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October 18th, 1927 The Hotel Ngaio
MATT stood in front of the coffee table in the center of his sitting room and cleared his throat. Then he spoke to the empty space in a normal, conversational tone. “The quick brown fox jumped over the something or other I can’t quite remember.” He sat down in one of the chairs. “I think maybe it was the lazy dog? Though I’m sure it doesn’t matter.” Lowering his voice to a modest whisper, he added, “Or does it?”
Even knowing what he was looking for as he sat in the chair and peered closely at the coffee table, he still couldn’t see anything unless he leaned far over to one side, and then he could only just make out a shadow suggesting the presence of the microphone he’d attached underneath. The ribbon microphone was bulky, but by placing it lengthwise, right below the center of the table top, it was pretty well hidden from view. And it should be well-positioned to pick up anything said in the sitting room. The thing was the best technology he could find in this time, what was standard equipment for studio broadcast over the radio. Which also meant no eyebrows had been raised when he’d bought it, or the other equipment, at an electronics store earlier that day. He wouldn’t know how well the whole setup worked until it was tested though. And if it needed adjustments, there was very little time left to fix anything, as he had already made the call. Or calls.
Matt had wanted to set the bait for Hawthorne initially, but Page had pointed out that aside from a vague suspicion of the man, he had no basis for believing the lawyer was the leader of the group of anarchists who’d tried to rob and blow up their bank. That in fact he’d seen someone who’d seemed to be in charge who definitely hadn’t been Hawthorne. It had been imperative to identify the man he’d heard give those orders that night. And at least he’d had a good idea where to start.
So, late this afternoon, after having shaken his tail and shopped for the supplies he’d needed—and brought all that gear back here—he’d headed to the East Side and visited the warehouse the charity operated out of, where he’d almost come to an ignoble end. Probably he’d been followed there by a fed, but he hadn’t cared. They would likely think he was doing just what they’d asked him to do, beginning the process of getting himself recruited. What he’d really been doing was looking for the elusive manager Hendricks.
One of the volunteers had told him the man often showed up late in the day, after most of the volunteers had already gone, to read whatever memos they’d left for him, go over the records, and write a few notes about what he wanted them to do. If only Matt had heard that before, he’d have seriously suspected Hendricks from the start. He’d only volunteered a few days, but clearly he hadn’t been asking the right questions.
He probably could’ve arranged to get a surreptitious look at Hendricks if he’d wanted, but based on the plan they’d come up with, he’d considered it better if the man knew Matt had gotten a good look at him. So he had waited there, chatting with some of the women working late, until Hendricks had finally shown. Their eyes had met as he entered, and Matt had recognized the nattily dressed fellow. He didn’t know if the man realized that fact or not, but Matt had hastily excused himself and left the warehouse to return to his rooms at the Ngaio.
Likely he should have called Lt. Cross and told him right away that he had identified the apparent ringleader from three years ago, but he still had no real proof. Matt’s testimony alone wouldn’t be sufficient. Particularly as the description he’d already given the police had been pretty useless. So he had talked it over with Page before she left. And they’d decided to try luring Hendricks into this trap, since they knew he was part of it, even if others were also possibly involved. Like the lawyer.
Whatever Matt’s doubts about Hawthorne, he’d had to admit the warehouse supervisor would be a better bet to respond to their bait, particularly after encountering the man earlier. And once they’d obtained proof of his role in the robbery, they’d let the cops take over and find any other conspirators.
Still leaning over to stare underneath the coffee table, Matt could see the cords hanging down from the microphone and disappearing into a small hole he’d cut in the carpet, but they were black and running straight down in the center of the space under the wide tabletop. As he sat back up, they became a part of its shadow. It was the best he’d been able to do, but it ought to be good enough.
After all, listening devices were a concern of the future, and if Hendricks were worried about maybe being overheard, he would look for eavesdroppers. But he wouldn’t find any.
And as the recording technology he’d be familiar with would be those old tube and cylinder Dictaphones used by businessmen in this era, he should have no idea what to search for even if he suspected something of the sort. Surely he would think a trap might be awaiting him, but probably he’d be watching out for a different kind of danger than the snare Matt had prepared. Or maybe the man would take this ‘blackmail’ attempt at face value.
It was the hour he’d spent the day before which had given Matt this idea. He might not have found any listening devices planted by federal agents, but it had started him thinking about how the technology of this time would be utilized to wire a room for sound. And now he had, though it had been quite a lot of hard work.
Installing the microphone underneath the coffee table hadn’t been too difficult, true, but feeding the cables under the carpet across the room, all the way to the baseboard by the wall, had been tedious and time-consuming. Then he’d had to drill a hole in that wall, just above the baseboard behind where the writing desk normally sat. And push the cables through to the room on the other side.
