I walked downstairs to stretch my legs and grab a paper from the newsie on the corner. When I came back, Gail told me that Lundquist had called, wanting to know if I might be able to come to his office downtown around two this afternoon so that we could “resume and hopefully resolve our discussion of the previous evening.” Gail affected Lundquist’s slightly theatrical manner of speech when she read back this part of the message, and I had to laugh. I told her to call him back and tell him two o’clock would be fine.
“You probably won’t reach him,” I said, looking at my watch. It was coming up on eleven – Lundquist would be making his daily jaunt over to the Muehlebach. “Just leave word with his secretary, and be sure to get the address.” I went into my office to read the paper.
I ate a late lunch, then sprang for a taxi over to Lundquist’s office so I could sit back and concentrate on things other than traffic. It didn’t work out so well; the driver was the chatty type. He started off talking baseball. He was pretty steamed that the Cardinals had lost yesterday by a single run, and I gathered he had some money riding on them same as me. From there, he launched into local politics, FDR, and the world situation, then brought it back home with his views on Kansas City barbecue, his lazy wife, his lazier kids, his wife’s brother that there wasn’t a word for he was so lazy, and a Sister Mary Margaret who had slapped him around something fierce back in Catholic school, but who, God love her, had taught him the value of honest effort. He finally swung it back around to baseball again, detailing his strategy for how the Gas House Gang should handle the Tigers this afternoon. He was still talking as I climbed out of the taxi and the next fare climbed in.
I walked along the sidewalk and through the revolving door of a tall building, stopping in the mezzanine to check the directory. There it was in small, white letters plugged into a corrugated black background: “Graham Enterprises, 15th Flr” with “T. Lundquist, 15G” indented below. I headed to the bank of elevators and stepped into an open car with a couple of business types. I told the operator “Fifteen, please,” and took my hat off.
I stepped off onto modern-looking, green-and-black tile and walked down the hall past a drinking fountain and a brass fire extinguisher before coming up to the door at the end of the hall. A copper plate with “Graham Enterprises” engraved in bold font was screwed into the wall next to the door. I stood there for a moment, telling myself was I trying to collect my thoughts that the motor-mouth taxi driver had interrupted, but I think really I was trying to sense something through the door, some kind of special feeling or omen. I told myself I was being a jackass and reached for the doorknob.
The reception area was clean, efficient, and up-to-date. Three secretaries, two old crones and a young girl, sat behind newer model typewriters and telephones at their desks. I noticed a few photos on the walls of Graham shaking hands with some local big shots. Not all of them local, I saw; he was pumping Herbert Hoover’s fin in one of them. I didn’t see Lundquist in any of the photos. Either Graham wasn’t one to share the limelight or Lundquist preferred being Graham’s man behind the scenes. The reception area led off to two doors, both closed. One had Graham’s name outside it, the other Lundquist’s. I imagined Graham’s office was rarely used; the drive into town would take up too many precious moments that could be spent talking deals and reading ticker-tape.
“Good afternoon, sir. What may I do for you?” The senior crone looked up with what was probably intended to be a pleasant smile.
“Devlin Caine, here to see Mr. Lundquist,” I told her.
“One moment, sir.” She buzzed the intercom and repeated the information. I heard Lundquist’s voice, tinny through the small speaker, telling her: “Please bring him in, Miss Birch.” She stood and led me to the door, opening it for me.
Lundquist’s office was close to twice the size of mine, with a much better view from the window and much more impressive items adorning the walls. I picked out his Harvard law degree among a group of framed documents. The furniture was new and in excellent taste. A tall, potted fern stood in one corner, probably purchased along with the two I’d seen outside in the reception area. What did Graham’s office next door look like? Did he and Lundquist meet with the high rollers here, or was this for the workaday stuff and Graham used the office at the mansion when he wanted to impress? Something told me it wasn’t that simple, that there were complex subtleties involved that I probably wouldn’t understand even if they were explained it to me.
Lundquist stepped out from behind the rosewood desk, buttoning his jacket and offering a handshake and an easy greeting. He took my hat and hung it on a coatrack behind the door. His soft gray suit and striped green tie looked neat enough, but the sallow skin under his eyes told me he hadn’t slept much the night before. I followed him over to a side cabinet where refreshments were laid out.
