Pale Shadow (10 page)

Leake snorted. “I seem to recall some other countries had no war-like intentions toward them, either, and now they're under Hitler's thumb. As a man driven out of Austria, I'd think you'd be a bit more suspicious of them, Max.”

Grossmann made a deprecatory gesture and smiled nervously. “Well, it seems so melodramatic, after all. But say you're right. How is the money ending up in major banks over a six-state region?”

Leake leveled a finger at his corpulent colleague. “I've got a theory about that, too. I've been in touch with people in Atlanta. The Federal Reserve is the one point of contact with all the banks in this region. I haven't figured all the complexities out, but suppose, just suppose that someone at the Federal Reserve is somehow substituting counterfeit money for real currency? The criminals would realize thousands of dollars at one fell swoop. And what if the money is somehow being funneled to Germany?”

Grossmann wore a stunned expression. He put a hand to his forehead and rubbed it as though it were numb. “Tell me, have you spoken to A. J. about this?”

Leake snorted. “I tried, but he's too preoccupied with something else.” Leake removed his glasses and polished the lenses with a handkerchief while he continued to squint at Grossmann. “A. J. has been behaving rather peculiarly over the last year. All these trips out of town he's been making. He's neglecting the very business he worked so hard to build up.”

Grossmann nodded. “Yes, I have noticed that he is frequently away. Flies his own plane, I understand. Most of his trips are to Atlanta, are they not?”

“Yes, but he's never discussed with me the nature of his business there. I presume it has nothing to do with the bank.”

“Yes, perhaps. Well, what do you propose to do with your suspicions, Marston? I mean, after all, you can't prove any of it, can you?”

Leake frowned. “No, but I have considered discussing the theory with the Treasury people. One of them might have enough imagination to recognize the merit in it. Then again, they might give me the big horse laugh.”

Grossmann smiled indulgently. “My dear friend. You've been working much too hard lately. You tend to worry quite a bit. I'd advise caution before I said too much to the Treasury people. You know how A. J. is about drawing unwanted attention to the bank.”

Leake nodded. “You may be right. I'll think about it.” He got up from his chair and walked to Grossmann's office door. “I believe I'll just clear up a few things in my office and then go home.”

“Yes. This kind of talk is rather dispiriting. I may follow your example.”

Leake left Grossmann's office and strode wearily toward his office. As he walked, he noticed McCandless at the end of the hall, staring coldly in his direction. Without a wave, the bank president turned and disappeared into an adjoining hall.

Leake found letters waiting for his signature, along with some other paperwork he'd left undone when he went to Grossmann's office. As he finished, he sat at his desk thinking. He had rarely been as troubled as he was at this moment. Acting on an impulse he wrote a letter to Agent Paul Ewell. After sealing it in an envelope, he gave it to his secretary to post with the others.

It was close to 5:00 when he took the elevator to the first floor. As he neared the bank entrance, he saw Grossmann about to depart. “Max. Wait up.”

The fat man turned, saw Leake. “Ah, you leaving, too? Splendid. Perhaps we can share a cab Uptown.”

“Sure,” Leake replied. “Why not?”

As they walked toward Canal Street, Grossmann glanced at his colleague. “You seem to be less distressed than earlier. Did talking about it set your mind at rest?”

“I needed to bounce my ideas off someone,” Leake replied. “So I suppose it did. I decided to contact the Treasury Department after all and let them decide what to do.”

Grossmann patted perspiration on his neck and forehead. “Marston, I'm dreadfully tired, but I'm hungry, too. What say we go to Kolb's German Tavern? I'm in the mood for some bratwurst, sauerkraut, and some of that dark Lowenbrau to wash it down.”

“Better than eating my own cooking, I suppose.” Leake's dry words evoked a laugh from Grossmann.

The sun had begun to wane, casting long shadows on the business district streets. The two were nearing a corner when a Negro in a dark green suit jumped from an alley into their path.

“Gimme your wallet,” the man said, waving a large pistol in his gloved hand.

“Good Lord,” Grossmann cried, stepping back instinctively. “Don't get excited, I'll give it to you. I'll give it to you.” He reached into his pocket for his wallet with a trembling hand.

“Keep your hands where I can see 'em,” the Negro hissed. “Gimme that.” He snatched the wallet from Grossman's chubby hand. “You—gimme yours,” the gunman said, waving his gun at Leake.

