A Shared Confidence (15 page)

Another hotel.
At this rate, I might get to see the inside of every hotel in Baltimore before leaving the city. I followed Volnick and Sanderson up in the elevator and down the hall to a good-sized suite.

For a minute I thought I'd been brought to some miniature gala reception. At least ten men in suits were gathered around carts full of food and drink. The atmosphere wasn't festive, but it wasn't quite formal, either, though there was definitely a crispness to the proceedings.

Straker was in the center of the spread-out group, talking seriously with a sober-faced government type he was trying to impress. His jacket was off (Straker liked to let people know he was a working man) and he stood there in his vest and perfectly-knotted tie. Six feet tall with narrow shoulders and a wiry build. Bald on top and dark hair on the sides, and dark eyes that always looked out at you from his thin, angular face like he was deciding whether you were a handhold or a stepping stone. The man acknowledged no third categories.

“There's the man himself,” Straker called out. “Devlin Caine. Used to be one of our best and brightest until he took it into his head to take all of our careful training and go into business for himself. Well, they do call it free enterprise after all. Dev, I'd like you to meet Special Agent Joshua Mattling of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

I walked casually forward during Straker's patter and stationed myself halfway between the two men. At least Straker hadn't been fool enough to try and shake my hand. Mattling and I gave each other the once-over. He was tall and sturdy, with bushy eyebrows, a prominent Adam's apple, and ears that stuck out. He stood there munching a small sandwich while Straker prattled on and I offered single-syllable responses when necessary. After a moment, the three of us took a seat around a low table while the other men in the room took up positions on sofas and extra chairs.

“Mr. Caine,” Mattling began, “may I ask what brings you to Baltimore?”

“I'm here visiting family.”

“But you're not staying with them?”

“I don't like to crowd people in their own homes.”

Mattling snapped his fingers and one of the men jumped up and grabbed a photograph off a desk and brought it over to him. Mattling slid the photo across the low table toward me. It was of Clay Stanton, taken from several yards away and clearly without the subject's knowledge.

“Do you know this man, Mr. Caine?” asked Mattling.

I picked up the photo and studied it. I had to be very careful here. If these people caught me in an outright lie early on, it could make the rest of the conversation difficult.

“I take it this is someone you're interested in?” I asked, stalling.

“Please answer my question, Mr. Caine.”

I tossed the photo back onto the tabletop. “I don't know him as well as I'd like to. I'm trying to get to know him a bit better.”

“For what purpose?”

“A client is paying me to.”

“You said you were here visiting family.”

“I am, but I'm also doing a little work on the side. I'm afraid a working holiday is all too common for the self-employed.”

“And who is your client?” asked Mattling.

“I'm sorry, Agent Mattling, but as a matter of the strictest professional ethics I maintain complete confidentiality regarding my clients. And that has to include their identities.”

“Dev,” Straker interjected quietly, “Agent Mattling is from the
Federal
Bureau of Investigation. He needs this information.” I didn't even look at him.

“Mr. Caine,” Mattling said, “this is a matter of some importance to the Bureau. I assure you I wouldn't be asking you otherwise.”

“I'm sure that's true, Agent Mattling.” I appeared to mull it over. “I'd be happy to contact my attorney in Kansas City and consult with him over this matter.” Mattling's bushy eyebrows knotted slightly and the corners of his mouth pulled south a little; attorneys slow things down.

“We're entering a new era of law enforcement in this country, Mr. Caine,” Mattling stated, which relaxed me a little. If he was going to extemporize, that was a good sign. A better sign than threats, anyway. “Our organization has fought very hard in Congress to put some real teeth into the law. Criminals can no longer evade justice simply by crossing over state lines. The Bureau has full authority to pursue them and arrest them wherever they go. We're also working hard to increase cooperation, not just with local police forces but between various government agencies. We're not all of us with the Bureau. Mr. Conklin over there is with the Treasury Department, Internal Revenue, and Mr. Palmer is with the Securities and Exchange Commission. We're all of us interested in this man in the photograph. He is suspected of numerous criminal acts. And the fact is, Mr. Caine, we need your help to bring him to justice.”

It was a nice speech and it told me a few things. It told me chiefly that Clay Stanton was under surveillance by multiple government agencies, which in turn told me that my chances of making a play against him were now almost nil, not with all this federal scrutiny.

“I appreciate everything you've told me, Agent Mattling,” I said. “I'm even more willing to consult with my attorney and see if I can help you.”

It clearly wasn't the answer he'd been hoping for.

“Dev,” Straker began, but Mattling shut him up quick with a small shake of his head.

“Sometimes, Mr. Caine, “it doesn't aid the pursuit of justice to slow down long enough to dot every ‘i' and cross every ‘t'. The government of this nation has a duty to protect its citizens.”

