A Shared Confidence (10 page)

I went to the front desk of my hotel to pick up the laundry I'd dropped off that morning, then took the elevator up to my room for a little rest and some light reading. I sat back on the bed, smoking a cigarette and flipping through Townsend's photos again. The man Wiedermann and Myers were lunching with didn't look familiar, I was sure of that. So why did I feel he was? I put the photos away and grabbed my book, gave up on that, and settled back for a short nap.

Upon waking I did a few simple calisthenics, some isometrics against the door frame, then took a another shower to wake the rest of the way up. I was dressed for dinner and at the restaurant in the photos by seven-thirty. I had a drink or two at the bar, then ordered and slowly ate my meal there, casually looking around. The man in the photo showed up at eight with two younger fellows I didn't know. They were shown to a nice table by the window, stayed for close to two hours, and talked most of that time. The two younger fellows showed the same rapt attention, almost reverence, that I'd seen on Myers' and Wiedermann's faces in the pictures. Whatever this dapper-looking bird was selling, people were eager to buy it.

I left the restaurant and hoofed it to a saloon down the block, where I nursed a couple of scotch and waters until well after the restaurant had closed. I walked around the block to where I could see the restaurant's service entrance in back and waited across the street. When I saw the waiter who'd been taking care of the window table, I stepped forward out of the shadows, holding out a cigarette.

“Hey, buddy, wouldn't have a match, would you?”

The waiter looked up, startled for a second, a young kid with wavy red hair and freckles.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure, hang on.” He fished a match out of his pocket and lit it for me. I leaned in to light my smoke and let him see the five-dollar bill folded up in my hand.

“Thanks. Like to ask another favor if you don't mind.” I rubbed the folded bill against itself to get his attention.

“Like what?” he asked, suspiciously.

“That well-tailored, gray-haired chap with the mustache you were waiting on tonight. Know anything about him?”

“Like what?” he asked again, unsure but eying the money.

“Here's the skinny, kid: I got to serve that man a summons to appear in court. Rather not do it in the restaurant. Seems like a nice place and it might put him off coming back.” That seemed to ease the kid's conscience. A summons was going to find that man one way or another. If the kid could save the restaurant some embarrassment and pocket a little green doing it… He told me the man was one of their regulars, a Mr. Stanton. He was some high-roller stock broker, always bringing in new investors to talk shop with them. The kid wasn't sure where Stanton worked, but he often overheard him directing new people to a brokerage office near the intersection of Chase and Maryland Streets.

“Thanks, kid, that helps,” I said. “Maybe somebody there knows where he works. That way, I could catch him going in or coming out. Less of a scene that way, you know. Don't want to cause the gent any extra grief if I can help it.”

“Sure, Mister, I know how it is.” The kid smiled and took the money, heading home with a good deed in his heart and half a sawbuck in his wallet. I wondered if I should have gotten a receipt from him for Nathan.

I got in my car and headed west, driving slowly up and down Maryland Street and then doing the same on Chase. I passed a nondescript place with a single door, tiny windows, and a tinier painted sign that I had to get out of the car to read: First Quality Investors. Sounded like a brokerage firm to me, but it seemed odd they didn't want to advertise any better than this. Exclusive clientele? Maybe the sign showed up better in daylight. I'd find out tomorrow.

On the way back to my car, I passed a travel agent's office, the windows plastered with posters advertising exotic locales. There was an art deco, orange-and-brown steamship heading off to Buenos Aires in one of them. The tiny flutter in my stomach was probably yearning; maybe I'd had a little too much of the domestic life lately, because a cruise to some interesting foreign port sure sounded appealing. I looked at the red sun sinking into a horizon of ocean behind the ship and remembered the old nautical rhyme:

Red sky at night, sailor's delight,

Red sky at morning, sailor take warning.

I walked back to my rented car, thinking I might like to see South America myself one of these days. I'd already been to Europe.