“You’re a coffee man, if I recall?” Lundquist emphasized the word “coffee.” I couldn’t tell if he was subtly mocking my humbler social class or complimenting my virility. He poured from a bubbling percolator before steeping himself a cup of tea with sugar. His hand touched a bottle of whiskey and he raised his eyebrows at me. I smiled and told him no thanks. Coffee and tea in hand, we walked to his desk and sat down. At our first meeting, we’d been at my desk. I wasn’t all that sure I liked sitting on the other side.
“Well then, returning to our discussion of yesterday evening,” he began, “have you given any thought to our offer of additional work?” He looked at me with an open, polite gaze.
“I have, Mr. Lundquist, and I might be interested, but I really do need to know a few more details about what this additional work entails.”
“Such as?” he asked, which rankled me a bit. How the hell was I supposed to come up with an example based on the nothing they’d given me so far? Batting the ball back into my court is one thing. Hand carrying it over in full view of the referee and dumping it at my feet is something else again.
“Oh, such as did this work you’re wanting done have anything to do with the last guy getting shot in the chest and tossed into the river?” I widened my eyes slightly in imitation of Lundquist’s polite gaze and took a sip from my coffee.
“Ah.” He raised his head and brought it down again in a slow nod. “I can certainly understand your concern. No, Mr. Caine, the unfortunate incident involving Mr. Brenner had nothing at all to do with his work.”
“What did it have to do with, Mr. Lundquist?”
“At present, we have no idea.”
“Then how can you be sure it wasn’t tied in with the work he was doing?”
He said something in Latin I didn’t follow, then smiled and added: “We don’t know what it is, but we do know what it isn’t.” Lundquist hadn’t slept his way through Harvard; even your best soft shoe man can’t sidestep like a lawyer.
“What was he flying to Denver for?” I asked.
“He was to verify ownership of a small trucking firm Mr. Graham was considering purchasing.”
“What’s the name of this firm?”
“Sievers and Sons. Do you know of them?”
“No. Is Mr. Graham going ahead with the purchase?”
“Not at this time.” Lundquist was calm and self-possessed. He was letting me play detective to humor me, letting me fire off questions and get nowhere with his answers. I realized this and felt stupid.
“You’re not wanting me to go to Denver then?”
“Not at this time,” he repeated.
“So what are you hiring me for?”
“For very much the same kind of work you’re doing for us now. Investigating individuals and companies we might want to do business with, researching backgrounds, that kind of thing. Does that help?”
“Not remotely. That’s exactly what you told me in Mr. Graham’s office last night. You’ve added nothing new.”
“Yes, well,” he answered, speaking quickly to cover the failed attempt to sell me the same bill of goods for the second time, “once you wrap up your investigation of Craig Carlton – you’ve not forgotten Mr. Graham expects you to deliver a written report to his house tomorrow?”
“I haven’t forgotten. He’ll have it.”
“Splendid. How is that job coming, by the way? Anything new since last night?”
“Nothing new on this end,” I told him casually. “How was he when you went to see him at his hotel this morning?” I brought my coffee cup to my mouth and held his gaze. He stared at me for a few seconds.
“May I ask how you know that?”
I tilted my head modestly. “It’s what you’re paying me for, Mr. Lundquist. Check his movements, see who he’s talking to. He’s talked to you a lot this week.”
“You’ve never mentioned this detail in any of your reports to me,” he said, his voice chilling slightly.
I shrugged. “I figured you already knew he’d been talking to you.”
His eyes narrowed and he drew in his lower lip.
“Indeed. Yes, I’ve been meeting with him every day to work out the details of our proposed business venture concerning the construction contracts.” It made sense, and he was calm and candid about the way he said it, not like he was worried I might tell Graham something that was news to him. And if Lundquist was as forthcoming with Carlton as he’d been with me, I could easily see it taking a week.
“Let’s say I agree to do some more work for Mr. Graham,” I said. “What’s the first thing he’d want me to do?”
“I’d need to know your answer before I tell you that.”
“Then my answer is no.” We sat and stared at each other for a moment.
“Mr. Caine,” he said at last, “I believe you mentioned you had some experience as a bodyguard during your time at Pinkerton’s?”