Before he’d done that of course, he’d needed to clear the people out of the neighboring suite. Some persuasion had been necessary, including a wad of cash, to convince the couple from Kansas to let him have their rooms, but he’d needed somewhere else, someplace quite close, to set up his equipment. As the two suites’ sitting rooms shared the same interior wall, it was ideal. The only place that would do, really. And now the tourists had enough money for a better suite at a more luxurious hotel, with plenty left over for an extravagant night on the town. And Matt had what he’d wanted.
He left his own suite then, making sure the corridor was clear before using the key the couple had given him to enter the suite next door. Earlier that day he’d drilled a hole in the wall on this side so he could bring the cable through and connect it to the receiver he’d moved over from his own rooms. He had modified it to demodulate the electronic oscillations transmitted from the microphone. That sat on this suite’s writing desk now, together with two sets of headphones for listening to anything the microphone picked up in real time. But he’d also run an output cable from the receiver to a wire recorder he’d bought.
He wasn’t sure if such a recording as he intended to make would be admissible in a court of law in this era, but it couldn’t hurt to have it. Although he was really relying on Lt. Cross and whoever he was bringing with him to hear everything themselves so they could testify to what was said in court. Particularly since Matt might not be around to testify. The word of a couple cops would carry more weight anyway. And then they’d also have the wire recording, for whatever that would be worth.
Rewinding that back to the beginning, Matt hit play and listened to a long stretch of hissing before his voice of a few moments ago came through loud and clear. The sound was a bit tinny because of the lack of frequency range, but the microphone he had bought was good quality. Even his final whispered words were audible, so it should pick up everything that was said in the sitting room, and people ought to be able to discern who was saying what. So that should be good enough. Providing he could get the man to say something incriminating.
Matt moved a couple chairs over by the writing desk where the receiver and recorder sat, and then plopped down in one of them to wait. He and Page had agreed that this was the only way they’d get the evidence they needed quickly. But since Hendricks couldn’t be a stupid man, he wouldn’t speak freely, not in front of witnesses. So Matt had to meet him alone, all on his own. It would be highly dangerous even with police stationed here, just down the hall, but as Special Agent Wolfe had said, Matt was willing to take risks. But he’d do it on his terms.
To keep the feds in the dark, Matt had enlisted Page’s help this morning to dodge the agent watching him so they wouldn’t know about the electronic equipment he was buying. And the rest of this day he’d spent mostly in his own suite and this one, setting everything up for the big show. Except for the trip to the warehouse earlier and then a quick visit to the corner drugstore less than an hour ago.
He’d popped into one of the phone booths and called Cross at the precinct, or tried to. He’d had to call several more times, snacking between attempts, before getting through to the lieutenant, but at last he’d been able to tell the man his plan and gain the cop’s promise to come. Unofficially.
The statement Matt had made two days ago indicating the existence of uncaught co-conspirators notwithstanding, the robbery had taken place three years ago and was still considered a cold case. But Cross had agreed to give up his evening off, in case Hendricks confessed. And even said he’d be able to bring a stenographer with him. Probably he didn’t trust Matt’s ‘recorder’.
Well, listening through those headphones, they should be able to hear everything just as clearly as if they were in the room themselves. Invisible eavesdroppers. The sound should be even clearer than it had been on Matt’s test recording. And if someone took down what was said, a contemporaneous transcript, that should be impervious evidence in court and all Cross would need to make an arrest. Assuming it amounted to a confession.
A soft knock sounded, sending Matt to his feet and across to the door, checking the time along the way. Only a little after six, it should be plenty early enough for Cross and his man to have escaped any notice, if Hendricks had arrived prematurely, looking for signs of a trap. And opening the door just a crack, Matt saw the austere countenance of the lieutenant. Swinging it wide and ushering the man in, he was surprised by the two people who followed in the lieutenant’s wake.
Shutting the door swiftly behind them, he realized he shouldn’t have presumed the stenographer Cross had mentioned would be a man. And he had brought Constable Murphy with him as well, which made Matt glad under the circumstances. As far as he was concerned, the more police present, the better. At least for tonight.
Turning and taking a good look at them, he saw he shouldn’t have worried about their being seen by anyone. The woman had short brown hair and wore a soft, brown wool skirt-suit and looked to be in her thirties—she might have been the lieutenant’s wife, though Matt assumed she wasn’t. And the constable could’ve been their son he looked so young, but he had to be older than that. They appeared to be a normal family, rather than a trio of cops.
Matt followed the three of them into the sitting room and glanced briefly at the woman with brown hair and freckles and a sensible demeanor, then addressed Cross. “You understand things might get a little rough?”
The lieutenant grunted something resembling a chuckle. “Let me introduce you to Sgt. Gail Collins. She’s a decent detective, and she knows all that ‘jujitsu’ stuff. So she can take care of herself—and the rest of us too, if we need it. Let’s hope we don’t.”