I was just settling in for the night at my hotel, the blanket pulled up to my shoulder and thinking about what I needed to do tomorrow. Definitely visit the unassuming brokerage firm, see what more I could find out about this guy Stanton. After that? Possibly go back to Wyman Park for a bit and tell my troubles to the statue of Edgar Allan Poe, see if he had any ideas. How did they make statues like that? Did the artist work it all out in clay first, then use the clay model as a reference while he got to work on the bronze or what have you? I pictured two Ethan Allens sitting next side by side, the clay stand-in on one end – No, I corrected myself, not Ethan Allen, Edgar Allan. Two Edgar Allans, one of them a clay stand-in–

I don't often sit straight up in bed when something fires hard in the gray matter, but it does happen now and then. I reached for the lamp on the night table and clicked it on, almost dizzy with images of an orange-and-brown steamship, a distinguished-looking gentleman in a bowler, and a red-headed wreck of a man named Ethan Ryland who'd walked into my office a few weeks ago. Now I remembered what was familiar about Mr. Stanton: it was his damn name! Clay Stanton was the phony investment guru who had conned Ryland out of about three hundred thousand dollars' cash in one fell swoop.

I got up and walked over to the bureau, opening the drawer and taking out the sheet of paper Nathan had given me listing the times and dates his three employees had missed work recently. Yes, there it was: Myers had taken a cruise down to the Keys about a month ago. Just like Ryland had taken a cruise to South America a month or so before that. And just like Ryland, Myers had met one of Stanton's ropers on that ship, a smooth-talking confidence man who made his living riding the rails or cruising the steamer lines, anywhere an easy mark with deep pockets might be found whiling away the hours. Was Myers the type who liked to live it up on vacations? Shoot off his mouth a little, maybe make himself seem like more than he was?

I lit a cigarette and paced around the room, trying to paint the picture. Myers takes his vacation, draws the attention of a roper, and ends up being introduced to Stanton. Easy money is waved in front of his face like a red cape in front of a bull – all he has to do is come up with the initial investment. He figures he works at a bank, so getting his hands on a lot of cash isn't all that difficult if he plays it smart. He recruits Wiedermann to help him, offers him a cut. The two of them redirect the cash, even set my brother up to take the fall if something goes wrong, and now they have $140,000 of the bank's money to play with, ready for the big score. They'll double or triple it in one fell swoop, put back what was taken before anyone finds out (I assumed putting it back was part of their plan), and both have more money than they'd make in the next thirty years.

Only they wouldn't. It was all a confidence trick. The embezzled money would disappear in front of their faces due to some fluke accident. Even if they figured out what happened, it wouldn't be like a pair of embezzlers could go running to the police and cry foul. The money would be well and truly gone. Hell, it was as good as gone now. The big play hadn't happened yet, otherwise the two of them wouldn't still be having chummy lunches with Stanton. But it was well on its way. I knew this because Myers and Wiedermann were meeting with Stanton alone these days, no roper alongside –
they'd already been handed off to the inside man!

I grabbed a glass of water from the bathroom, lit another cigarette, and told myself to calm the hell down. Where was all this coming from? I'd seen photos of two of Nathan's men having lunch with a man named Stanton. Not exactly the most uncommon name in America, is it? I'd seen a brokerage firm that didn't care to be especially gaudy. I'd seen a drawing of a cruise ship on a travel poster. What else did I have, really?

Yeah, Caine, I answered myself, there just happen to be two middle-aged, distinguished-looking gentlemen named Stanton in Baltimore. One is a bona fide investment expert, eagerly sought out for his years of experience and success, who frequently directs hangers-on to a modest little brokerage office on Chase Street. The other is a con artist who pretends to be a bona fide investment expert, who sets up marks to make phony investments by sending them to a discreet little brokerage office (Christ, I'd seen burlesque houses that kept higher profiles!) before fleecing them out of their life savings.

If I was right, much as I prayed I wasn't, the big play would be happening soon, which meant I needed to be outside that brokerage office bright and early the next morning.