Leake's teeth were bared, his eyes narrowed. He was already angry about the counterfeiting, angry at the idea his bank could be assaulted. He had taken the gun from his desk and was in the mood to use it. “I'll give it to you all right.” His hand dove inside his coat, his fingers clamping the butt of his Colt, but before his gun cleared the pocket, the gunman's pistol roared.

The shot was so close to Leake's chest that the fire leaping from the bore set his suit aflame. The white-haired banker fell to the pavement like a bag of sand.

“Help, police! Help, murder, help!” Grossmann shouted at the top of his lungs, waving his arms. “Help, for God's—”

The Negro's gun roared a second time, and Grossmann fell to the ground, wailing in pain and terror. The Negro reached into Leake's jacket, jerked the wallet out, then he ran back into the alley.

Grossmann's cries and the gunfire attracted some attention eventually, and several people, a police officer among them, ran from every direction to where the two men lay on the pavement. Grossmann, by this time, had raised himself up on one elbow, looking down at Leake's face.

“My friend. He's been shot. For God's sake, get a doctor. Get a doctor.”

The police officer waded through the small crowd and got down on his knees beside Leake. He placed his fingers against the carotid artery, waited for a moment, then put his ear down by the man's mouth, listening for breath. His face took on a grim expression, and he looked over at Grossmann, shaking his head. “He's gone, mister. Did you see who did it?”

“A—a Negro gunman. Marston was trying to give him his wallet, and he fired. When—when I cried out, he fired at me, too. Dear God! What a catastrophe.” Grossmann lowered his head, groaning.

The officer took a look at the wound in Grossmann's shoulder, determined he was in no immediate danger, then walked quickly to a police call box across the street. He quickly relayed information to the dispatcher, then came back to interrogate the crowd. Before too long, sirens sounded, seemingly from every direction. The ambulance arrived, followed by two radio cars and a squad car bearing Israel Daggett and Sam Andrews. They walked toward the ambulance as the attendants were loading Grossmann aboard.

“Hang on just a minute, fellas,” Daggett said. He took out his badge and held it up so Grossmann could see it. “Sergeant Daggett of the Negro Squad, sir. Can you tell us who you are?”

Grossmann's face was pale, his mouth opening and closing as though he found it hard to draw breath. “Max Grossmann. I'm v-vice president for f-foreign investment—First National. My friend—Marston Leake. We were on our way to dinner when the bandit jumped out.”

“Did you get a good look at him?”

“Y-yes. Medium sized—chocolate brown in color. Had a scar on his right cheek. Green jacket, gray cap l-like a newsboy wears. B-big pistol.”

“A forty-five,” the first uniformed officer supplied. “I found the shells over where they were shot.”

Daggett, still looking down at Grossmann's pale face, nodded that he'd heard. “What did he say to you, Mr. Grossmann?”

“Demanded money. Marston—Marston was trying to give it to him. He—he shot my friend for no reason. No reason at all.” Grossmann, his teeth clenched in pain, seemed grief-stricken.

“Okay.” Daggett nodded to the ambulance men, who put the big banker inside. Seconds later they were tearing away in the direction of Charity Hospital. As the siren died in the distance, Daggett went over to look at the dead man. He saw the expended .45 shells lying nearby. He stooped down to pick each one up on the end of a pencil before transferring it into an evidence envelope.

“Western brand .45 auto. Nothing special there,” Daggett said. “Looks like the killer surprised them at this alley.”

Andrews entered the alley and began looking around. He saw something and moved toward it.

“Hey, Iz?”

“Yeah?”

“The shooter was here for a li'l bit. He smoked two cigarettes while he waited. One of 'em's still smoldering.” He poked at them with his pencil. “Look like Lucky Strikes.” He stood up and shined his light around the alley. “Must've gone back down that way.”

Daggett picked up the cigarette butts one by one, making sure they were out before he transferred them to another envelope. “Let's see where the alley leads.” He stood up and followed Andrews until they reached the next street. There were a few cars parked nearby, but no pedestrians in sight.

“He could be anywhere by now,” Andrews said. “Even with the scar on his face, he looks like a hundred and twenty-five other colored men.”

Daggett said nothing, thinking. Finally he jerked his chin at Andrews and they retreated back through the alley to where the shooting had occurred. A morgue wagon and one of Nick Delgado's assistants were there. Daggett gave the evidence envelopes to the lab man, then walked to the officer who'd been on the scene when they arrived.