“Agreed. Just as the citizens of this nation have a duty to protect their freedoms.”

We were at an impasse. Mattling might have tried carting me off to a back room somewhere and trying some variation or other of the rubber hose treatment, but he didn't look quite that dumb. He could tell that, when pushed, I pushed back. And cooperation freely given is always more valuable than the type of coercion that could find its way into the papers and give the Bureau a black eye.

“Is there anything you could tell us about this man, then?” he asked.

“I've had dinner with him a couple times,” I said. “Goes by the name of Stanton. He claims to be some kind of investment guru. Stocks and bonds. Claims to be quite successful at it. Me, I think he's nothing more than a confidence man.” This was telling them nothing. Unless Stanton had some other criminal enterprise on the side, they had to know at least this much about him already.

“He most assuredly is,” Mattling confirmed. “He's been one most of his life.”

“How did he manage to warrant all this attention?” I asked, making a sweeping gesture that took in the room. “He put the touch on a senator's kid or something?”

Mattling didn't answer and I didn't hold it against him. I wasn't playing ball with him so why should he cough up for me?

“Thank you for coming by, Mr. Caine,” Mattling said. “Let me walk you to the elevator. No, that's all right, Mr. Straker. You stay here.”

Mattling and I were alone in the corridor, waiting for the elevator car. He handed me a card with his name and an official logo on it.

“Mr. Caine, if there's anything more you can tell us about Mr. Stanton, or about your client for that matter, I'd appreciate you calling me at that number. Anyone there will be happy to take a message.”

“If I find evidence that Mr. Stanton is committing some crime–”

“Yes, that too, of course. But anything at all could be helpful. We've been pursuing this man for some time, separately for the most part and only recently in concert. You never know what small piece of information will be the key that puts it all together for us, gives us a chance to move on him.”

I tucked the card into my vest pocket, promising I'd be in touch if I had anything for him.

“Your former superior, Mr. Straker, tells us you're a capable man. That you could be quite useful to us if you wanted to.”

“Straker would tell you I was an eight-legged man from Mars if he thought there was another feather in his cap over it,” I said.

“Yeah,” Mattling agreed, “I kind of got that.”

“I expect to see Mr. Stanton a few times this week,” I admitted to Mattling. “If he sees your people tailing me…”

“He won't. You haven't. But don't worry, we'll give you some elbow room for the next few days.”

The elevator car arrived and I stepped inside.

“You know what hotel I'm staying at if you need me,” I said.

“We know both of them,” Mattling said flatly, and the doors closed on his expressionless face.

I
was back at my
first hotel, lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and feeling as morose as I had in a good many months. Not that I really thought there was any great chance my scheme against Stanton would have worked, but it would have been nice to give it a try. All the money on hotels and cars and clothes, to say nothing of the five hundred dollars I'd paid Ferrier – what a waste! But three different government agencies and Pinkerton's detectives were breathing down Stanton's neck, watching his every move. They could move in at any time, or just slip up and scare him off. And the F.B.I. knew that Devlin Caine was in town and had taken a suite at the Lord Baltimore. They could trace the Cadillac and find out it had been rented by a private investigator named Townsend. Would Townsend stand up for me in a pinch? It wasn't like the man owed me, or like I'd even asked him to. Things were not, as the say, looking up. I planned to drown all this in a local saloon once I got up the energy.

For now, I got up from the bed, grabbed a cigarette, and started pacing aimlessly about the room. So what was the plan now? Tell Nathan to report the missing money to his bosses, show them what he showed me at the beginning, then keep his lips sealed about any development since then and deny any accusations thrown his way. Yes, his brother was in town visiting. Yes, he'd been to the bank. Nathan had introduced him under an assumed name because his brother is a detective and was apparently working on something. No, he had no idea what and he hadn't asked. No, he hadn't shown his brother any bank records or discussed any bank business with him. It sounded pretty thin, but if Nathan stuck to the script it might just see him through.

I paused by the ash tray on the desk to flick my cigarette, my mind trying to catch at something. There seemed to be a missing piece in all the stuff Mattling had thrown at me. Why were so many people interested in Stanton? Sure, he'd conned a hell of a lot of money out of a good many people over the years. Maybe one rich old guy got some steam up about it and decided to pursue the matter. That could explain Pinkerton's. The Securities and Exchange Commission had only been around for a year, a federal response to try and keep things like the Crash of 'Twenty-Nine from happening again. Their main job was to keep an eye out for irregularities in the stock market, big-time wheelers and dealers trying to influence the market for their own gain. Would one con mob draw their attention? People who only dealt in non-existent stocks from non-existent companies and didn't even buy or sell in the real markets? Internal Revenue, sure. Any time there was income being generated they wanted their cut, didn't matter how that income was earned. Christ, that's how they finally got Capone, for income tax evasion.

