Bonded dead, p.2
Bonded Dead, page 2
“You know my name but I don’t know yours.”
“It’s Carmen O’Brien.”
“That’s quite a combination. How did O’Brien get in there?”
“My mother was Latin American and my father Irish.”
“Remind me to never get in an argument with you,” I said. “I’ll see you at eight.” I turned and went to the elevators.
Downstairs, I glanced at my watch. It was almost an hour before noon. I found a phone booth and called the police building on Centre Street. When they answered I asked for Lieutenant John Rockland. He was the head of the Special Squad.
A sergeant in his office answered the phone. I gave him my name and said I wanted to talk to the lieutenant. A moment later Johnny came on the phone.
“Hello, Milo,” he said. “What do you want this time?”
“Me?” I said. “Can’t I just call up an old friend?”
“You could. But you don’t—unless you want something.”
“I just wanted to see an old friend,” I said in a wounded tone of voice. “I would like a little information if it’s possible. How about lunch? Whyte’s at twelve or twelve-thirty?”
“All right,” he said with a sigh. “Make it twelve.” He hung up.
It didn’t give me time to do much of anything else, so I took a taxi down to the restaurant. I sat at the bar and sipped a martini until Johnny arrived. He came over to join me.
“Let’s go upstairs and get a table. It’ll be practically empty and it’ll be easier to talk.”
He nodded and we went upstairs and took a table in a corner of the front of the room. The waiter came over and we ordered two drinks.
“How’s your wife and the kids?” I asked while we waited.
“Fine,” he said. “Rachel was wondering the other day why you don’t come out and spend an evening with us some time.”
“Well, I’ve been pretty busy lately. You know how it is.”
“Rachel said that you’re a little like a mule. You have to hit a mule between the eyes with a two-by-four to get his attention, and you have to hit you between the eyes with a broad to get your attention. So if you ever do decide to come out, she’s going to invite a pretty girl over for the evening.”
“Well,” I said, “I’m leaving for Florida in the morning. Maybe when I get back we can make a date.”
He leaned back and laughed. “As usual, Rachel was right. She said that would bring you out.”
The waiter brought the drinks and we were silent until he left. Johnny took a swallow of his bourbon and looked up. “You covered yourself with glory on that last case, didn’t you?”
“Just luck and hard work,” I said modestly.
“Sure. But did you ever think of something else? Here’s a bunch of cops who work their heads off for a month or maybe more without getting anywhere, then you waltz in like a prima donna and solve the case right under their noses. Some day there’ll be a cop so frustrated that he’ll just stand up and put a bullet through your head. And it’ll be called justifiable homicide. He’s not only harassed by the fact that you solved the case, but he’s thinking about the kind of money you make.”
“Why, Johnny, I didn’t know you cared.”
The waiter returned and we ordered two more drinks and our lunch. “All right,” Johnny said when he’d left, “what chestnuts do you want pulled out of the fire this time?”
“Remember a case about a month ago when two broads walked away with a million and a half in bonds and securities?”
He nodded. “I remember it. My squad and I worked on this end of it.”
“What did you come up with?”
“You just summed it up in one sentence. We found out that the two broads walked away with the loot. Then they vanished. They didn’t take a plane, a train or a bus. So they must have had a friend who drove them out of town. But we couldn’t dig up a single friend who might do something like that.”
“There are two other possibilities,” I said. “They could have hitchhiked to some place like Philadelphia, Boston or upstate New York and then taken a plane. Or they could have taken a subway to New Jersey, bought a secondhand car from some small lot and driven away. And they probably changed their appearances before they even left New York City, so the photographs wouldn’t be much good.”
“We thought of all of those,” he said. “How do you run a check on possible hitchhikers? Or on subway riders? You’re probably right about appearance change, but do you have any idea how many beauty shops there are in Greater New York City?”
“I know. It’s an impossible task. Martin Raymond told me that there are two ways of realizing money from stolen bonds and securities. Putting them up as collateral on loans or selling them to someone in the Syndicate.” “That’s about it, Milo. In this case I think we can rule out the bank loan operation. News of the theft was out too soon.”
“That leaves the Syndicate.”
He nodded. “And it’s difficult to get information there. We tried but with no luck.”
Our drinks and lunch arrived and I waited until the waiter had departed. “What else?”
“It’s not a new story,” he said. “The minimum guess is that there is fifty million dollars worth of bonds and securities currently circulating in the underworld, and the amount is increasing each year. One of the reasons is, of course, the fact that every brokerage house is from one to six months behind on paper work. The amount of lost or stolen securities amounts to almost forty million dollars a year. It may take as much as six months to discover what is lost or stolen.”
“Can’t they do anything to correct this?”
“They’re trying. Most brokerage houses have been buying computers to try to speed up the paper work, but it’s an almost impossible task. Most of them have also installed closed circuit television to try to catch employees with sticky fingers. It helps some, but the amount is almost nothing compared to the total volume of missing securities.”
“Sounds tough.”