“Officer, where were you when the shots were fired?”

“I was about three blocks away. When I heard the first one, I knew what it was. It was too flat to be a car backfiring. I ran like hell to get here, but by the time I made it, both victims were down and the gunman was gone. I've been questioning the civilians around here. None of 'em saw anything, just heard the noise and came to investigate.”

“Okay, you did everything you could. We'll read your report later. What's your name?”

“Art Manion, out of headquarters division. You're Sergeant Daggett, ain't you?”

“Yeah. We'll get in touch if we get anything.”

“Right. See you around.” Manion turned and went back to help the patrol car officers control the crowd around the crime scene.

Andrews stared down the street. “Kinda funny, ain't it? This boy had him some balls.”

“Uh, huh. A Negro stick-up artist all the way Downtown this time of the day. He'd stick out like a sore thumb. And then he's in the alley smoking cigarettes.”

“Yeah, like he was waitin' for something.”

“Or somebody. Let's call in the description to R and I, let them see if they've got any suspects that match the description. It didn't ring any bells with me.”

“Me neither. I'd remember a guy with a scar who likes shootin' white businessmen in broad daylight with a .45. A man that stupid would sure be memorable.”

“Let's go shake some trees, see what falls out.”

“Right behind you, boss.”

Chapter 8

Farrell paused at his car, glanced at his watch and saw that it was nearly 3:00 PM. He let his eyes travel up the street, then back to the front of Theron Oswald's pawnshop. A man entered the shop, but the sunlight was behind him, and all Farrell got was a glimpse as he went through the door. Something nagged at him. It reminded him of the feeling he'd had outside Wisteria's Riverboat Lounge, but he didn't know why.

Oswald had been telling the truth about what he knew of Martinez's movements, but Farrell doubted he would get a call from Oswald. Oswald had been terrified by something before Farrell even entered the room. Had the killer already been to see him? If so, why wasn't he dead, like the two women?

He got into his car and drove away. There was a lot on his mind, not least of which was his promise to hand his old friend over to the police. He'd been angry with McGee when he'd made that promise, and he didn't know how he could make good on it and still look himself in the face afterward. He knew his father had been forced to do this, not just once but several times. What part of him had he shut down in order to put a friend in jail? He shook his head irritably as he wrestled with the question.

Farrell drove in the direction of the Mississippi River, and when he reached it, he followed it down into the warehouse district. As he drew abreast of a huge brick building bearing a peculiar Oriental symbol, he pulled to the curb, cut the engine, and got out of the car. He walked around the corner, halting at a door set into a frame of granite blocks. His finger went unerringly to a hole that was centered waist-high in one of the bricks. He pushed the button set into it, then stood there waiting. A few moments later, the door opened and a large bald man stood there. He was dressed in a striped sailor's singlet and faded canvas trousers.

“I want to see Sparrow,” Farrell said.

The bald man glared at him for a moment, and when Farrell didn't shrink from his gaze, he jerked his chin and stepped aside for Farrell to enter. The bald man led Farrell through a maze of corridors, occasionally passing open doors through which Farrell could see men gambling, others engaged in wrestling or bare-knuckled fighting, or dancing women dressed only in bracelets and nail polish. Sparrow's joint was known from Mississippi to Malaysia as a place where a man could get whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, if he had the price.

Eventually they halted before a heavy door. The man opened the door and disappeared inside. Seconds later, he reopened the door, jerked his chin at Farrell again, then allowed him inside before departing and closing the door firmly behind him.

Sparrow sat, as usual, in a high-backed mahogany chair that might've been some primitive king's throne. Her black hair was cut short, in the Chinese style, and she wore the same kind of plain black silk dress with white piping favored by young Chinese women. Her sallow skin and bold, handsome features were those of a Jew or an Arab, Farrell had never known which. She was as likely to greet you with the Muslim
Inshalla
as with the Yiddish
shalom
.

Farrell removed his hat and walked toward her, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the aroma of incense that hung in the room like a flickering memory of some ancient time. “Good afternoon, Sparrow.”

“Good afternoon, Farrell. I've not seen you in a while. Are you well?”

“Quite well, thanks.”

“I've heard that you might leave us for Cuba. That would be a pity. You're as much a part of this strange city as the river.”

