He parked in the space behind the building reserved for his use and, entering through the rear entrance, climbed the stairs to the second floor. Walking the length of the dimly-lit hallway to his office he opened the door and was greeted by the surprised looks of his two employees.
“Hello, Mr. Tuesday!” they said, almost in unison.
“Gladys, Dolores,” he responded, acknowledging both of them. “How are things going?”
Since Gladys was the senior member of the duo; both in age and term of employment; she assumed the responsibility of reporting.
“Oh, fine, Mr. Tuesday. Except that Mr. Tobin has been calling all day. He.”
“I know, Gladys,” he interrupted her. “I talked to him a little while ago. He’s on his way out here with two other gentlemen. They should be here shortly.” He walked on into the inner office and she followed as he continued, “When they get here, we won’t want to be disturbed. If there are any calls for me while they’re here, tell them I’ll call back.” He walked behind his desk and sat down. “Is there anything that has to be taken care of now before they get here?”
She reached across the desk and handed him one of the two manila folders she had brought with her. “This is the incoming mail for the past two days, but there doesn’t seem to be anything urgent in it.” She waited while he quickly glanced through it and confirmed her opinion, and then exchanged it for the other folder. “And this is the outgoing mail for your signature”, she said, holding it out to him.
She had been with the agency considerably longer than he had, having been employed; fresh out of high school in 1948; by the original team of Spencer and Tuesday in the first year of their partnership. At first, she had been almost painfully shy and frighteningly conscientious but; as the two partners gradually entrusted her with more of the routine functions of the agency; her confidence had bloomed and ripened along with her physical attributes. Except for two, brief, maternity leaves, in the second and fifth year after she exchanged her Scots single name of MacDermott for the Irish married name of O’Brien in 1955; she had rarely missed a day since. When he first joined the agency, following the death of his father, there had been moments when he had resented, what he had considered, her officiousness and assumption of undelegated authority. But, by the time of Joe Spencer’s retirement a year later, the resentment had dissipated in his appreciation of the loyalty, dedication and efficiency which she brought to the agency and their clients-many of whom, he suspected, preferred her opinion and advice to his own. Now, having just turned forty-two; with the first strands of gray beginning to mix with her coppery hair and the initial signs of a matronly bulge widening her hips; she was an attractive, pleasant, cheerful woman who had earned and deserved-but would have scoffed at-the title of ‘gal Friday.’
He briefly reviewed and signed the letters and forms requiring his signature and handed the folder back to her. “Thank you Gladys. There are times when I feel remiss for not telling you more often how much I appreciate the way you, and Dolores, take care of things around here. The last couple of days has been one of those times.”
Obviously pleased, but slightly embarrassed, she blushed almost girlishly. “Why, that’s.. .it’s very nice of you to say so, Mr. Tuesday. But, I.that is, we are only doing our job.”
“What you do, Gladys, goes above and beyond doing your job. And, I just wanted you to know that I’m aware of it.”
Her blush deepened and there was a slight catch in her voice, “Thank you, Mr. Tuesday.”
She had never called him anything else. He had once suggested to her that he had no objection to her using his first name if she preferred. But, while she had appreciated the suggestion, she had never taken him up on it, and he had never renewed it. At a time when mediocrity, indolence and unseemly familiarity had become standards of acceptance in the business community, he considered himself truly fortunate to have the caliber of help-and the respect-of the two of them.
For a few more minutes, they discussed the business of the agency and the problems of certain of their clients until they heard the outer office door open and the voice of Dan Tobin-in his thickest Irish brogue-greeting Dolores.
“Ahh there darlin’! An’ how’s me foine, luvly Spanish colleen t’day? Bejasus! You’re lookin’ more Irish every time I see ya’. Are y’sure yer mither didn’t stop the night in Ireland on ‘er way to h’America?”
Despite the seriousness of his trade; and of the reason for coming to the office; Dan could not resist the opportunity-any opportunity-of putting his best Irish foot forward for the benefit of a lady-any lady-regardless of race, creed, color, age, social position or marital status. And, they all loved it, even though it never went any further than a glint in his eyes, and he remained a faithful, devoted husband and father to his wife, Maureen, and their four (two of each sex) images of himself.
He and Gladys exchanged amused glances as they heard Dolores giggling in response to his question. They all knew, including Dan, that her mother had never been closer to Ireland; or Spain for that matter; than Venezuela, from where she and her husband had emigrated when Dolores was three years old.
