I blinked a few times before reaching inside the safe, shifting things around and running my hand along walls, ceiling, and floor – the usual, stupid actions you take when you don’t want to trust your own eyes. I walked quickly to my desk and unlocked the drawer. Copy Three was still there, which meant my offices hadn’t been searched. Whoever’d been in here knew exactly what he was after. I grabbed the screwdriver and went to the safe to pry out the false back. The original notebook was still snug up against the backplate. I took it out and rifled through the pages, none of which seemed to be missing. I slipped it into my pocket and pounded the false back into place again. It had served its purpose twice now; counting on it a third time would be pushing it. I closed the safe, noting it had been cracked by a professional (no drill holes or acid scars, and it was still working).
I sat down at my desk, covered my face with both hands, and let out a long sigh. When had I last been in the safe? Last Wednesday, when I’d made the notebook copies. How long had Copy One been missing? Using my expertise as a detective, I made it out to be sometime since last Wednesday. The break-in must have happened in the evening or over this past weekend, when the office was empty. It’s an inspiring thing, the deductive mind at work.
Son of a bitch! I pounded the desk with my fist, cursing myself for my carelessness. The whole reason I’d placed that copy in the safe to begin with was for just this kind of contingency: so that if someone broke into it they’d take the copy and I’d still have the original. But I hadn’t been checking it every day like I should have to see if someone had actually done it.
I pulled out my pouch of tobacco and papers and started rolling cigarettes to keep me from strangling myself. So who hired the safecracker? Who was sitting fat and happy with a copy of the coded notebook? Graham, Draymore, or Trianna? It didn’t have to be one of those three, but who the hell else even knew about the damn thing? If Graham had it, he might just torch it and be done with it, thinking he was in the clear now (though considering it had been found in my safe, I could probably kiss that job offer goodbye). If Trianna had it, he’d likely bide his time for awhile, trying to decide if it was worth making another play at Graham or whether he’d singed his fingers bad enough on the first try. And if Trianna was the one who now knew I’d been hoarding the notebook and lying to him about it, there was more than a chance he’d take it personal. Swell, now every time the building settled I’d think it was Vinnie and Gino coming up the stairs for me.
Draymore was the wild card in all this. I still didn’t know why he wanted the notebook, which made it damned difficult to figure out his next move once he had it. He could sell it to Graham, use it to blackmail Graham, use it to take Graham down, or sell it to Trianna. Those were four options; he might have others I couldn’t even guess at.
I had some careful thinking to do, especially if I wanted to avoid the mistake of trying to deliver the original notebook to someone who believed he already had it. That could be downright embarrassing for both of us. I put the cigarettes I’d rolled into my case, grabbed my hat, went carefully down the back stairs, and cut through the darkened alley over to Lonnigan’s, trying not to jump at every shadow. For a split second I thought I saw Vinnie standing in the alley, but it was a Buick.
I slinked into Lonnigan’s and took a stool at the far end of the bar where I could keep an eye to the door. I ordered a scotch and sipped it slowly, still trying to sort through it all. What would Draymore do with the notebook? Wrap it in plain brown paper and mail it to the District Attorney’s office? A federal prosecutor would be better, I decided. No worries about home rule politics and whose side the D.A. might be on this week, and bringing the feds down on Graham would make ink on a national level, leading to a highly-publicized trial that would be sure to sink him. Draymore could just sit back and wait for it to happen, all ready to move in and take over the construction contracts once the competition was busy making license plates. Of course, that was assuming he didn’t have some deal worked out with Trianna, or wasn’t simply prepared to blackmail Graham as a faster route to his ends, whatever they were. Why not all of the above? There was no reason to believe I was the only guy in this town adept at playing multiple sides against the middle.
For the next few hours I guzzled scotch and tried to think through all the possible permutations of this latest development. I did so much thinking I ended up taking a taxi home. I knew I’d been on the barstool too long when I spent five minutes repeating “permutations” under my breath because I liked the sound of the word.
Drunk as I was, I checked to make sure the hidden copy of the notebook in my apartment was still there. I hid the original and the copy from my desk drawer with it before collapsing into bed to a slew of disturbing dreams I knew I had but didn’t remember. The next morning I chewed a few aspirin, grabbed a shower and shaved, and pushed down a little bit of breakfast. I called for a taxi and finished dressing while I waited for it to arrive. The taxi let me off at the back entrance to my building and I went upstairs to my office, my hand on the gun in my coat pocket. Gail wasn’t in yet, so I checked the desk drawer and the safe again, relieved to see that nothing new had been taken since last night. It’s never too late to start developing good habits, not if your bad ones don’t get you killed first.
