Always a Cold Deck (A Harry Reese Mystery Book 1) Read online

  The Iroquois was Buffalo’s premier hotel and this was likely to be the best meal I’d had in weeks. I was meeting Samuel Keegan, the owner of the Gotham Insurance Bureau. He had created a massive file of the names of insurance applicants and claimants. Its purpose was to allow insurers to find out if an applicant already carried a large amount of insurance through other companies, or had made an unusual number of claims. In other words, to prevent fraud. Its existence was not something made public and the insurance press never mentioned it. The member insurers paid a nominal fee and they provided the Bureau with the relevant names from their own files.

  But Keegan made the real money by identifying fraudulent claims, and receiving a percentage of whatever he saved the insurers. He had clerks who looked for unusual patterns of applications and claims, and he hired his own investigators to gather the information necessary to prove fraud had been committed. He had no real competition and maintained friendly relationships with all the big men in insurance. It was Keegan who had given me my first job as an investigator, and had also provided me most of the cases that had come my way after I went out on my own, including this one. Joining us at dinner would be Jeb Cowell, of the claims department at American Concordia Insurance Company. I’d done some work for him in the past as well.

  I met them in the lobby and soon after we entered the dining room. Keegan was a big man, a very big man, and as anyone who had eaten with him could attest, he was a well-practiced glutton. I know gluttony is one of the seven deadly sins and all that, but in a man who’s buying you dinner in the city’s finest restaurant, it can only be seen as a virtue.

  We began with lake sturgeon caviar, a local delicacy. When the waiter mentioned the possibility of smoked eel, Keegan became so excited he knocked over his wine. When he returned with the sad news that some other party had just gotten the last of it, Keegan consoled himself by finishing off the caviar.

  “So, Reese, what have you found?” Cowell asked.

  I ran through the story of the vault, including my various conversations, and then offered my conclusion: the structure had been modified for the sole purpose of smuggling goods, most likely opium.

  “How recently was this going on?” Cowell asked.

  “I believe it was run by Robert Mason, the former vice president, from the time of the elevator’s construction in 1893 until sometime around 1897, when he disappeared.”

  Keegan helped himself to most of the English lamb chops, and the veal cutlets larded with chicory. But I held my own when the broiled game sausage with purée of chestnuts arrived.

  “I know all about Mason,” Cowell said. “Just last year, we linked him to an arson scheme in Memphis. He was using an alias and was long gone when it came undone. But it was him all right.”

  “My file on Mason goes back to the eighties,” Keegan said. “Do you have any leads on his whereabouts?”

  “I’ve two people who might know, one of his co-conspirators and his former mistress. But what about the policies on the elevator? How much of the claim could be denied?”

  “My estimate would be none,” Cowell said. “Remember, the current owner is the linseed oil trust. We’d have to argue that they should have brought to our attention what we hadn’t noticed in seven years of coverage and multiple renewals.”

  “And the lawyers wouldn’t be able to roll over them like they might’ve the Eastern Elevator Company. They might even sue for breach of contract,” Keegan added.

  This wasn’t good news. I had already spent my four-day advance, so even if I left tonight I’d be in the hole for the trip. And it sounded as if Keegan had never expected anything to come of it. I couldn’t put a positive construction on the situation, so I didn’t bother trying and instead concentrated on the next course, a superb duckling. But as we waited for dessert, I tried to figure out what he was up to. Then he provided the likely answer.

  “It might be worthwhile for you to find out where Mason is hiding, Harry,” Keegan said.

  “How worthwhile?” I asked. “I mean, is there any possible percentage?”

  “I imagine a number of firms have had losses due to Mason’s activities, but it would be difficult to recover what’s been paid unless it came from Mason,” Cowell said. “And my understanding is there’s a long list of creditors and victims, so I doubt it’d be at all worthwhile.”

  “Of course, it would be of benefit to us collectively if he were brought to the bar, just as an example, if nothing else.” Keegan directed this to Cowell.