He followed Gladys to the doorway between the two offices. “Dan! For God’s sake, swallow that corned beef and cabbage you’re chewing on and come in here!”
But the Irishman could not pass up the chance of greeting Gladys as she emerged from his office.
“Gladys, me luv! Giv us a hug!” he bellowed, stretching his arms wide.
But, as she always did-and, as he knew she would-she only smiled at him tolerantly. “Hello, Mr. Tobin. It’s nice to see you again.”
Feigning great disappointment, he replied, “Ah Gladys, Gladys! One of these days you’ll by sorry ye passed op an’ opportunity like that.”
As she returned to her desk, Dan; followed by the other two men who had arrived with him, and had watched his performance with a mixture of amusement and disbelief; crossed the office to where he was standing in the doorway. The Irish brogue almost, but not quite,disappeared as he gripped his outstretched hand.
“Mark. It’s good to see you, lad.”
“It’s good to see you Dan,” he told him. “Come on in.”
The three of them followed him into his office and he shut the door behind them. They all turned to face him and Dan performed the introductions.
“Mark, this is John Hollander, Special Agent-in Charge of the local FBI office”-a trim, slender six-footer in his late thirties with deep-set, steady gray eyes above high, flat cheekbones, a wide, thin-lipped mouth and a cleft chin-”and Cliff Atterbury, President of Affiliated Distribution Systems”-a stocky, florid-faced, mid-fortyish with the build of a former athlete who was not getting enough exercise.
He shook hands with each of them and then Dan; with the easy familiarity of a frequent and welcome visitor; took their coats and his own and hung them in the small closet to the left of the door. He pushed two chairs forward to face the desk for Hollander and Atterbury, and resumed his own seat behind it, while Dan sat in a third chair to one side. They chatted for a couple of minutes about the unseasonably warm and humid weather, and the traffic conditions on the way out from the city, before Dan-with the Irish brogue completely gone now, as it always was when he talked business-brought the conversation around to the subject of their visit.
“To begin with, Mark,” he said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, “before we ask you to tell us what you may have learned during the past couple of days, I think we should bring you up to date with what we now know has been happening for over five years.” Seeing his surprise, Dan repeated it, “five years. You heard me correct, Mark. And, it wasn’t until early this year that we finally began to get a handle on it.”
“That’s hard to believe, Dan,” he commented.
“Not when you know the facts, it isn’t.” He turned to the FBI man. “Jack, suppose you go ahead and tell Mark what your office has learned.”
Evidently they had agreed on this approach-probably at Dan’s instigation-on the way out as Hollander, without hesitation, removed a small notebook from his breast pocket and began his explanation in a soft but resonant voice that carried a faint hint of a southwestern accent.
“The first hijacking that we have definitely been able to identify occurred in March, nineteen sixty-seven. The second one was in October of that year. There were three more in nineteen sixty-eight, in February, May and November” he flipped the page of his notebook, and continued, “three more in nineteen sixty-nine, in March, July and December; four in nineteen seventy, in January, April, August and December; five last year, in February, April, July, September and November; and five so far this year, in January, March, June, August, and the latest one last Monday. That’s a total of twenty-two such hijackings, all told.” He closed the notebook and returned it to his jacket pocket, before continuing, “As you can see, except that they are occurring more often, there has been no pattern to the dates.”
“It was the lack of a pattern”, he continued, “and the device of obscuring the real purpose of the hijackings that were the main reasons why it took us so long to connect them as part of a continuing operation. There was no pattern to the month, the week of the month, the days of the week or even the hours of the day or night when the hijackings occurred. In addition, the same trucking company has never been hijacked twice-or the same driver. Each one has been different. Also, they were spaced much farther apart in the beginning and, after the first four, the operation was changed. For the first four, the hijackers simply concealed their faces with stocking masks, forced the truck off the road, knocked out the driver and took whatever they were after. Apparently, they considered this to be too risky, and the operation became more sophisticated when they started drugging the drivers.”
“It might have been more sophisticated,” he interrupted to observe, “ but I don’t see how it was any less risky. Weren’t they taking a chance that the truck would crash, not only killing the driver possibly, but attracting a crowd, before they could remove what they wanted from the trailer?”