I picked up my desk lighter and lit a cigarette, pacing around my office and trying to figure a way out of the inevitable: I needed to talk to all three men, and I needed to be damn careful how I went about it. I could explain that my office had been broken into, but I couldn’t see that buying me much. Hey, remember that notebook I’ve been telling you I don’t have? Well, I was lying, I did have it, only now I really don’t. Honest. Trust me. I was in a bigger fix now that one of the copies was out there than I’d been in before. That’s what you get for being smart, or thinking you are.
Around nine I went to the outer office for a cup of water. Still no Gail, so I called her house and her mother answered. Gail was home sick with a bad cold, her mother apologized. She’d tried to call earlier, but, of course, there was no one here to take a message, and she’d been so busy this morning what with hanging up the wash and beating the rugs and looking after her daughter – I cut her off politely, told her everything was fine and to tell Gail to rest and get better, I could handle things without her for a few days.
I got to thinking it might not be a bad idea to close down the office and blow town for awhile. Or move. The Cabriolet was in good shape, all cleaned and shined up, too, thanks to Graham’s loyal minions. It wasn’t a serious notion, but it dawned on me I might be forced into doing just that depending on how things played out. Best to be prepared, and I’d start by taking the last two checks Lundquist had given me to the bank, taking some of the money out in traveling cash in case I needed it. I looked over the tires on my car as I walked up to climb inside, wondering if Graham’s people had bothered to check the oil. I opened the hood and found the dipstick right where it was supposed to be: between the fan belt and three sticks of dynamite.
I was shaking all over and I had to turn against the brick wall and be sick. I wiped my face with a handkerchief and sat down on the back stoop, putting my head between my knees and taking deep breaths. When had this happened? Sometime after I drove back to the office from lunch yesterday. If I hadn’t gone to Lonnigan’s last night, if I hadn’t taken a taxi home, if I hadn’t decided to check the oil instead of just climbing inside and starting it up... I ran to the wall and upchucked again.
¥ ¥ ¥
“Bit early in the day, Devlin,” was all Lonnigan said when I walked in and picked a stool.
“Hair of the dog.” I tried to smile as I lit a cigarette to steady my hands.
“You’re not lookin’ all that well at that,” he said, pouring a neat scotch and pushing to over to me.
“My own fault,” I said, shaking my head and raising my glass. “All things in moderation.” We spoke the last part together: “Especially moderation.” I downed the scotch in one gulp and ordered another, then asked for some strong, black coffee. So getting the notebook wasn’t enough; I needed to be gotten rid of as well. Was my just having seen the notebook enough to get me bumped off, or was someone worried that I might tell someone else where he got it, maybe queer a deal he had set up? And God in Heaven, was there no such thing as a question with just one possible answer?
First things first: I needed to make my car safe for the road, which meant kicking the tires, checking the oil, and getting that goddamn dynamite out from under the hood! I paid Lonnigan and walked through the alley back to my car, carefully lifting the hood again like it was going to go off in my face. I looked at the dynamite and tried to follow the wires. Not being in the mood to take chances, I called a guy I knew, a veteran who used to build bombs during the war and knows how to take them apart the slow way. We met last fall when I’d done some work for him and given him a pretty nice break on the bill, him being a fellow serviceman and all. I was hoping that might cut a little ice. It did. He showed up three quarters of an hour later in his truck (he ran his own business installing alarms for banks and warehouses and the like). He lifted the hood and whistled softly.
“That’s enough to turn this car into scrap and the two parked next to it,” he said. “You make some enemies lately, Mr. Caine?”
“It happens sometimes.” I was surprised at how calm my voice sounded.
“Nice job on the wiring, too. Nice and tight, nothing wasted, but no strain that might pull something loose.” His professional appraisal really didn’t interest me just then, but I kept quiet. Just watching him finger the wires was making me nervous, and the last thing I wanted to do was distract him. I kept an eye out for anyone strolling into the alley or peeking out through the windows along the backs of the buildings. In under ten minutes he had the sticks of dynamite in his hand, the loose wires wrapped around them.
“What do you want me to do with this?”
“Is it dangerous?”
“Only if you detonate it,” he said. “Sometimes dynamite gets touchy if it’s been around awhile, but this stuff is new. Keep it away from intense heat, it’s safe enough.”
I had him put it in my trunk and asked what I owed him. We had to argue about that a bit; he didn’t want to take anything, but I might need him again some day, and I would rather he still felt like he was the one who owed me.
