lackey straight.
“Mr. Lundquist,” I began firmly, “I am doing everything I reasonably can. Please bear in mind, I’m trying to avoid drawing unwelcome attention to—”
“A consideration only exacerbated by your carelessness of yesterday!” he chimed in hotly.
“Don’t interrupt me again.” My voice as a low growl.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me. Listen, the retainer you gave me is still in my office safe. I’ve not cashed it yet. If Mr. Graham would be more comfortable hiring someone else, I will gladly return it to you. Otherwise, I will pursue this matter in my own way and as best I can with the time you’ve given me. If that’s not good enough, tell me now and we’ll save each other some time.”
There was a very long pause at the other end. Finally, Lundquist said: “I shall expect your telephoned report tomorrow evening,” and closed the line. I actually felt a little sorry for the guy. Now he had to give the same report to Graham, and would have to listen to the same beef he’d just tried to give me. Only Lundquist wouldn’t have the luxury of telling Graham to go to hell. Sometimes it’s good to be your own boss.
An hour later, Jennings was in my office. He was a lanky, laconic youth of twenty-four with a mop of straw-blonde hair and a keen mind hidden behind a pair of lazy, gray-green eyes. I made sure to compliment him on the job he’d done with the photos and the two accident witnesses. I’d been using Jennings for legwork and other odd jobs for close on four months now. I couldn’t pay him full time, so I didn’t know what else he did for money – delivered Chinese food on his bicycle probably – but he was reliable and took well to detective work. I got around to the real reason I’d asked him to drop by.
“Any chance you can get your hands on a bellhop uniform from the Muehlebach?”
“What size?”
“Yours.” A lazy smile spread across his face.
“What did you have in mind?” I told him and his smile spread a little wider.
“I can do better than that,” he said. “I can get hired on there as a bellhop.” He grinned again at the look of surprise on my face.
“The Muehlebach? I thought you had to know somebody to get hired on there, like a close relative who left you the job in his will.”
“I have a friend.” I was sure he had many, but I was paying him for his work, not his secrets. Just the same, I made a mental note that I’d better see about making this kid an offer of steady employment before a competitor snapped him up.
“How soon can you start?” I asked him.
“Day shift or night?” He crossed one long leg over the other.
“Preferably night.”
“That makes it easier. I can start tomorrow.”
I really didn’t know what to say to that, so I launched into what I wanted him to do. I laid it out straight for him. I admitted that Carlton had caught me following him once already (watching Jennings’ face for the first sign of a smirk and ready to sock him one if I saw it), and if he caught Jennings snooping around in his room, things could get rough. Really rough. Jennings’ lazy smile never changed. We negotiated a fee on top of what he’d make in tips and salary at the hotel. The kid wasn’t stupid, even if he enjoyed a bit of risk now and again. I walked him out to the hallway and shook his hand, telling him again to be careful on this one. No funny business on the first night, just tote the bags and keep his eyes and ears open. I worked for maybe another quarter of an hour, then locked the door behind me and walked around the corner to Lonnigan’s.
Lonnigan’s is a friendly, family kind of place, provided at least half your family is made up of souses and rumpots. Still, it has a neighborly feel to it. The dark wood and the long bar keep alive some of that speakeasy atmosphere, while the plate glass window out front makes it inviting enough for out-of-towners who like to see what they’re walking into.
Himself was working the taps, Mickey Lonnigan, your typical, red-headed Irishman, forty-eight years old, tall and broad and always smiling – even on those occasions when he has to bring the baseball bat out from behind the bar. He slid a beer across to someone and headed my way.
“What do ya know, Dev?”
“I know I’m thirsty.” I climbed up onto an empty stool and put my hat down next to me.
“What’s your pleasure then?” He rested his hands on his hips, letting me know he was in no hurry even if anyone else was. Decent crowd for mid-week, I noticed.
“Scotch, a little ice, less water.”