Hollander nodded. “It might seem so, and we had our own doubts for the same reasons at first. But, the hijackers apparently counted on the fact that they were dealing with professional drivers-men whose jobs, and lives, depended on their alertness behind the wheel. And, you can’t argue with success. It worked until Monday. We’ve talked to seventeen of the eighteen drivers who were previously drugged. One was subsequently killed in a hunting accident.” He paused, to let the irony register. “Each of them remembers feeling drowsy a short time-fifteen or twenty minutes in most cases-after they stopped to eat. Each of them managed to pull off to the side safely before passing out. None of them has any recollection of the truck being moved during the two hours or so they were unconscious-and, the majority of them didn’t even discover the hijacking until they got to their first stop and found that the freight was missing.”
“It’s a fantastic operation, Mark,” Dan interposed. “But wait till you hear the rest of it. Go ahead, Jack.”
“As I said in the beginning, Mr. Tuesday,” the FBI man resumed, “the device of obscuring the real purpose of the hijackings was one of the main reasons contributing to the success of the operation. We know now that in every instance anywhere from four to six boxes of some type of exotic food or delicacy was taken along with the other freight that was hijacked. But, because they were never valued at more than a few hundred dollars; and were generally believed to have been taken only as a whim on the part of the hijackers; their theft was not always reported to our office or to the insurance companies. Instead, the trucking company claim agents only reported what they assumed was the principal object of the hijackers intentions, and carried the most monetary value-such as the sweaters in the latest instance. Of course, this is what the hijackers counted on. However, these decoy shipments are not to be taken lightly either, since they alone now amount to over one hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
“What finally did put you on to the real purpose of the hijackings?” he asked as Hollander paused again.
“Nothing as gratifying as good investigative work by our office, I’m afraid,” he replied with a rueful smile. “Just a couple of the aforementioned claim agents exchanging notes over a few drinks following a meeting they were attending. They, in turn, talked to some of the others present. When they came to us with the story, in February of this year, they were able to document five instances of some kind of unusual food product being taken as part of a hijacking. We then went back through our files and found two other cases in which the same type of theft had been mentioned in reports of hijackings. But we, like they, had not attached any significance to it at the time. Now that we knew of it happening at least seven times, it seemed probable that it had happened even more often-and that it was not just attributable to the peculiar appetites of the hijackers. So, we contacted every trucking company in the area, and asked them to search their O,S and D records for any such previous reports, and also to advise us of any such occurrences in the future. It was a time consuming process but, by the time the twentieth hijacking occurred in June of this year, we had the complete record of the nineteen preceding ones.”
“I can understand the lack of a set pattern and the incomplete reports throwing you off,” he said as Hollander hesitated, “but, it seems to me the fact that so many other hijacked shipments had originated with Affiliated Distribution Systems should have aroused your suspicion long before then.”
“You’re right, of course,” Hollander replied equably, “if we had known they all originated with Affiliated. Unfortunately most of the decoy shipments had been sent ‘freight collect’ and; in filing their claims with the destination carrier-who was not always the same carrier who had picked them up, since many of them were transferred at least once enroute-the consignees often failed to mention Affiliated’s connection. They only showed the name of the actual shipper, such as Royalty Knitwear in the case of the sweaters. It wasn’t until we began linking the stolen food products with the decoy shipments and found they had all been shipped by Affiliated Imports that the pattern began to emerge.”
Atterbury shifted uncomfortably on his chair. “I hope you understand, Mr. Tuesday, that none of us.. .that is, except Closter, of course.. .none of us at Affiliated had any knowledge of what was going on. We.”
“I’m sure Mark appreciates that, Mr. Atterbury,” Dan interrupted him. “We’ll get to Affiliated’s side of the story in a few minutes. But, I think we should let Mr. Hollander finish first.”
Atterbury sat back, a slightly piqued expression betraying his irritation at having to wait for the chance to disassociate himself and his company from Closter’s activities, while Hollander resumed his history of the hijackings.
“When we put all the pieces together, it became evident that there was more than just dead insects and fish eggs in the stolen food products. It figured to be drugs-probably heroin-which put it under the jurisdiction of the Treasury Department. We contacted their office and told them what we had, which fit in with some rumors and vague reports they had been getting of a new and growing source of supply. They agree with us that Closter had to be involved since he had full responsibility for Affiliated’s loading and shipping, and was in the best position to schedule the shipments. But, without something more definite to connect him with the actual hijackings, we couldn’t touch him. Besides, both we and the Treasury boys felt certain that he was taking orders from somebody higher up-somebody who knew the sources of the drugs, scheduled their importation, and had the connections to distribute them in the States. Naturally, he’s the one we’d really like to get our hands on.”