No introduction was needed for Murphy, who’d taken notes for Cross at the bank and was presumably his stenographer then. Matt nodded at the constable, and then apologized to the female detective. “Sorry, Sgt. Collins, you may not look the part, but I’m sure you’re more than capable.” He wasn’t surprised to see that the lieutenant wasn’t a chauvinist like Special Agent Wolfe, who hadn’t seemed to regard Page as a potential asset.
Matt nodded at the writing desk and described how he’d set up the equipment, then went over and showed them how to work the wire recorder. “You want to wait until we’re talking to start recording.” Otherwise they might run out of wire. “Since there isn’t anyone in the room right now, there isn’t anything to hear though.” He played the sound test he had made earlier, then rewound the wire.
Cross smiled in appreciation. “Even if nothing else comes of tonight, you’ve shown me how useful this technology could be, so this has been worth my time already.” He picked up one set of headphones and listened. “All quiet on the western front.”
“I only called Hendricks half an hour ago. Told him to come at seven, but he might show early, so I better get back to my suite. I let him know what I’d seen and heard that night, and that I could identify him to the police. And told him if he didn’t want to go to jail, he’d have to come here and persuade me not to ‘sing to the cops’. I didn’t ask for money outright, but I’m sure he inferred it.”
The lieutenant looked grim. “It ought to bring him here, but not necessarily with a load of dough. If you’re right about him, he won’t come alone, and he’ll be expecting a trap.”
Matt shrugged. “As long as he comes, and even if he sent someone over here right away, they probably wouldn’t have gotten here yet, and even if they have, nobody would’ve taken you three for cops.”
“Most likely he’ll have an advance man waiting in the lobby, looking out for a police presence, and possibly a man or two on the outside. More would be too obvious. But you realize that as soon as he’s satisfied you’re all alone...”
Grinning, Matt moved toward the door. “That was why I wanted you here. Not just to be witnesses. And why I’m glad Sgt. Collins know jujutsu.”
The attractive detective gave him a funny look, and he smiled back. “And now I really must go, or I might ruin all this hard work. Speaking of which, I don’t want any of you running to my rescue prematurely. So wait ‘til I start screaming.”
Cross shook his head. “That’s my call. Better a waste of time than a waste of your life. You may be rather cavalier about risking it, but I’m not.”
“I’m sure you know what it is you need to hear, in order to be able to make an arrest. I’ll just try to keep him talking as long as I can, and without getting myself killed.” Then he took Page’s spare key, which he’d gotten from her earlier, since she would not need it tonight, and handed it to the lieutenant. “Just in case. So you don’t have any trouble getting in when the time comes.”
He gave them a last nod, then opened the door a crack and peered out, up and down the hall, making sure the way was clear before slipping down the corridor and back into his own sitting room, where he plopped himself down into a chair to wait. That turned out to be the hardest part.
Over forty minutes passed before anything happened, and continually checking his watch was likely the only thing that had kept him from dozing off. He wondered if the cops next door would have been able to hear him if he snored. But before he had decided to try the experiment, a loud rapping came at the door. Bounding to his feet, Matt called out, “I’m coming.”
He took a couple long strides to reach the door and opened up to find a burly stranger who barged in past him, pushing Matt out of the way. And that man was followed by the lawyer Hawthorne and another muscular fellow. That last closed and locked the door behind him, then the two bruisers started searching the suite.
Hawthorne, wearing those pretentious Lennon glasses—the man was ahead of his time there—just stood in the middle of the sitting room staring up at Matt. “I’m sure you don’t mind. We both want our little chat to be private, don’t we?” Seeing the question in Matt’s eyes, he elaborated. “After what you said to Hendricks on the phone, he considered it a good idea to consult a lawyer. And naturally it was me he called. I understand you made some serious accusations. Mr. Hendricks was under the impression you were attempting to blackmail him.”
The lawyer being the one who’d come was surprising, but not that he was being cagey. “Why not speak openly? Nobody’s here to hear us.” Matt saw the goons return from checking the balcony and the bedroom, shaking their heads. They hadn’t found what they’d been looking for, presumably cops hiding in a closet or under the bed. Or out enjoying the night air. “Hendricks must’ve told you how I heard him giving orders to the men who then tried to rob American International State the next day.”
Hawthorne shook his head, saddened and disappointed, apparently. “You’re talking three years ago. Are you sure you’re not mistaken?”
Matt shook his head right back at the man. “It won’t do you any good. I know Hendricks gave the orders. Now I know you were the one behind him, giving him those orders to relay. But there’s something I don’t understand. Why? You’ve got money and influence, so why would you want to blow up a bank? You don’t look like an anarchist.”