Farrell didn't blink at her knowledge of his private life and plans. She knew a lot of things, and that was the reason he'd come to her. “If I leave, it'll be only for a few months out of the year. As you say, the city and I sort of belong to each other. I could never leave it entirely.”

“Not for love nor money,” she said, nodding wisely. “What brings you here so early in the day? You're more a creature of the night, Farrell.”

“I'm trying to find a man before someone else does. He's in a lot of trouble.”

“What is his name?”

“Luis Martinez.”

She nodded. “I've heard some things about him. His woman was tortured to death. Another day passed and her cousin was also tortured to death. That's a heavy price to pay for a relationship.” She paused and studied his face. “You and Martinez used to smuggle liquor together.”

“That's right,” Farrell replied. “We were as close as brothers once, but I haven't spoken to him in a year. I'm told he's gone underground.”

A smiled traced itself across her thin lips for a brief second, then her face settled into its usual expression of unconcern. “Why are you such a boy scout, Farrell? Let Martinez take care of his own trouble. Whoever killed those women could just as easily kill you.”

“Why isn't really the question anymore,” Farrell said, settling into his chair. He had known Sparrow for a while, and he knew that part of getting her help sometimes meant enduring a philosophical sparring match. She was a woman of strange tastes. “He's mixed up with a counterfeiting ring run by a man named Compasso. If Compasso doesn't get him, the Feds might. Maybe I just don't like the odds.”

She studied him as she fingered her delicately chiseled chin. “It's more than that with you. You don't know what it is, but it eats away at something in you, and you can't ignore it. It must be uncomfortable for you at times.”

“Maybe. I never gave it much thought.”

She laughed softly, the noise like a ghostly echo in the big room. “I don't believe you. What do you want?”

“I can't help Martinez if I can't find him. You've got eyes and ears in the city and in the surrounding parishes. Somebody has to have seen him.”

She lowered her eyelashes and examined the rose-colored polish on her fingernails. “I'll put out the word, but I can't promise anything. What can you tell me about him?”

“He's about five-ten, stocky build, black hair, deep olive complexion. He's a Mexican, with Indians and Negroes in his family tree, but he looks more like a movie show
vaquero
than anything else. He wore a mustache the last time I saw him.”

“How old is he?”

“He'd be in his late forties by now, maybe fifty.”

“That's not much to go on. Why does Compasso want to kill him?”

“I'm told that Martinez felt Compasso was short-changing him. He wanted a bigger cut. Compasso wouldn't give it to him. Luis isn't the kind of fool to pick a fight he can't win. He looks for a subtle way to hurt an enemy. If I know him at all, I'm betting he's done something to gum up the works. Somehow prevented the phony money from getting into the pipeline.”

She lowered her eyelashes and nodded. “That makes sense. And Compasso is fighting the only way he knows how, destroying everything his enemy holds dear until he buckles from the pain of it.”

This revelation intrigued Farrell. “You know Compasso, then.”

She nodded briefly. “Yes. When I heard he was in town, I told friends to listen to the whispers that I knew would rise around him. You are the first person to explain the existence of a counterfeiting ring to me. That is a far more complex crime than he is used to executing. He is a thief by trade, not a criminal mastermind. For example, there's been no real traffic in counterfeit money in this city. I find that significant.”

Farrell squinted, as though he could force his mind to see into Sparrow's. “I didn't know that. What does it mean?”

“Think about it, Farrell. If you don't spread funny money around the town where you make it, the Treasury people won't look for you in that town, will they?”

Farrell's eyes widened as the implication struck home. “You're right. That's as slick as an onion. It would take a sharp bird to think of that angle.”

“Yes, and you and I both know that Compasso is neither ‘slick as an onion' nor a particularly ‘sharp bird.' That can only mean one thing.”

Farrell unconsciously leaned toward her, his ears straining to hear the sibilant texture of her words. “Tell me.”

“It is rumored that Compasso might not be the true head of his own organization. He is used to bossing a criminal gang, yes, but he is not a subtle man. His role is strictly that of a figurehead. He draws attention away from the organization's true purpose by dealing in the things he understands, narcotics, women, illegal gambling.”

Those words struck Farrell like a thunderbolt. “This is a lot more complicated than I realized. A gang made of outsiders, a crime that almost nobody realizes, and now a top man with no face.”

“And likely Martinez is, but for Compasso and his boss, the only one who knows all. He is a threat to the gang on more than one level.”