  “That’s true,” he agreed. “And perhaps prevent some future losses as well.”

  “I’ll tell you what, Harry. Why don’t you go ahead and work on finding Mason? I think we could come up with a few hundred dollars, providing Mr. Cowell’s and one or two other firms join me.”

  “I suppose that’s possible,” Cowell said.

  “What would be the terms?”

  “Let’s say three hundred when Mason is apprehended.” Cowell, the skinflint, spoke first.

  “What about expenses? It’s liable to involve some traveling.”

  “Okay, we’ll say any intercity travel can be submitted as well,” Keegan offered.

  “All right, agreed.” I raised my glass and we drank to it. I was able to enjoy my Charlotte Russe with only the usual denial of reality. There was little chance my reassignment to the Mason case was as spontaneous as the two of them had made it seem. They had performed like a couple of steerers for a circus skin game. I was beginning to suspect I had been sent to Buffalo simply to make me a little more desperate.

  It was almost nine o’clock now, so I begged off brandy and cigars and made my way to the car stop. General Osgood’s directions were simple enough: take the Main Street car just over a mile to Bryant Street, then walk west three blocks. Though I had made the appointment with Osgood to ask him about seeing the insurance policy, he might also be able to help me find Mason. I was at his door by half past nine. It was answered by a young girl who still had her brogue. She led me to a small study, and not long after, the General came in.

  He carried himself as if he were on the parade grounds, and no doubt he was sure he cut an impressive figure. We exchanged greetings and I told him I was now charged with finding Robert Mason. I then brought up the smuggling question because I thought it might offer some clues to Mason’s whereabouts. That was a misstep. The General was offended at the suggestion. He didn’t remember the vault, but agreed it may have been a storeroom for parts.

  “But isn’t there a chance Mason could have been running something without you or the other officers being aware?”

  “Of course it’s possible, but both Elwell and I visited the elevator fairly regularly. And there were at least two dozen men working there. Were they all in on it?”

  “What if it went on at night? I’ve looked into it, and it seems all he’d need is a couple fellows helping him, and I think I’ve located one of them.”

  “Who might that be?”

  “A fellow named Danny Sullivan, who was a foreman up until last year.”

  “He wasn’t any foreman, just a dockhand.”

  “Well, nonetheless, I feel fairly sure he was involved.”

  “If there was something with which he could have been involved.”

  The General’s indignation appeared to be sincere. So I tried to direct it at Robert Mason.

  “Mason seems to have dragged the firm into a couple of schemes: the shortchanging of shippers and the share manipulation.”

  “The miscalculating of goods was something that occurred at several of the elevators and it was never proven to be anything beyond honest error.”

  Miscalculating of goods? Only a lawyer would come up with that.

  “But certainly Mason crossed the line with the share price manipulation?”

  “Yes. By then it was obvious Mason was a most unsavory character. I had the board dismiss him immediately. That was three years ago. And as far as I know, no one has seen or heard from him since.”


  “Who was closest to him in the firm?”

  “Elwell probably worked with him most regularly, but I don’t think they were in any way close.”

  “What about Sadie Parker, née Collins?”

  “Who’s she? Was her husband with the company?”

  “There is no Mr. Parker. Apparently Miss Collins decided she needed a new name. She has a somewhat tainted past. I’ve been told she was Mason’s mistress.”

  “Told by whom?”

  “A police detective.”

  “That’s not the type of thing I would know anything about. Are you trying to find Mason to tie him to a smuggling operation?”

  I saw what he was getting at, so I thought I’d reassure him.

  “No, there’s no way any of that could be proven now. I was just using that as a means to find him. There are plenty of other reasons to find him.”

  “Well, if that’s the case, I wish you the best of luck.”

  “Would that extend to allowing me to look through the company’s files?”

  “What would you be looking for?”

  “Maybe a suspicious correspondence of Mason’s, or just an address he communicated with frequently.”

  “Can you assure me that you will use whatever information you come across for no other purpose beyond finding Robert Mason? And that nothing will be taken from the office?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Very well. I’ll stop by and talk to Miss McGinnis in the morning. I may have some files I can send over as well.”