“Enough to know I don’t much care for it.” I had visions of standing around all day watching Graham count his money. Serving as a bodyguard isn’t quite as dull as working a stake-out, but it’s close enough. “If Mr. Graham needs personal protection, I know some good people I can recommend.”
“It’s not for Mr. Graham. We’d like to hire you to protect his daughter, Melinda. I believe you met her on the patio the other day?”
“Miss Graham needs a bodyguard?” I asked, changing gears so fast I may have stripped a couple.
“Just a precaution, really. She goes into town perhaps twice each week, on shopping excursions or to visit the museums. Mr. Graham would prefer to have someone accompany her.”
“And there isn’t a chauffeur or a gardener, someone like that?”
“Normally, yes, but in light of recent developments, Mr. Graham would feel safer having someone whose talents went a bit beyond operating a motor car or tending the flowerbed.” He looked at me and I thought back to Monday morning in my office, when he’d exhaled smoke and said: “Our inquiries suggest such a person would be you.”
I pumped him about these recent developments. Lundquist admitted there’d been some threats against Mr. Graham and his family recently, assuring me that this happens from time to time, that Mr. Graham was forced to do business with some less than savory characters to get anything done in a city like this, and that such individuals could become a trifle hot-headed now and then.
“It happens on occasion,” he said. “There’ve been no specific threats this time, just vague implications against Mr. Graham and his family. We’re not unduly concerned, but nor do we feel the need to take unnecessary chances.”
“Mr. Graham isn’t worried about Mrs. Graham?”
“Mrs. Graham is visiting family out of state.”
“What can you tell me about the people these threats are coming from?”
“Nothing just now, I’m afraid. Naturally, we are aware that we’re asking you to operate largely on faith for the time being.” Lundquist opened a desk drawer, took out a check, and slid it across to me. I picked it up and read the amount. It didn’t exactly dwarf the first check he’d given me, but it was definitely big enough to push the other one around, big enough to buy up a lot of faith.
I didn’t like any of this. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. I liked the part about being close to Melinda Graham and getting paid handsomely to do it. I liked that well enough. I made a few noises about how I still had other clients to take care of, and Lundquist made a few soothing sounds acknowledging my loyalty to them. He graciously suggested that some of the Grahams' needs could be attended to outside of normal business hours. In less gracious terms, when they said jump, I should be ready to jump.
We batted it back and forth a while longer, but I left his office with the check in my pocket.
I hailed a taxi outside the office building and climbed into the back. The driver, a ruddy-faced man nearing sixty, leaned over the seat and held out a tablet and pencil, along with a card saying he was deaf and dumb. The somewhat sad look in his eyes told me this was the moment when a lot of people chose to climb back out of the taxi and go find another. I smiled at him, took the tablet and pencil, and wrote down the address to my office. He took it, smiled back, and put the taxi into gear. I sat back in the quiet and tried to get some thinking done. I can’t say I came up with much. Whatever Graham and Lundquist wanted, it wasn’t about protecting Graham’s daughter, not just that anyway. They could have hired any of a hundred guys in this city a lot bigger and scarier than I was, and for a hell of a lot cheaper than they were paying me. Were they trying me out for something bigger? Or did they just want me close by for some other reason? Had bodyguarding Melinda Graham been part of Brenner’s duties? I should have asked that before they had their hooks deeper into me. For now, it seemed I had another job working for Ronald Graham, and I sure couldn’t beef about the fringe benefits. My mind drifted back to dark blue eyes and a warm, vibrant laugh.
The taxi pulled up in front of my building and I tipped the driver well, though not so much it would seem like charity. I’d made a note of his name on the card and the number on the license plate; it had been the quietest cab ride of my life.
¥ ¥ ¥
I started Saturday off with a little roadwork out at Swope Park, dressed in a gray sweat uniform and my old boxing shoes. I dabbled in boxing back in the service and during my college days, and I’m still a member of a small-time, local club. I drop in now and then for a little light sparring to keep my timing and footwork oiled. It’s also helpful to know how to take a hit, especially as there’s no better practice for learning how to avoid one.