The lawyer looked around, then gestured at the two thugs he’d brought to move back, away and out of earshot. “Of course I’m not. Anarchy is a means to an end, my young friend, only that. When something terrible happens, like a bank being blown up, there’s an immediate reaction in the stock market. And if you know something of the sort will happen and when, it’s possible to make a lot of money, and there are people who do know those things. But I’m not one of them.”
Matt had a sick feeling he knew where this was going. “So you tried to engineer a tragedy, in order to make money. How could you do that?”
Hawthorne took that question differently from how Matt had intended it. “It’s called shorting, basically betting that the market, or certain stocks, go down. Three years ago I had a lot riding on a rapid and unexpected plunge in financial stocks, but unfortunately it didn’t work out the way I’d planned.” He adjusted his glasses and frowned. “You must’ve been the person who tipped off the police about the impending robbery and ruined my plans. It’s taken me all this time to recoup my losses so I can try the maneuver again.”
Matt gaped. “You mean you and your men are going to try to blow up another bank?”
“Now, now. This time we mean to succeed. But I’m afraid that to do that, we’ll first have to dispose of the problem you pose, Mr. Walker.”
He certainly didn’t like hearing that word ‘dispose’, which had an ominous sound but could have different interpretations. “If you’d like to convince me not to go to the police...”
“No, the time for negotiation has passed, and I couldn’t take the risk anyway, not at this juncture.”
“I see.”
Hawthorne smiled. “I’m sure you do. You’re a bright boy, you know. Perhaps I can convince Miss Reader to make a donation to the charity, in memoriam shall we say? Although, in the end, I suppose you weren’t that clever after all.”
“Then you won’t hurt Page?”
The lawyer blinked behind his glasses. “No. If you mentioned any of this to Miss Reader, it’s only hearsay and couldn’t be admitted in court. The police might listen to her though, so perhaps...”
While the man was apparently having an internal debate over whether or not Page would have to be eliminated too, he gestured absently at the waiting goons who pulled out knives and advanced. Apparently they wouldn’t risk the sound of a gunshot. Matt leaped behind one of the armchairs, to use as a shield, but because they were coming at him from two different directions, it wouldn’t work for long.
She must’ve been careful to insert the key softly and turn the knob without making a sound, since Sgt. Collins suddenly appeared out of nowhere. The door had flown open as she flew into the room and past Hawthorne to grab one of the goons, and then the man was flying across the floor and right into a wall. While the other thug was distracted by the unexpected entrance, Matt shoved the chair into him, knocking the man backward. Overturning the coffee table at the same time and exposing the microphone. But the trap had already been sprung.
Then Constable Murphy was there, kicking the dropped knife across the carpet and slapping cuffs on the one Matt and his chair had bowled over. Of course Sgt. Collins had already restrained the goon she’d thrown into the wall—when Matt looked that way she was already hauling the handcuffed man to his feet. And Lt. Cross was standing in front of the lawyer looking calm, authoritative, and immovable in the face of Hawthorne’s scowl.
Clearing his throat first, the lawyer then let go. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, Lieutenant, but this man—” He pointed at Matt. “He tried to blackmail me. And when I refused to pay up, he attacked me. Thankfully I’d brought along a couple of bodyguards—”
Cross cut the man off with a gesture. “Drop it, Counselor. We heard everything.” Hawthorne was clearly skeptical, but they could convince him easily enough. “I’m taking you and your bodyguards into custody on a charge of attempted assault for the attack on Matt Walker. But expect to be charged also in relation to your involvement in the bank robbery three years ago and the murder of the bank manager, Mr. Douglass. Probably conspiracy, but you can surely figure that out for yourself. Counselor.” The sergeant and the constable were prodding the other two men out into the hall as the lieutenant was putting the cuffs on the lawyer.
Guiding the man out of the suite in the wake of his subordinates, Cross looked back over his shoulder at Matt. “Bring that recording gizmo with you, alright? Maybe we can save some time listening to denials if he hears his own words in his own voice. That should convince him to cooperate.” Meaning make a deal. Wasn’t that what lawyers did?
Matt nodded and followed them all out into the corridor, where Page was waiting for them, a hard-eyed platinum blonde in a slinky dress standing beside her.
Page gestured at the lawyer as she spoke to the woman with her. “Clearly, he can’t do anything for you now, Miranda. Help yourself by telling the police everything you know.”
The lieutenant paused with his prisoner and inspected the blonde. “Miranda Masters?” When she nodded, he transferred his gaze to Page. “Bring her to the station.”
Shaking his head as he went into the suite next door, Matt carefully packed the wire recorder into a small suitcase he’d used to carry it there. Noticing Constable Murphy’s notebook on the writing desk, which must’ve been forgotten and left behind in all the excitement, he picked that up and took it along with him as well. When he returned to the hallway, he found Page and her friend waiting there, and the three of them descended in the elevator. And took a taxi together for the short ride over to the Midtown South precinct house. To begin what looked to be a very long night.