I had the hardest time trying to puzzle out how the F.B.I came to be involved in this. Their side of the street was law enforcement, plain and simple. Yes, confidence games are illegal, but a still-fledgling agency that was hungry for some big scores? There were a thousand con men in the country, and none of them known to the nation at large. What made print was taking down the public enemies. The bank robbers and gangsters and smugglers and bootleggers. Last year alone the feds had had the final say with Dillinger, Pretty Boy Floyd, and Baby Face Nelson. Hoover and Purvis had declared war on gangsterism. They weren't going to make the front page sticking one old con and his shills in the clink. Were things slowing down with the hard rackets so it was time to move in on the soft? Maybe Mattling just wasn't big league enough, or in with the right people enough, to get a juicier assignment. Still, my instincts told me there was some more specific reason for all this activity.

I took out the forged documents I'd purchased from Ferrier and tossed them onto the desk, planning to torch them in the ash tray. Five hundred dollars up in smoke, literally, but it didn't seem a wise idea to keep them now. I was reaching for my lighter when I noticed a small card on top of the pile, a note penciled on it:

Lord Baltimore Hotel bar

11:00 p.m this evening

I picked up the card and turned it over. It was the card Special Agent Mattling had handed to me outside the elevator. An invitation, one he didn't want any of his colleagues to know about. Something he wanted to tell me or something he wanted to ask me? Both, I imagined. In any event, it was an invitation I couldn't afford to turn down. Mattling had the authority to have me picked up and formally interrogated if he wanted to. This was something different.

I thought about having supper with Nathan and his family, but decided I wasn't up for dodging questions at another back porch conference. I had about six hours to kill. I hid the documents and my genuine identification in the room, kept the Kelly Shaw driver's license in my wallet, and took a taxi over to the Lord Baltimore. A nap, a shower, a change of clothes, a leisurely dinner nearby and a movie, and the six hours were cut down to forty minutes. I went back to my suite and read the newspaper, then took the elevator down to the bar at a quarter to eleven. Friendly faces called out greetings and I was forced to make small talk while I worked my way around the bar, trying to find an empty booth or table. I found one all right, just next to the corner booth where Special Agent Joshua Mattling sat having a quiet drink with Mr. Ethan Ryland. Apparently, it was my day for jolts; last I knew, Ryland had headed back to Nebraska days ago.

Mattling looked up while I was deciding what to do and he waved me over. Nothing else for it, so I walked over and joined them.

“I didn't realize you were quite so popular here,” Mattling commented.

“I've made a few friends,” I shrugged, settling into the booth next to Ryland, who seemed a little tense.

“I'm thinking we should talk in your room,” Mattling said. “Have one drink with us, then leave first. We'll give it ten minutes and follow.”

The waitress brought me a scotch and soda and Mattling and I talked a little baseball. Ryland didn't say much of anything. When I finished my drink, the three of us shook hands and I went back up to my room, where the other two men showed up on schedule.

“I'm not quite as well stocked as the bar downstairs,” I said, walking over to the small liquor cart in the corner, “but I can offer a little hospitality if you're having.” They were. I made the drinks and we all took a seat near the window.

“Did you manage to contact your attorney?” Mattling asked.

“He doesn't work on Sundays.”

“Lucky guy. Oh well, I guess there's not much need for it now.” Mattling gave a slight smile and Ryland looked at the ground. So that's why Mattling hadn't pushed me harder this afternoon, I realized: he thought he already knew who my client was.

I gestured with my drink. “Mind if I ask how you two know each other?”

“We'll get to that,” Mattling answered. “How are things going with Stanton?”

“Had dinner with him last night,” I said. “Mind telling me why the F.B.I., the I.R.S., and the S.E.C. are all after one lone confidence man? Or will we get to that, too?”

“I never said we were after Mr. Stanton. I only asked if you knew him.” He set his drink down on the side table and leaned forward in his chair. “The fact is, Mr. Caine, I think you could be of some use to us on another matter.”

“I can't imagine how.”

“Some weeks ago,” Mattling began, “Mr. Ryland contacted our people in Chicago.”

“Did he now?” I narrowed my eyes at Ryland as Mattling gestured for him to pick up the thread.

“I've been having some trouble with an…associate of mine,” Ryland said. “A man in Chicago with whom I've done some business over the last several years. Kind of a silent partner. He's invested with me, provided some short-term loans when I needed them. He's also given me a hand with supply and labor problems now and then.”

“Sounds like a handy guy to have around.” I didn't offer more.

“Yes, well…most of my creditors have been willing to work with me in light of my recent troubles,” Ryland continued. “This man, however, has not. I'd taken out a sizable loan from him before starting off on my vacation earlier this year. Before my troubles here. I've tried to explain as best I can that I've lost everything on a risky investment. But–”

“But he wants his money back,” I said, swirling the ice in my glass.