“I’ll set it to music.” And he did. Pouring a drink isn’t the same thing as pitching a fastball or painting a masterpiece, but when it’s done a certain way, with careful attention to detail, an easy manner, and a kind word – all of it making you feel like someone’s been waiting for you to come through the door – the results can be just as inspiring. I took that first cool sip and felt the dark wood and the hum of animated voices close around me. I relaxed my shoulders and sighed.
“First drink of the day?”
“Of a couple days, Mickey.” I reached for my cigarette case.
“Working hard these days, are we, Devlin? And how’s the trade treating you?”
“Bad enough to keep you happy.” We both laughed and he strolled off to take care of another customer.
“My friend wants to know, what trade are you in?” I put my lighter away and turned to look at the two women seated near my left. Late twenties, decently dressed, cute enough. The brunette took a friendly swat at the blonde who’d asked the question.
“I’m the hotel detective here,” I answered.
The blonde, the loud one, came back with what for her was an astute observation:
“Honey, this is a bar!”
I looked around for a second, pulling a puzzled face.
“Employment agency must’ve given me the wrong address,” I said. “I wondered why they were serving booze at the front desk.”
The brunette howled because she got it. Half a second later, the blonde laughed even louder because she didn’t. I settled in for a pleasant couple of hours away from Graham and Lundquist and Carlton. Time enough for that crew tomorrow, I told myself.
¥ ¥ ¥
I started Thursday early at the gym, then headed over to the library and looked through some old newspapers from Chicago and New York for the periods indicated on Carlton’s criminal records. I didn’t find anything, but on the plus side, Phyllis was wearing an even tighter sweater and didn’t spit in my face when I said hello.
After lunch I returned to my office and learned that Arch Trawley had telephoned while I was out. I called him back, waited several minutes while someone hunted him down, and got from him pretty much the same info I’d found on this end. Carlton had had a few companies in Chicago in recent years, none of them in business for long, but lots of endorsements from local merchants and some pretty fat contracts awarded. No lawsuits of record against these companies or formal complaints of any kind, save for one which the record showed was retracted the very next day. The undisclosed issue had been “resolved to the mutual satisfaction of both parties,” which I took to mean that the complainant was up and walking again a few weeks later.
I’d planned to take care of a few errands, but the walk-in traffic took up most of my afternoon. A woman wanted her husband followed. Not that she really believed anything for a moment, mind you, but it’s nice to have peace of mind, isn’t it, Mr. Caine? Some old crone who’d evidently read too many dime novels was sure she was being cheated out of her share of a family will, and was under the impression I might be able to beat a confession out of her brother. I had to explain to an odd-looking fellow with huge eyes that private detectives really weren’t that adept at finding true love, and suggested he consult a matchmaking service.
I’d sent Gail home and was dreading the prospect of making my evening report to Lundquist when he called me first.
“Can you come to Mr. Graham’s home this evening?” he asked. “I realize this is short notice, but it’s very important.” He didn’t have to tell me I’d be compensated for the inconvenience; I was beginning to get how these people worked. I told him I could be there just after seven o’clock if that was satisfactory. He told me it was, then ended the call without asking for today’s report. I sat back and had a smoke. Big doings at Chez Graham, I thought to myself.
On impulse, I walked over to the radio and switched it on, turning the dial back and forth until I found some news. The Tigers had won against St. Louis today by a single run, and I decided maybe it was a good thing I hadn’t called my bookie yesterday. For several minutes I stood by the radio, every so often walking the few steps to the ashtray on my desk. I wasn’t really sure what I was waiting to hear until, yes, there it was. The police had identified the body they’d pulled from the river last night: one Steven Brenner, age thirty-seven, a former employee of Kansas City industrialist Ronald Graham.
Sometime after six I climbed into my car, reached for the starter, and switched on the headlamps, thinking that unless Steven Brenner was a direct descendant of Rasputin, Graham’s “unavailable” man was going to stay unavailable for quite some time.