I ran over the soft grass, keeping an easy gait and taking in lungfuls of cool, morning air, throwing a nod here and there as I passed old folks out for an early stroll and young mothers pushing baby carriages. The weather was calm and I still had some thinking to do, so my usual three-mile run came out closer to four. I sprinted the last hundred yards, pumping my legs as fast as I could, huffing and blowing. Good stuff for the heart and lungs, and you never know when you might need to run like hell.
I drove home, showered and shaved, cooked myself a couple of eggs, and made toast and coffee to go with them. When the dishes had been washed, rinsed, and stacked in the drainboard, I finished dressing and headed into my office to type up my report for Graham. I sat at Gail’s desk, scratching out some notes on a pad before stuffing paper and carbons into the typewriter. The report gave Carlton’s name, age, date and place of birth, basic background, criminal history, past and present businesses owned, and recent movements. I wrote in a flat, colorless style, using neutral words like “subject” and “operative” and making sure not to speculate or draw any conclusions beyond the reported facts. For one thing, I wasn’t being paid for them. For another, you never knew where documents like these might end up. If it’s not something you’d want read aloud in a court of law, you leave it out. I know a few colleagues who have learned that lesson the hard way.
I had close to three typewritten pages when I finished. I rolled the last sheet out of the typewriter, signed and dated it, and filed the carbons. I stopped by the tobacconist after lunch. They were out of my usual, so I bought a pack of Camels and filled my case, then hopped back into the Cabriolet for my third drive out to Ward Parkway that week.
Felding greeted me at the door in that incredibly neutral tone butlers use. I couldn’t tell if he was getting tired of seeing me around or just showing off. Lundquist was there a moment later and led me to the elevator, quickly skimming my report during the ride up. I’d included his meetings with Carlton in the report, which didn’t seem to bother him any. When we walked into Graham’s office, Graham was standing behind his desk dressed in tennis whites, a small towel draped around his shoulders, stretching his back with both palms against the spine. We all took our seats and Graham pulled his pince-nez out of a drawer and read the report in silence. When he finished, he went through it again, stopping to ask a question or two, mostly about my sources. I told him as politely as I could that my sources were entitled to the same anonymity as my clients, but that these were people I’d worked with before and that he could be assured of the veracity of the information provided.
“This man you saw Carlton with at the Liberty Memorial on Tuesday,” he said, “can you give me more of a description of him?” I threw out a few more details. He rubbed the pince-nez against his lower lip for a moment.
“Very well, I’m satisfied with the work. Where do we stand on your fee?”
“Are you wanting me to continue with the investigation of Mr. Carlton?”
“No, what you’ve given me here is sufficient.”
“In that case, Mr. Graham, the retainer you’ve given me will cover my fee for this job.”
“And your expenses?”
“It will cover those, too.”
He blinked once, and I got the feeling he was used to being nickel-and-dimed.
“Well then,” he said, putting the report aside, “moving onto our next order of business. Mr. Lundquist has spoken with you about taking over some of Brenner’s duties for us, on a revolving basis as it were?”
I nodded. “I understand you’d like to have some protection for your daughter during her trips into town. About twice a week, I believe.”
“You’re available for such work?”
“I am for now. If my client roster gets too heavy, I’ll be happy to recommend a capable replacement.” You’re paying for me, Graham, but you don’t own me. He asked if I had a gun. I told him I owned a few, but didn’t normally carry one.
“I’d prefer for this task that you did,” he said. I assured him that wouldn’t be a problem, then asked if he could tell me more about the threats he’d received.
“Oh, nothing specific. A couple of anonymous telephone calls advising me to keep a close eye on my loved ones. I’ve heard it before.” But you didn’t hire a private investigator and pay him extra to carry iron, I thought. If he had, he wouldn’t be breaking in a new man now.
Graham nodded to Lundquist, who got up and left the room.
“I’d like to bring my daughter into the discussion at this point. Naturally, I don’t wish to alarm her needlessly about anything.”
“I understand.”
Lundquist came back into the room with Melinda Graham a moment later. I knew now who Graham’s tennis partner was. Her white, pleated skirt showed off some nicely turned calves, and the dark hair fell carelessly over the white sweater tied around her shoulders. She held a racket in white-gloved hands, turning it over now and then. I stood to shake her hand, smiling politely into the dark blue eyes, careful to keep my face and voice neutral but thinking all the same that she looked quite fetching.