“He's been insistent about it, Mr. Caine. Insistent to the point of making threats.”

“Does this business associate of yours have a name?”

Ryland looked over at Mattling, got a nod, and told me: “Casper Giarelli.”

“Sounds Italian,” I said, scratching my jaw. “An Italian from Chicago who specializes in big loans and labor problems. I wonder what line he's in.”

“Yes, well, his threats were starting to worry me. I decided to contact the F.B.I. office in Chicago. It turns out they're quite interested in Mr. Giarelli.”

“Oh, I'll bet.” I turned back to Mattling, not feeling the need to point out that this was where he came back into the conversation.

“Mr. Ryland told us about how he came to you in Kansas City,” Mattling explained. “How he was taken victim in one of Stanton's confidence schemes and how you'd invited him to Baltimore for a chance to get his money back.” That wasn't strictly true, but I didn't see the need to make a point of it. But now I knew why it had been so easy to get Ryland back out here: some money returned would be nice, but federal protection from a mobster was what had got him packing his suitcase.

“And?”

“You weren't far off in your guess that some senator's son had also been taken,” Mattling explained. “In fact, it was Senator Cumberland himself.”

“I don't know the senator,” I said.

“He represents the Great State of Maryland, which is why we're all here.” Mattling went on to explain that Cumberland had got himself taken by Stanton months ago, same as Ryland only for an even larger sum of money. Not content with having Stanton picked up for spitting on the sidewalk, Cumberland had started a campaign with various federal agencies to see that Stanton was sent away do to some serious time. Through letters to his various contacts within the federal government, Cumberland was able to convince the Securities and Exchange Commission that confidence swindles involving stock – even if they weren't real stocks – still had an adverse impact on the markets as a whole. For one thing, if legitimate investors were losing large sums to confidence men, that was money lost to stimulating the real market. More importantly, such activity could make investors wary of placing money in legitimate stock. Cumberland had been nudging the F.B.I. as well, assuring them that such high-dollar swindles were just as damaging to the economy, and thus to the public at large, as any gangster activity. Of course, the Internal Revenue hadn't needed a whole lot of convincing to get involved. There's money being made here, boys, and you aren't getting any!

So for months, Cumberland had initiated investigations in three different federal bureaucracies, and when the time was right, he pushed for cooperation between the three to capture this “damaging and notorious felon.” It seemed to me like an awful lot of resources to commit toward taking a pair of sheep shears away from one shepherd. I said as much to Mattling.

“Being a United States senator has its privileges,” Mattling said. “Senator Cumberland has quite a bit of influence in Washington.”

“And like any other federal institution, you get your funding from Congress.”

“That we do, Mr. Caine.”

“I can understand your wanting to placate the senator. But you just told me you weren't after Stanton.”

“I said I didn't say we
were
after him,” countered Mattling. I rolled my eyes at this and he elucidated. “We're happy enough to bring him in, yes. A collar's a collar. Normally we wouldn't waste too much of our time on something like this, other than feeding what information we could to the Treasury and S.E.C. That's pretty much what we've been doing, per the senator's insistence, up until we came across Mr. Ryland here.

“Casper Giarelli,” Mattling continued, “has been in our files for some time. Among his more legitimate business ventures, he's known to traffic in smuggling, illegal arms, gambling, and racketeering.”

“You mean he's a mobster.” I was tempted to put a hand to my mouth in shock but decided not to push it.

“If he's not, he's been doing a hell of an impression of one.”

I wondered if Ryland had known about this, but didn't want to put him on the spot in front of Mattling by asking. He had to have suspected at the very least.

“Okay,” I said to Mattling, “so you're after this Giarelli. You're trying to what, get something on him?”

“Something substantial,” Mattling nodded. “We know plenty, but as for what we can prove, he could beat ninety percent of it in court and the other ten would do little more than inconvenience him for a year or two.”

“You want to nail him for a long stretch if you can.”

“It wouldn't be like taking down Capone, but with Giarelli out of the picture, we could put a serious crimp in a lot of illegal activity.”

“In Chicago or in Lincoln, Nebraska?”

“The mafia are everywhere these days, Mr. Caine. I'm surprised to have to tell a man from Kansas City that.”

“Won't they just replace him?”

“They'll try, sure. But it'd take the new guy awhile to earn the same trust among Giarelli's circle, especially when they're all looking over their shoulders trying to figure out how Giarelli got fingered.”

“So what's your plan?” I asked.

“Can't give you all of it, but Giarelli is coming to Baltimore sometime in the next couple of weeks. Handling other business, but he'll want to meet with Mr. Ryland while he's here, see if he can learn something about this bad investment that cleaned Mr. Ryland out a few months ago.”