It wasn't a difficult appointment to keep; I was up most of the night thinking.

T
uesday morning was one of
those times in your life you'd give most anything to blot out from your memory. I have a few of those. Unfortunately, I also have a fairly good memory.

I drove down to Chase Street early and found a diner with windows facing the brokerage office across the street. I bought a paper from the newsie on the corner, and at ten after six I was seated in a booth where I could get a good view of both ends of the block. I stretched a light breakfast to nearly an hour and a half, ready to slap a fifty-cent piece down on the counter and tear out the door if I saw what I was looking for. My stomach was pretty well knotted up, and a little food, leisurely taken and thoroughly chewed, would help. I had to force myself because I had no real appetite. I sipped enough coffee for the waitress to keep refilling it, giving me a reason to keep my booth.

So Myers and Wiedermann had skimmed this cash over a week ago. Why wait so long to go for the big score? They'd probably taken time to run it through a couple of other banks first, trying to muddy the trail so it couldn't be traced back to them. Of course, I had no way of knowing if the big play was going to happen today, but if it was I couldn't afford to miss it. I was prepared to stake that brokerage office out all day until it closed if necessary. If the embezzlers didn't show today, I'd come again tomorrow morning, only I'd tell Nathan first to keep them at work all day no matter what, and once I called him to verify they were at the bank, I'd break into both their houses and search until I found that goddamn money. Wiedermann's kids would be in school most likely, and I'd either wait for his wife to go shopping or knock on her door and send her on some urgent errand. Hell, I'd tell her she had a gas leak and had to clear out for a couple hours if need be. If I could just buy this one day, I might have a chance.

Just my luck, turned out the calendar wasn't selling any Tuesdays that week.

I forced myself out of the diner and ambled slowly up and down the block, peeking into shop windows and going inside the places where I could still see out. There's nothing for the nerves like forcing yourself to shuffle about listlessly when you're wired like a thousand watts of neon. I was a guy who'd lost his job, I decided, just killing time because he hadn't the guts to tell his wife yet and was still making like he was leaving for work every morning. That would explain my pointless meandering, a man with all kinds of time on his hands and nowhere to go.

On my third pass by a haberdasher I picked up the spotter, another guy in no hurry to get anywhere or do anything, but careful not to give up a good vantage point. When you run a phony brokerage office or a fake betting establishment, or any of the elaborate fronts that confidence men refer to as a “store,” you have to keep genuine customers from wandering in off the street. Only the mark can be allowed inside. Big cons are meticulously planned affairs involving dozens of men playing their parts, and every variable must be controlled – a strange ingredient dropped into the soup could queer the whole deal. The first step is to keep a low profile. The “store” is in some unassuming, out-of-the-way location where legitimate clientele aren't likely to find it in the first place. This usually plays well with the mark, who is convinced he's being let in on the town's best kept secret. The next step is to have people keeping an eye from the outside, ready to head off any curious passers by. You seal this up by paying off the local police, steady cuts to the chief and every beat cop working the neighborhood. The law in this part of town knew exactly what went on inside that brokerage office. More importantly, they knew that if they let anyone louse things up, they'd go back to relying on just their salaries.

Oh, things still happen now and then, sure. But confidence men are masters at improvisation, and they've come up with an array of counter-actions for every conceivable circumstance. They can simply be rude until a real customer decides to take his business elsewhere. They can demand ridiculous amounts of identification and other documents until someone gives up and walks out in disgust. They can close down the office in seconds due to some unforeseen emergency. They can even use their ties with the police to stage their own raid on some pretext or other, and either watch the unwelcome intruder scram or see that he's hauled away if necessary. They've been at this for awhile, you see.

I learned all this from my time at Pinkerton's, working on the fringes of enough cases to pick up quite a bit. The Pinkerton's Ops who were full-time on this kind filled me in on a lot, too, and now and then I'd even sat in on the questioning of con men who'd been caught red-handed and were ready to sing a bit – some even to downright brag – in exchange for a little consideration from the law.