“Have you been able to identify the source of the drugs?”
“We’re pretty sure we have. The trouble is, since we’ve never been able to recover any of the hijacked food items, we really can’t be certain that they did contain any drugs to begin with-or anything other than what was packed in the remainder of the shipment of which they were a part. We’ve advised Interpol of our suspicions but, until we can actually prove what was in those missing boxes-or, in any new ones coming into the country-about all they can do is put the packers under surveillance.”
“Have you been able to establish how the hijackings are actually carried out?”
“We think we know ‘how’. What we don’t know is by whom.”
“Have you tried tailing the trucks as they leave the Affiliated warehouse?”
A faint sardonic grin curled the left side of his mouth. “I don’t think you appreciate the logistics of your suggestion. They load an average of thirty-five trailers a day, five days a week. That’s over seven hundred a month. Even if we only tried to follow those on which we knew some type of exotic food had been loaded, it still.”
“Gourmet foods have become increasingly popular in recent years,” Atterbury interjected, as if apologizing for his company having contributed to their difficulties by shipping so much of it.
“We just don’t have the manpower available for the kind of coverage that would be necessary,” Hollander resumed. “We did obtain a court order and put a tap on Closter’s phones, both at his office and his home. But, it didn’t do any good. He apparently used public phones for making contact, and we never did hear anything of interest-except when he called your office and left the message asking you to come to see him last night.” He hesitated but, when he drew no response, continued, “In addition, we’ve had one of our men working at Affiliated as a fork-lift operator for the past couple of months”-undoubtedly, he realized, the one who had reported his visit to Closter’s office-”He’s managed to make friends with young Tompkins, Closter’s assistant, and he’s sure that neither he, nor Closter’s secretary, has any knowledge of the hijacking operation. But, otherwise, he hasn’t been able to come up with anything more incriminating on Closter, either.”
“Have you had anyone watching his house?”
Hollander shook his head. “No. Living where he does, out in the country, with no close neighbors, he would have been immediately suspicious of anyone-or any car-he saw loitering in the vicinity.”
“It doesn’t sound as if you’re making much progress,” he remarked, trying to conceal his disappointment. But, as the FBI man’s eyes narrowed slightly, he realized he had allowed more of his disappointment to show than he had wanted to.
He had been hoping that they were closer to a solution and that, possibly, they would not even need Wanda’s testimony, or the pictures, to complete their case. But, it was obvious; despite the mass of detail they had uncovered about the hijacking operation; that they were no closer to unmasking Mr. In-Between than he was-possibly, not even as close. And, as he had feared, it was also obvious that the murders of Haggerty and Closter were only incidental to their investigation of the smuggling and hijacking operations. Apparently, if they did suspect that either or both of them had been murdered, they did not intend to do anything about it, if it meant jeopardizing their chances of apprehending the rest of the gang. Even if he told them everything he had learned, or suspected, it was doubtful that they would arrest Bentley, or his two deputies until, or unless, they were sure it would put an end to the gang’s other activities. He mentally reaffirmed his earlier decision to say nothing about Wanda, or the pictures, for the time being.
“We have also established that there are three truckstops where the drivers apparently have been drugged before being hijacked,” Hollander was saying-”which only multiplied the problem that much more.”
“Three! Good God!”
Seemingly gratified by his surprise, the FBI man grinned slightly, before he continued. “Yes, There’s the Interstate-which you already know about-on westbound highway thirty-two; the Cross-Country on southbound eighteen; and the North Star on northbound forty-seven.” Referring to his notebook again, he explained, “The Interstate was where the drivers stopped before the fifth, eighth, eleventh, fifteenth, nineteenth, and the last hijacking. The Cross Country was where they stopped prior to the seventh, twelfth, fourteenth, sixteenth, eighteenth and twentieth and the North Star for the sixth, ninth, tenth, thirteenth, seventeenth and twenty-first. Again, as you can see, no set pattern. We’ve tried, unsuccessfully, to plant an agent at each one, but they won’t take on anyone who isn’t personally known and recommended by somebody already working there. We’ve had somewhat more success by having a few of our men pose as drivers and make friends with some of the girls at each stop. But, even then, they’re extremely cautious unless it’s somebody they’ve seen before and recognize. About the only thing we have been able to establish is that every girl employed at each truckstop has had some kind of run-in with the law-mostly drug addiction or prostitution, or both. And that’s what keeps them there. They’re all hooked, one way or the other.”