“How nice to see you again, Mr. Caine.” Her smile lit up her eyes, and I had a difficult time making sure her smile didn’t light up mine as well.
“It’s nice to see you again, Miss Graham.”
Graham spoke to his daughter – he called her “Melinda,” not “muffin” or “sugarpie,” thank God – and explained that I’d offered to serve as her escort for the time being.
“How generous of him.” She didn’t seem overly concerned that her father was assigning a bodyguard to her. I imagined she’d been through this before.
“You’re planning a trip to the Nelson Gallery this coming Tuesday, is that right?” Lundquist needed something to say, I guess.
“I am,” she answered him, then turned back to me. “Do you know anything about art, Mr. Caine?” Her eyes glittered prettily in the early afternoon sunlight coming through the window, the slightest trace of a private joke in them.
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Never too old to learn, that’s what Dad always says.”
“I never say that. Do I?” Graham acted slightly befuddled for a moment, an act he put on to amuse his daughter, and I felt almost awkward witnessing this tiny moment of familial closeness.
“Dad, when you’re through with Mr. Caine, might I have him for a moment? Just to get the details down about Tuesday?”
Graham was on the verge of assenting automatically, then caught himself and looked at me, waiting for my nod. She left and the three of us worked out our own details. How I usually handled such work, what I’d do if I noticed anything of concern, and a schedule for checking in with Lundquist. I excused myself just before needing to be dismissed (I was getting good at that with these people), and Felding walked me down the stairs and into the sitting room. Melinda was waiting on a settee in front of a low table bearing a pitcher of iced tea and two glasses.
I nodded to Felding and toyed with the idea of flipping him a quarter just to annoy him. He left us and Melinda gestured with an open hand for me to join her on the settee, (she was too refined to just pat the cushion, which would have annoyed me). I sat down next to her, but not too close. She poured for both of us and handed me a glass.
“You’ve been here a lot lately, haven’t you?”
“Seems like it.” Had she known I was here Thursday night?
“It’s rather nice, having a handsome new face around the house.”
“Felding was saying the same thing.” She laughed and I made a note to be funnier.
“So you’re my new bodyguard. May I ask what experience you have in this area?” It was said teasingly, and I was on the verge of making some comment about being there when Lincoln took one, but I told myself to be professional. It wasn’t easy. Her smile was so natural, so unaffected, you just wanted to drop your worries and enjoy the warmth. Which, I reminded myself, would be the worst thing I could do if there was a genuine threat to this girl.
“I worked for Pinkerton’s for a number of years. They train you well.”
“Do you carry a heater?” She took a sip of her tea.
“I take it you’re a fan of the radio dramas, Miss Graham?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Should I have called it a ‘gat’ or a ‘roscoe’?”
“Tell you what, why don’t I worry about that side of things and you just let me know if I miss the Mona Lisa on Tuesday.”
“You’re very likely to. It’s in Paris.”
“Pity, that’s one of my favorite pieces of sculpture.”
She laughed again and I couldn’t help but join in a little.
“Ahem.” If polite, unwelcome throat-clearing ever becomes an Olympic sport, Felding will probably take home the first gold medal. He stood in the doorway, excused himself, then informed Miss Graham that she had a telephone call. We stood and I told her I needed to be going as well. I thanked her for the tea, shook hands once again, then let Felding see me out, which it seemed to me was quickly becoming the highlight of his day.
The rest of the weekend was fairly uneventful. I got a little drunk at Lonnigan’s Saturday night and came close to making a slightly chubby brunette in her thirties before deciding I was too tired and fobbing her off on a traveling salesman. Sunday I stayed in, did a little light housekeeping, read part of a novel, played a few jazz recordings, listened to the World Series on the radio (Detroit won, giving them three games to the Cardinals two), and generally took things easy.
Monday morning I was sitting at Maxie’s Diner, reading the newspaper over breakfast. I stopped when I came across Craig Carlton’s name. If Carlton had been a Kansas City resident, he would have made print twice that day – once in the article at the bottom of page two, and then a nice little write-up in the obituary column to accompany it.