So long as I didn't cross the street or otherwise go anywhere near the brokerage office, I should be able to avoid attracting the spotter's attention. He'd be watching carefully if a big play was happening today. He may even have help. I had no idea how big an operation this particular store ran. Did they have sheep lining up to be sheared every day of the week? If not, could they afford to keep the store open just to keep up appearances? Paying the dozen or so shills pretending to be employees and investors? Not likely. Apart from the unnecessary expense of it, an open store with no play going on would increase the chance of walk-ins – attention they didn't need. No, the store was for the benefit of the mark; if he wasn't going to be there, neither would they. And this store was definitely open for business. All morning long I'd watched men walk in and out, caught movement through the tiny windows. Okay, so they had at least some action scheduled for today. Could be nothing more than a few convincers, letting some newly-acquired mark buy a small amount of fake stock and double his money a few hours later, setting him up for the big play down the road.

To me, wishful thinking is an awful lot like voting: it makes you feel good, but rarely seems to accomplish much. Shortly after nine o'clock that morning, I was admiring a display in a storefront window when the reflection showed me both Myers and Wiedermann rounding the corner across the street, one carrying a fat valise. I moved quickly while trying not to seem like I was, passing by the spotter without a glance in his direction. I had maybe twenty seconds to catch up with those two bankers before they got to the brokerage office, and probably not much more time once I intercepted them. This had to be the big play. Apart from the valise, it was risky for both these men to miss work on the same day at the same time (which also told me they didn't trust each other enough to let just one of them bring the money alone).

Hands in my pockets, I put on a bit more steam as I crossed the street diagonally, cutting the two men off fifteen feet from the brokerage office door.

“Good morning, Mr. Myers, Mr. Wiedermann,” I called out, blocking their path.

“Mr. Shaw?” Myers spoke first. Wiedermann gave a small nod a half second later as recognition kicked in. I could see Wiedermann's chubby hand gripping the valise tighter and both men fidgeted slightly, eager to be on their way. I'd already worked out what I was going to say to them: Change of plan, gentlemen. New instructions from Clay Stanton. Today's not the day. Hold onto the money and wait till he contacts you.

I only needed a few seconds, a few seconds I didn't get. Before I could get a word out, something settled heavily on my shoulder. I looked down and saw the business end of a billy club mashing the fabric of my suit jacket.

“Mighty careless of you, crossin' in the middle o' the street like that. Sure, an' people get killed doin' that.” I turned around slowly and stared into the face of a brawny Irish street cop. The spotter must have given him the high sign as soon as I stepped off the curb.

I offered the cop a friendly smile. “I do apologize, Officer. I'm from out of town, you see. I'm afraid back in Kansas City, we are a little careless about that.”

“Ye can afford to be when yer dodgin' nothin' but cows and women on bicycles. We got traffic here, Mister. The motorized kind, don't y'know.” I didn't take the bait; it was clear the cop was looking for any reason to haul me in. He looked past me at Myers and Wiedermann. “You two gentlemen can go about your business. It's this fella here I'm needin' to speak to.”

It wouldn't work to give them the message now; they were already on edge seeing me turn up out of nowhere. And the law showing up two seconds later? Whatever I blurted out now would just confuse them, and it wouldn't stick. Someone inside the broker's office would come out onto the sidewalk if he had to and set them straight. I'd be painted as a jealous business rival of Stanton's, trying to louse up one of his hot deals. Telling them the truth, that this was all a con, would confuse them even more, and the end result would be the same.

I had an impulse to grab that valise right out of Wiedermann's fat hand and hightail it down the street, but I knew it'd be a no-go. I'd have a burly cop hard on my heels, and probably half a dozen more once O'Malley here started blowing his whistle. I could see the spotter checking us out from across the street. He'd join in the chase, too, and even if I could outrun them all, it seldom does you any favors to run from the law in a strange city. No, there was nothing for it but to let the train ride the rails to its inevitable wreck and try to keep myself from being arrested.