The words brought Farrell's attention back to Sparrow's face. “Luis had a saying—‘luck is where you find it, but I always look for mine down by the river.' I have no idea what that means, if it means anything. Luis is a gambler, and all gamblers have a saying. It's like a trademark.”

“More likely a mantra,” Sparrow said.

“A what?” Farrell gave her a blank look.

She smiled enigmatically. “Forget it. It wouldn't mean a thing to you. I'll do what I can and get in touch if I learn anything.” She paused as he got to his feet. “Your visit explains the significance of one other piece of gossip that came to me earlier today.”

“What's that?”

“You're not the only person asking around for Martinez. Besides the police and the killer, there's a woman. She goes by the rather theatrical name of Jelly Wilde. Do you know her?”

Farrell blinked. “She and Luis were lovers once, a long time ago.”

“Yes, but these days she's the mistress of Santiago Compasso.”

Farrell felt a chill run down his spine, but he kept it from his face. “Compasso may be smarter than we think.”

Sparrow shook her head negatively. “I think not. He is contemptuous of everyone but himself. I do not know this woman, but I'll venture she looks for Martinez for her own reasons, although that may not be to Martinez's advantage.”

“Thank you, Sparrow. I'd better be on my way.”

“Farrell, I normally expect some tribute from you at times like this, but for once I'll forgo that pleasure and simply tell you to be careful. The other side of the world is on fire now, but evil energy is in the air even here. This will test your luck, my friend.”

Sparrow liked riddles, but she had never given him such an explicit warning. “I hear you.”

“Go with God, Farrell. We'll speak again.”

He touched two fingers to the brim of his hat, and left the room with her words ringing in his ears.

***

Frank Casey parked his squad car about thirty yards from the burned-out airplane hangar and walked slowly toward a knot of men standing near the red hook-and-ladder truck. The stench of burning wood and heated metal was everywhere and the air was full of ash being blown about by winds off Lake Pontchartrain. Someone heard his approach and at a word, the knot of men turned to face him.

“It's an arson job, Skipper,” a hefty white man in his shirtsleeves said. “Some of the firemen have found shards of broken glass with gasoline residue on them.”

“Who does the building belong to, Grebb?” Casey asked.

“We're still checking on that,” Inspector Grebb replied. “They've found the remains of three bodies inside—two of 'em burnt to a crisp, but there's enough to identify all three. There's also enough to see they're all dead from shotgun blasts to the body. Delgado's already found brass from several shotgun shells in there.”

“So we've got a triple murder as well as arson,” Casey said. “That makes it somebody a lot more serious than just a firebug. You find any witnesses yet?”

Grebb shook his head. “This place is a mile from the airfield, and there's nobody living close enough to've seen or heard anything. The killer had a free hand and all the time in the world to get his work done. It's gotta be a mob hit.”

Casey looked past Grebb at the smoldering building. “Yeah, but what mob? Why would anybody burn down an old airplane hangar? If they wanted to cover the murders, you'd think they would've done a better job of burning up the evidence. I don't know.” He shook his head and began walking closer to the hangar.

Firefighters knocked away loose flammable material while others dragged smoldering objects out of the hangar to wet them down. Casey loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt collar. Sweat was gathering on his brow and it trickled down his back while he made a slow circuit of the hangar, poking his toe at various objects he came across.

As he approached the far end of the structure, a gust of wind blew ashy flakes toward him. There was something about them that arrested him. He stared for a moment then reached out and caught one. He brought it to eye level. It took him only a second to realize it was the corner of a twenty-dollar bill. He looked down at the ground around him, and he saw other pieces of money.

His head snapped up. “Grebb! Grebb—over here.” He removed his hat and waved it in the air. Grebb and two other plainclothesmen came at the double.

“What is it, chief?”

“Get some men to gathering up as many of these as you can find.” He thrust the corner of the burned bill into the inspector's hand. “The ground's covered with them, and there may be more partially burned stuff inside. Get the firemen to help you. See if there's more in there that wasn't incinerated. Step on it, before the wind scatters it.”

Grebb sent a man back to the fire captain at a run while he and the other shirt-sleeved detectives got down on their knees and began picking up every fragment they could find, transferring them to envelopes they pulled from their pockets. Casey jogged back to his squad car and got on the radio to headquarters. In about ten minutes, he had established a connection to Treasury Enforcement and had Paul Ewell on the line.