My car stayed parked in its spot. Once I moved it, someone would know I was wise, someone who wanted me dead and would have to try again. Besides, I had enough cab money these days. I glanced back at the car on my way inside the building, wondering if I’d ever be able to start the engine again without checking under the hood first.
I hadn’t been back in my office five minutes when a frantic knocking from the hallway made me jump in my chair. I slipped the Colt out of my pocket, holding it low and close to my side as I walked into the outer office toward the door. The blind was pulled down over the glass and I didn’t feel like yanking it up to see Trianna’s goons standing there with choppers in their hands, ready to cut me down. It’s disturbing the kind of thoughts that go through your head when someone’s just tried to blow you up.
“Who is it?”
“Devlin, it’s me! Please let me in!”
I whipped the door open and saw Melinda Graham standing there, looking as scared as I’d felt most of the morning. I grabbed her by the arm and pulled her inside, then leaned out into the hallway and checked up and down it, gun high and at the ready. Closing the door and locking it, I took Melinda by the elbow, a little more gently this time, and guided her back to my office, closing and locking that door as well. I put the gun back in my pocket and she flung herself into my arms, talking too fast, shaking, even crying a little. I couldn’t get much sense from her, so I just held her and let her wail, making soothing sounds until she calmed down a little. I sat her down in front of my desk and poured a little scotch into a glass.
“I’ll get you some water.”
“No! Don’t leave me alone!”
“I won’t.” I sat on the edge of my desk and made her take a small sip, then another, and let her breathe for a minute. When she was able to talk coherently she told me the story.
“I was upstairs, and I picked up the telephone. I thought I might call you to see if we could go somewhere this week.” She took another deep breath and another tiny sip of the scotch before continuing. “Dad was already on the line, talking to a man whose voice I didn’t recognize. They were arguing about something, I couldn’t tell what. Suddenly, the other man said: ‘Think of your daughter, Graham. She got lucky once. She won’t the next time.’ Dad started cursing at the man but he closed the line on his end. I just...I got so scared. I didn’t know what to do. I threw some things into my overnight case and slipped out to the garage when no one was watching. I got in my car and just started driving. I found a drugstore and borrowed the telephone directory and looked up the address for your office.”
“Devlin,” she looked up at me, her eyes wide with fear, “someone wants to kill me, don’t they?” Join the club, sister. No, that wouldn’t have made her feel any better. Neither would pointing out that, according to what she overheard, someone had already tried to kill her.
“You didn’t go to your father or Lundquist about this?”
“I didn’t want them to know I’d been eavesdropping. Oh, I know that sounds silly, but that was the first thought that went through my head. And I was just so scared and I wanted to get away from that house.” Not “the house” or “my house,” but “that house.” My mind snagged on that for a half second and let it go. I lit a cigarette and lit one for her, then paced around the office.
“Did anyone see you leave?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“How soon before they notice your car missing?”
“I’m sure someone already has. They keep a pretty close eye on the cars.”
I didn’t say anything for a moment, just walked around the office taking drags on my cigarette.
“We need to put you somewhere safe for a few days,” I told her. “No contact with anyone but me. Are you willing to do that?”
She thought about this for a moment. If it was a trap, she’d have been ready to agree instantly. A trap? That she was in on? Damn, I really was getting suspicious these days, I told myself. Another, more intimate voice inside my head told me: keep it up. She looked up at me and nodded, and for a moment the fear seemed to go out of her eyes, the wide-set patches of dark blue troubled but calmer.
“Yes, I can do that, if you think it’s best. Should I call anyone and let them know?”
“Not just yet. I know your dad’ll be sore as hell, but he’ll forgive all when you’re back home safe. Are you ready?”
Fifteen minutes later I checked the hallway again and walked her down the front stairs, my hand on the butt of my gun. She had her scarf tied over her hair and was wearing a pair of dark glasses I had in a drawer and an old overcoat I sometimes used as a blanket. We stepped outside and I saw the Pierce-Arrow sitting right in front of the curb, the emerald green coachwork gleaming like neon.
“You couldn’t have parked in a more conspicuous spot?”
“I’m sorry. Should I move it?”
“I’ll get it later,” I grumbled. “By the way, have you checked your oil lately?” We walked over to the waiting taxi. I’d called the cab company and asked for Taylor, the deaf driver I’d met recently. He sat behind the wheel and smiled up at us. I handed him the address I’d written down. He looked up and nodded, and I gestured for him to flip it over. On the back, he read:
I was riding alone.
You drove me to Union Station.
Give me this note back if you’ve got the address.