“It is, Milo. But it’s not all thefts. They have something which they call fails—that is, the failure of a broker to deliver a security to a purchaser within five days. The fails will run as high as three to four billion dollars in one month. All of this is due to the paper work jam. But it also helps the thieves.”
“I can see that. How many of the thieves get caught?” “Not nearly enough,” he said grimly. “Just to give you another picture of the volume of thefts, do you know why my Special Squad was working on the case you’re interested in?”
“Why?”
“There is a detective squad assigned to handle security theft complaints, but they are so overworked that they can’t keep up with them. My squad has been handling some and other squads have been pitching in. The solution, however, is the most difficult. You know how tough it is to pin anything on the top Cosa Nostra men. The securities that fall into their hands pass from city to city and usually end up in Europe. Even then we may hear about only a small percentage of those which are eventually peddled there.”
“Well,” I said, “it sounds as if I’m in for fun and games. Is that all you can tell me?”
“That’s it, Milo. I can give you one more thing. We put out flyers on the two girls. If you want to come back to the office, I’ll give you copies. The pictures won’t mean much because they apparently did change their appearance. I don’t have any photographs of the dead girl in Florida, but the stories stress the change in her looks. We haven’t had any reports from the Miami Beach police. No reason to. It—or half of it—is now in their hands. I think you’re in over your head on this one.”
“Maybe. We’ll see.”
We finished lunch and I went back to Centre Street with him. Once we were in his office, he dug into his desk and handed me the two flyers. Both girls were attractive. The one identified as Wilma Leeds had black hair, although it was red when they found the corpse in Florida, I remembered. The other girl had what looked like medium brown hair. The flyers also carried their fingerprints and a list of scars or blemishes.
“Pretty complete,” I said. “How did you get a record of scars?”
“The Leeds woman was a delivery cashier and the Carlton woman was a transfer clerk. When they were hired they were photographed, fingerprinted and given a medical examination. The doctor made a list of scars and blemishes.”
“And you didn’t uncover anything on the two women?”
“Not a thing. No criminal record of any kind. Not even a jaywalking ticket. The few boy friends they went out with were all hard-working squares. The Leeds woman was married once, but her ex-husband is in Vietnam and has been for two years. Nothing against him.”
“Great,” 1 said. “Thanks, Johnny.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. “Good luck. You’ll need it.”
I took a taxi to my apartment on Perry Street. I lit a cigarette and sat down at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and a drink. I looked over the two flyers. There was no question but that both girls had beautiful faces. What their figures were like might be another story. I looked down at the notes below. The Leeds woman had a scar from an appendix operation, plus a mole on her left thigh. She was the one who was dead. The other woman, Jane Carlton, had a number of small scars, indicating that she’d had chicken pox at some time. Then she had a crescent-shaped scar just below her navel.
That was interesting. I couldn’t think of any operation that would cause such a scar. The only thing I could think of was that she might have been knifed at some time, but that didn’t seem to fit in with what I’d been told about her. Finally I put down the flyers and went into the living room. I picked up the phone and called the airlines. I made a reservation on an early flight to Miami for the next morning. Then I leaned back and thought.
Much of my past success in investigations had been due to one small theory I’d always had. If you go around pushing a little bit here and a little bit there, sooner or later you’ll hit a sore spot and somebody will try to push back. Then, at least, you know one place to keep an eye on.
I had the names of three Cosa Nostra soldiers, or unimportant members of the club. I also had phone numbers where they could be reached. All three of them knew me. I was sure that if they thought they had any important information they’d pass it along.
I phoned each of them, identified myself and told them that I was interested in the theft of the bonds and securities and the murder of the girl in Florida. I added that I would pay well for any information. I knew that none of them would give information, but I added it so they’d think that was the reason I called. I also gave them the phone number of my answering service.
I got out my suitcase, placed my shoulder holster and gun in the bottom and then packed clothes on top. Then I shaved and showered. There was still plenty of time before I had to leave for my date, so I stretched out on the bed and went to sleep.
When I awakened it was almost time to leave. I dressed and went downstairs. I walked down to Barrow Street and then over to the Blue Mill Restaurant. I had a martini and talked with Alcino until it was time to go. I walked back to Sheridan Square and took a taxi to the restaurant. I arrived there about ten minutes early.
She was practically on time. She walked in, looking like a dream. And she looked even better walking than she did sitting down. I followed her as we were led to our table, conscious that every male eye in the room was fixed on her. I think she was aware of it, too, for her walk became just a little more provocative.
We had a couple of drinks and then a wonderful dinner. We talked through the meal and I discovered that she was not quite as dumb as you might expect such a beautiful girl to be. After dinner we had coffee and brandy, then went to a night club and had more drinks while we watched the show.
“What would you like to do now?” I asked as we left the club. I knew what I wanted to do, but decided it would be too blunt to come right out with it.
“It’s been fun,” she said, “and I hate to put an end to it, but I do have to be at work in the morning. I think I’d better go home.”
That, I thought, was more like it. I hailed a taxi and we got in. I looked at her and she gave the driver an address on Central Park West.