  We shook hands on it and he showed me to the door.

  I took a car back downtown and walked over to the Broezel to see if any of the gang were still there. I didn’t see anyone I knew, but took a place at the bar just the same. I needed to chew over the facts in the Mason case and this was as good a place as any to do it.

  “Say, didn’t we meet on the train the other day?”

  It was one of the drummers I had fleeced on the way into town.

  “Yes, we did. How’s your trip going?”

  “Fine, fine. But I’ll tell you, it’s been gnawing at me the way we all passed out on you. That’s no way to end a card game.”

  “Well, no matter.” I bought him a round to show there were no hard feelings. Just as I had hoped, no one had been able to check the accounting after the game.

  5

  The next morning, I was woken up by Detective Donahy banging on the door.

  “How quick can you get dressed?”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Your boy Danny Sullivan is being fished out of the Commercial Slip. I thought you might want to say good-bye.”

  “Was he shot?” I asked while splashing myself at the sink.

  “Couldn’t tell. But definitely dead.”

  I dressed and we headed out.

  “The man on the beat spotted him about an hour ago,” Donahy said.

  “Officer O’Reilly?”

  “No. I told you, he died saving a cat,” Donahy chuckled. “It’s George Henafelt’s case. I told him you’d been asking about Sullivan, so of course he thought it a good idea for me to come and fetch you.”

  A few minutes later we arrived at the slip. They were lifting Sullivan out on a hook from a steam derrick. We passed through a line of cops holding back a few dozen spectators to where a smaller group of detectives and newspapermen crowded over him. He didn’t look good. Donahy introduced me to Detective Henafelt, a short, tough-looking cop, who had squatted down to examine the body. He took off Sullivan’s sodden jacket and reached under his shirt.

  “Knife. Knife. Knife….” Apparently Henafelt was counting wounds. There were a total of seven.

  Then he stood up and announced, “Looks like the Valle d’Olmo citizens committee came to a decision as to the disposition of Mr. Sullivan.”

  “How’s that?” I asked.

  “Danny was a bit of a Don Juan,” Donahy said. “And when you cross the slip into the Hooks, you’ve arrived in Little Sicily.”

  “Yeah. Danny-boy must have been eyeing one of the girls while the men were away working in the fields. A crew of them came home yesterday. Danny must not have heard the news,” Henafelt added.

  The boys of the press ran off to file their stories. They wouldn’t even need to invent anything to get front-page news out of this.

  “Couldn’t it have been something else?” I asked.

  “Jimmy said you had Sullivan hooked up with some smuggling ring—that what you’re thinking?” Henafelt asked.

  “Well, it does seem kind of a coincidence. I spoke to him yesterday morning about a subject he didn’t want to talk about. Today you’re pulling him out of the slip here.”

  “So someone finds out you were digging around and figures Danny was the weak link?” Henafelt asked. “Who do you think was running this ring?”

  I recounted most of the story I had given Donahy the day before.

  “Well, if you’ve got Boss Conners in on it, here’s your number one suspect.” Henafelt nodded toward a fellow approaching through the police line. He too was short and tough-looking, but not so young as Henafelt, and his blond hair was nearly white.

  “Come to turn yourself in, Whitey?” Donahy asked.

  “Yeah, that’s right. I never liked the way Danny dressed.”

  Donahy introduced him as Mike Schuler, William Conners’ jack-of-all-trades. The two detectives spoke with Schuler as if he were a colleague, but with no deference. They gave him the Sicilian revenge theory and left my story untold. After another round of jokes at Danny’s expense, Schuler headed off.

  “I can’t see your version, Reese. Knifing a guy in the back was never Conners’ game. He doesn’t need to resort to rough stuff now anyways,” Donahy said. “We’ll let George follow his nose here. We got a guy knifed seven times, next to a neighborhood of Sicilians, a guy who couldn’t keep his pants up and made a habit of pestering people’s daughters.”