He looked up at me, his face serious as he nodded and handed me back the note. Melinda and I climbed in back and rode in silence to our destination. I gave Taylor a big tip and he knew it wasn’t charity.
The hotel was a run-down fleapit in a sketchy part of town, the last place you’d go looking for a millionaire’s daughter. I wasn’t taking her to my apartment. Christ, they already knew the car I drove, where my office was, and the combination to my safe, whoever “they” were. This would have to do.
“Wait in the shop next door. I’ll be back in a minute.” I walked in alone to the front desk where some pimple-faced kid was reading the paper. I wrote a fake name in the register and paid for the week, and he gave me the key to a room on the second floor. When he wasn’t looking, I walked out the back way and into the shop next door to get Melinda. We came in through the back and I snuck her up the stairs while the kid was picking his nose and reading the funnies.
The shabby room smelled of mildew and smoke and the cracked wallpaper, faded and stained, hung from the bare brick in some spots and was missing altogether in others. The iron bedstand had a dented mattress covered in worn linen and a dusty blanket. A small chest of drawers stood in one corner, the wood warped and splintered. I walked over to the single window and opened it to let in some air, surprised to find that it hadn’t been painted shut long ago. The threadbare curtains had been in fashion once, but then Sherman had marched on Georgia and the world had changed.
“Here’s the deal,” I explained. “You’ll have to stay here for at least a day or two. You cannot leave the hotel to go anywhere. Use the w.c. down the hall only when you have to and keep the coat, dark glasses, and scarf on when you’re in the hallway. Don’t answer the door for anyone but me, and I’ll knock like this so you’ll know it’s me.” I rapped out a random pattern on the chest of drawers and made her repeat it. “I’ll bring you some food. Keep the curtains closed and sit tight. Can I trust you to do all that?”
She thought about it for a minute.
“What choice do I have?”
“None, if you want to be safe. I’ll be back with some food as soon as I can, but after that you may be holed up alone here for a couple of days.”
“Okay.” She trusted me. I hoped it wouldn’t end up being her last mistake.
I left the room, making sure she locked the door behind me, and asked the kid at the desk where I could get something to eat (I knew enough places, but I wanted him to think I was new in town). At a nearby delicatessen I picked up several sandwiches and sodas and brought them back to her room, using the back way again. I knocked on the door, ready to push her teeth in if she answered. No sound from inside. Good girl. I gave the special knock and she opened the door, taking the food as we went over my instructions again (I made her repeat them back to me). I kissed her on the mouth, told her I’d be back as soon as I could, and waited to hear the lock turn behind me before walking down the hall. Once outside, I walked four blocks east and then six blocks south before hailing a taxi back to my office.
All the way back to my office I thought about Melinda stuck in that rathole. I wouldn’t want to stay there and I didn’t grow up in a mansion. I called Jennings at home and told him I needed a decent place to hide someone away for a few days, a flophouse, empty apartment, anything so long as it was clean and quiet. I should have thought of Jennings first. He probably knew as many people as I did, apart from the fact that he collected favors like baseball cards and could sell saltwater to deep sea fishermen. He promised to call me back within the hour.
The phone rang just as I hung it up. I let it ring a few times, wondering who it might be and what he might want and what I should say, then told myself to stop being an old woman and picked up the receiver. It was Lundquist, wanting to know if I’d seen or heard from Miss Graham today.
“No, why?” I made my voice sound bored. “She want to visit another museum?”
“She left the house this morning. She didn’t say anything to anyone, just took her car and drove off. The maid tells me her overnight case is missing.”
“Sounds like she snuck off to see a beau.”
“I’ve considered that, though I’m not aware of any young men she’s seeing socially these days.”
“Does she usually make it a point to tell you if she is, Mr. Lundquist?”
“Not always. Still, under the present circumstances, we are rather concerned.”
“Has Mr. Graham been receiving more threats against his family?”
“Yes.”
“From whom?”
“That’s not important.”
“I’d say it’s pretty damned important if Miss Graham is missing. Or are you folks really not that concerned after all?” He started to say something and I cut him off: “Look, you guys are running out of time to play games here. If Miss Graham is in danger you need to let me know so I can help.”
There was a brief pause and he asked me if I’d be in my office the rest of the day.
“Some of it,” I told him. “I have to go pick up my car later. Had to have some work done on it. Engine was knocking a little this morning.”
There was another brief pause.
“I’ll call you back later today, Mr. Caine. Please call me if I haven’t reached you by five p.m.”
“Will do.”