“Milo,” she said when the cab pulled up in front of her building, “it’s been a lovely evening. Would you like to come up for a nightcap?”
I thought of telling her that I never wore any sort of cap when I went to bed, but contented myself with telling her I would. I paid off the driver and followed her into the building and then to the elevator. We got off on the fourth floor. She took a key from her purse and unlocked the apartment door. We stepped into a tastefully furnished apartment. Soft lights made it even more inviting. Then, with a rude shock, I became aware that we weren’t the only two people in the room. On the other side, curled up in a chair, was another girl. She was reading a book.
Carmen introduced us. The other girl was her roommate. We made idle talk while Carmen made the drinks. She gave me brandy, without asking, which was all right. Then she began telling the other girl what we’d had for dinner and what we’d seen at the club.
I sat glaring at the wall, but I couldn’t think of anything to do. The roommate was a little too old for me to give her money to go out to buy candy.
Finally I submitted to fate and concentrated on the drink, occasionally adding some profound remark to the conversation.
“Well,” I said when I’d finished my drink, “I think I’d better go. I have to get up early myself to catch a plane.” I stood up, and Carmen also got to her feet. The other girl looked up questioningly.
“Milo is an investigator for our company,” Carmen explained. “In fact, he’s the investigator.”
“How exciting,” the other girl said. “Do you carry a gun and all that sort of thing?”
“Only when I go out on a date,” I couldn’t resist saying. “It was nice meeting you, Kitty.”
“For me, too,” she said. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to talk more. I’m fascinated by crime.”
“To read about or to practice?” I asked gravely.
Both girls laughed and I said good night. Carmen walked with me to the door.
“Thank you for a wonderful evening, Milo,” she said. “Will I hear from you when you get back?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” I said. “Good night, Carmen.”
“Good night, Milo.” She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. Then I was out in the hallway.
Going down in the elevator, I laughed to myself. “Milo,” I said, “you must be losing your skill.”
Downstairs, I caught a taxi and went back to my apartment on Perry Street. I opened the door and stepped inside. As I closed the door I became aware that there was a piece of paper on the floor. I picked it up.
It had been torn out of a brown paper bag. On it, in crude lettering, there was one sentence: DEATH WILL BE WITH YOU EVERY MINUTE.
Well, at least I wouldn’t be alone on the trip.
3
The plane was already winging out of Kennedy Airport before I was fully awake. The sign above the pilot’s compartment went off, and I unbuckled my seat belt and lit a cigarette. I tilted the back of the seat and relaxed, waiting for the stewardess. I looked out the window, but there was nothing to see except the usual clouds. I wondered how long it would be before some genius thought of a way to put advertising on clouds. By that time they’d probably have a method of making one cloud pink, another blue and so forth. That would be a triumph for Madison Avenue.
The stewardess—a fine example of American womanhood—came tripping down the aisle. She stopped at each seat and finally reached me. “Coffee, tea or milk?” she asked.
I thought about it for a second. “No,” I said. “I think I’ll have a dry martini.”
That got her. “Did you say a dry martini?” she asked.
“I think so. At least that’s what I meant to say.”
“At this hour in the morning?”
“Yes. I find it difficult to start off the day without some fruit juice. This way I’ll be able to have a healthy breakfast when we reach Miami.”
Now I had her puzzled. She had obviously decided that I wasn’t drunk, which bothered her more than if I had been. “And what kind of fruit juice is in a dry martini?” she asked.
“Juniper berry juice,” I said, as if I were surprised that everyone didn’t know that. “One of the healthiest berries in the world. It makes kings out of commoners—and sometimes commoners out of kings. It heals all the afflictions the flesh is heir to—and sometimes creates new ones. It turns every man into a hero and every woman into a raving beauty. Will you join me in one?”
She laughed and went off to return with the martini. Later, I coaxed her into giving me a second one. By that time we were old friends.
The flight to Florida is a relatively short one, and we were soon coming down at the Miami airport. I waited until the other passengers had filed past, then got up and walked to the door. The stewardess was standing there. “I hope you had a good flight,” she said with a smile. “Thanks to you and the martinis,” I said. “Otherwise I would have had to sit there staring at a bunch of stupid clouds. Maybe I can buy you that martini now?”
“I’d love to,” she said, “but I can’t. I have to make sure that everything is ready here for the next stewardesses and then go to the office and check out.”
“A layover?”
She nodded.
“I’m going to stay at the Hapsburg House in Miami Beach. If you get thirsty, call me. Milo March.”
“I already know your name, Mr. March,” she said with a smile. “And maybe I will. I’m Annette Rawson.” “I’ll be waiting for the call. If I’m not in, leave word where I can call you. Thanks for brightening up the trip.”
I went into the terminal, picked up my luggage and got a taxi. I told him to take me to the Hapsburg House on Collins Avenue.
“Here on business?” he asked as we started off. “Yeah.”
“Hapsburg House, huh? You know, they don’t allow any girls to work out of there. I’ll give you my card in case you decide you want a girl while you’re here.”