Myers and Wiedermann, both agitated, excused themselves and proceeded up to the door of the phony brokerage office. The cop blocked me, in case I got the notion to take off after them.

“What's your name then?” He punctuated the question by pressing the end of his billy club into my chest.

“Shaw, Officer. Kelly Shaw.” I dropped my shoulders, calm and relaxed, not even glancing toward the brokerage office. There could be nothing about me suggesting I was a man whose plans had just been gutted.

“Let's see some identification.” The billy club pressed into my chest again.

“I'm afraid I left my wallet back at my hotel,” I said with a fool's shrug. “Found that out five minutes ago when I tried to buy something for the missus back home.”

“Uh huh. An' what was yer business with them two gentlemen just now?”

“I just wanted to say hello.”

“You know them well, do you?”

I shook my head. “Only met them the other day.”

“And they made such an impression you just had to dart across a busy thoroughfare like the devil himself was on your heels? Just to say hello?”

“I'm a stranger in town,” I shrugged. “Saw a couple of friendly faces.”

It went back and forth like that for another minute, the cop trying to goad me into losing my temper, me giving innocent answers to his questions. He softened the tiniest bit when I mentioned my sainted mother, rest her soul, from Wexford.

“Irish, was she?”

“And proud of it.”

“And your father?”

“English.”

“Charitable woman, your mother was.”

“That's how she saw it.” He smiled a bit brighter, told me he guessed that no real harm had been done, advised me to show some sense from now on (“What would yer dear mother say, watchin' from heaven and seein' you get yer fool self run over in the street?”), and let me go. I tipped my hat and ambled down the sidewalk without a backward glance at the door with the tiny sign on it. The money was well and truly gone.

I grabbed
a bite of lunch before returning to my hotel, where no less than four messages from Nathan were waiting for me. I sighed, walked over to the house phone, and dialed.

“I've been trying to reach you all morning,” Nathan complained. “Both Myers and Wiedermann left the office right after they came in this morning.”

“They tell you where they were going?”

“Apparently there was some Chamber of Commerce meeting they needed to attend. It sounded suspicious to me, because neither of them had mentioned it to me before.” My brother, the detective.

“How did they seem when they came back?”

“Fine, I guess.”

“All smiles and good cheer? Practically walking on air?”

“Now that you mention it, yes.”

“That won't last.”

“What do you mean? Have you seen them?”

“Saw them both this morning, and they weren't at any Chamber of Commerce meeting.”

“I knew it!” Nathan sounded pleased with himself. That wouldn't last either. “So where did they go?”

“Not over the telephone. Nathan, let's you and I have dinner downtown tonight, just the two of us. Can you call Marie and let her know?”

“Sure.” He gave me a time and place.

“Make sure it's a place where you can get a drink, Nathan. You're going to need one.”

My brother
is a patient listener, I'll give him that. We hadn't talked since Sunday, and I took him through the whole story in detail. The report I received from Townsend, seeing Stanton with Myers and Wiedermann at the restaurant last night, bribing the waiter after hours, a highly condensed version of Ethan Ryland's tale, and the whole fiasco this morning – right up to the cop stopping me on the sidewalk. He sat in silence all through dinner, not once interrupting me, his face showing nothing but the polite interest he might have shown one of his customers at the bank. It started to unnerve me a bit. Was he going into shock or was he just not following any of this?

The plates were cleared and Nathan nodded politely to the waiter, indicating he, too, would have coffee to go with his brandy and seltzer.

“Dev, I have a few questions I'd like to ask.” It was his banker's tone; apparently my collateral was looking a little shaky.

“Shoot.”

“Did you manage to verify somehow that the Clay Stanton you saw at the restaurant last night is the same Clay Stanton your client – Ryland, was it? – that he mentioned?”