  I agreed he was probably right and told him my main focus now was finding Robert Mason. I left them to their work and had a leisurely breakfast at a counter on Washington Street. Then I went back to the hotel to dress properly and headed to the Iroquois. There was a meeting of the representatives of all the insurers and reinsurers at ten and I wanted to catch Keegan before it began.

  I met him in his room. He told me he had checked with New York, as had Cowell, and our deal was on. He was having the files on Mason sent to my hotel, but offered a brief summary of the earlier attempts to locate him. He’d been out of contact with his family for years, and he didn’t seem to have had any associates who wouldn’t be more than happy to turn him in. Keegan had no intention of bringing up the vault, or the smuggling theory, at the meeting. So there wouldn’t be any point in my attending. Then he mentioned that he’d be in town for the next several days—his wife was coming in that evening—and asked me to let him know if I found out anything about Mason.

  I left Keegan and went up to the Elevator Company’s office. The General had spoken to Miss McGinnis and she was decidedly more pleasant. She led me first to the office that had been used by Mason and later by Trumble. I had already searched this pretty thoroughly when I used the telephone, but I couldn’t very well say so. I combed carefully through the desk and found nothing, other than letterhead, pens, pencils, blotting paper, a slide rule, and the company seal. Trumble must have taken everything else when he left. I flipped through all the books on the shelves. Alas, they held no secret messages between their pages. This left Mason’s Princeton diploma on the wall. I took it down and tore the paper backing off, but there was nothing to be found there either.

  There was also a large inner office which had been the clerks’ room. Here there were several desks and all the accounting, inventory, and payroll records for the eight or so years the company had been in business. There were boxes and boxes of records on the floor, on shelves, and on top of desks. I calculated the odds of finding anything in here as being very remote.

  The out
er office held a couple of desks and several cabinets of correspondence. I was sure these files offered the best chance of finding anything worthwhile. I’d noticed that every time I entered the room, the girl made a point of looking busy, but there was a large book on her desk and it was obvious she returned to it whenever she was alone.

  “Go ahead and read. You don’t need to put on a show for me.”

  “It is rather silly, but there’s little for me to do other than type an occasional letter and send out bills for overdue accounts. I think the only reason the General has kept me on is out of sympathy.”

  “It would be that hard to find another position?”

  “No, I meant sympathy over my uncle.”

  “Your uncle? Did he pass away?”

  “Oh, I thought I’d mentioned it. Charles Elwell was my uncle. The assumption is he died in a sailing accident.”

  “Yes, I heard. I’m sorry.” I mumbled some words of consolation, but she didn’t really seem in need of it. “Did the General tell you I’m trying to locate Robert Mason?”

  “Yes. What is it you hope to find?”

  “Well, I’m fairly certain he was running a smuggling ring, using the elevator as a transfer point. That was before the share manipulation.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Oh, yes. In fact, he has a long history. What I’m hoping to find is something that might provide a clue as to where he is now, maybe a somewhat personal exchange of letters. Or maybe something involving the smuggling.”

  Miss McGinnis offered to help and so I described in more detail the smuggling operation as I imagined it. She was most intrigued. Since the files were arranged by correspondent, there was no way of going about it other than by looking through each file for anything previous to Mason’s departure. We each started at one end. After two hours, we had a list of four names and addresses in Fort William, where the opium was likely to have been shipped from, one in Los Angeles, and two in London.

  The Fort William letters were strictly business, but at least one of these contacts probably was involved in some way with the smuggling, even if it was unknowingly. The Los Angeles letter stood out because of the locale and the fact it had nothing to do with the grain elevator. It was from a Raymond Hushlaw and involved some previous business dealing of Mason’s that had taken place in New Brunswick, New Jersey. It was dated July 19th, 1894, three years before his disappearance. The letter itself was typical business correspondence. Hushlaw was just asking if Mason could locate some legal documents for him. The two London letters did involve grain shipments, and sounded simply businesslike. They only stood out because of the address of the sender.