The phone rang again as I hung up. It was Jennings. A landlord his mother knew had an empty apartment in his building. I told Jennings to pick up a key from the guy, pay him for the week, then take a cab to my office. I went out front and carefully checked under the hood of Melinda’s Pierce-Arrow, then looked under the seats, inside the glove compartment, beneath the undercarriage, behind the tires, and inside the trunk, which was empty but for the purse she’d discarded recently. I pretty much did everything but stick my nose up the tailpipe and try to sniff for gunpowder.
Jennings showed up with the apartment key inside half an hour. I reimbursed him the ten bucks for the week’s rent and sat him down for a minute, explaining that a client of mine needed protection from some pretty rough characters. I wanted him to take this seriously so I told him about the dynamite in my car, and was annoyed when his eyes lit up and he whistled. This was all just one big adventure to the boy. His eyes lit up even brighter when I led him downstairs and asked him to take the Pierce-Arrow he’d seen on his way in. Why, sure, he could keep it hidden for a few days, Mr. Caine, no problem. I walked him around the car, showing him where to look and what to look for, and telling him he’d better goddamn do this each and every time before he started it. He was paying attention, the part of him that wasn’t eyeballing the sloping fenders and the chrome archer. He slipped in behind the wheel and I handed him the keys through the window.
“Kid gloves, son,” I told him. “I can’t afford to buy it and neither can you.”
“Not yet,” he grinned, turning over the motor. He pulled into traffic and cruised carefully down the street. He was considerate enough not to give it the gas until he’d turned the corner and was out of my sight.
I caught a cab over to the address Jennings had given me, a quiet, residential neighborhood, nice but not too nice. The front door had an intercom system so the tenants could buzz people in. I used the key Jennings had given me and walked upstairs to the vacant apartment, checking that the lock on the door was good before stepping inside. It was a single room with a small kitchenette near the door, a small bed, a table for taking meals, and a couple of chairs and sofa, all of it second-hand but in decent shape. I walked across the room and checked the view from the window. It faced the rear of the building, not the street. There was a small, closed-in courtyard of overgrown grass. A painted-green picnic bench stood next to a circular, brick cooking pit filled with leaves. The apartment had one small closet and a bathroom that was only slightly larger. The fixtures were old but clean: a commode, sink, and a curtained tub you could stand up and shower in (unless you wanted to sit in the bath with your knees in your face). Nothing fancy, but it would look like the Taj Majal after that fleabag hotel room.
I locked the apartment and went down to the landlord’s place on the first floor. A pot-bellied, older man wearing suspenders over an undershirt answered my knock. He had a dark mustache and graying hair that stuck out in bushy strands from the sides of his head, maybe to make up for the lack of it on top. I gave him my card and introduced myself.
“You Mrs. Jennings’ friend.” He was an immigrant, Italian from the accent.
“That’s right.”
“Who you putting in the apartment?” He nodded upwards.
“A client.” I gave him the stone-eye and he didn’t ask again. I took out my wallet.
“No, it’s okay, Mrs. Jennings’ son, he already pay.”
“That was for the room,” I said, holding a ten-dollar bill out to him. “I want my client to have some privacy. Nobody goes in that apartment unless it’s me or Mrs. Jennings’ son. Not even you. Anybody else tries to or asks you who’s up there, or hangs around outside and you don’t like their looks, you call me at the number on the card, okay?”
He scowled at the ten dollars for a second, then reached for it.
“Sure, I can do that.”
“You got your own key to that apartment?”
“’Course I got my own key. The law, she says I got to.”
“Rent it from you for a few days?” I had another ten out and ready. He scowled again.
“Law says I got to have one. What I do, a fire inspector or someone come around?”
“You have a master key, don’t you?”
“Sure, but the law—”
“It’s only for a few days,” I said soothingly, putting a fin with the second ten. I was up to twenty-five dollars now in addition to the rent, but it was easier than trying to correct his muddled understanding of city tenancy codes.
“Just for a couple days,” he repeated. He stepped back and rattled a key off the pegboard near the door. The way I figured, it was one less key that somebody else could steal (or bribe off him like I just did). I took it upstairs to make sure he’d given me the right one and looked around the apartment again. I stood at the window a moment, staring down at the picnic bench among the weeds and unraked leaves. The extra twenty-five dollars, I told myself, was for the view. And then in my mind’s eye I saw the bench in Graham’s backyard on that morning he’d called me over for target practice. I remembered Graham admitting that he used the .25 sometimes to warm up if it had been awhile, but that he generally preferred the feel of a little firepower. I remembered that Brenner had been killed with a .25. And I remembered, carefully and clearly, that there hadn’t been a .25 among that bench full of weapons, not when I was there. So where was it?