Pale Shadow (9 page)

It took him about five minutes to find the offices of the pharmacy school on the third floor of the west wing of the main building. A pebbled glass door with the legend “Dr. Malcolm Samson” proved to be his destination. He knocked lightly, opening the door as he heard a voice beckon him inside.

At a desk beside a window sat a distinguished looking gray-haired Negro of about fifty dressed in a white lab coat. He looked up from the new issue of
The American Journal of Dermatology
and smiled. “Marcel Aristide? Come on in, boy. Have you finally decided to enroll in my program?”

Marcel grinned as he took off his hat. “No, sir, but I do have a pharmacy question, if you've got the time.”

“Pharmacy is my business. I was just reading about promising new therapies for skin diseases. But you probably didn't come for a lecture. Sit down and take a load off. Could you use some coffee?”

“No thanks.” Marcel caught a glimpse of some gruesome medical photos as he placed his hat on a corner of Samson's desk. He had met Malcolm Samson at the Fairgrounds Racetrack a year or so before, and had given him some horse racing tips that paid off for the scientist. Ever since, Samson had been trying to get Marcel to enroll at the university.

“Well, a pharmacy question, you said?”

“Yeah. I'm looking for a pharmacist from Brownsville Texas who is supposed to have come up here a few weeks ago.”

Samson raised an eyebrow. “Supposed to have? Sounds like there might be a story in that.”

“There might be. I was wondering if there was a way to find out if he was working here in the city. I'm helping a friend who's trying to reach him.”

Samson fingered his chin. “What's his name?”

“Albert Chenier—at least that's the name he was using in Brownsville.”

Samson leaned back in his chair and stared at Marcel. “You think that may not be his right name? Or do you think he's using an alias here?”

“Could be either one. I discovered from a friend of mine that ten years ago he was calling himself Wilbur Lee Payne, or perhaps used the name Keys.”

“This man sounds like a criminal of some kind.”

Marcel grinned. “Sounds that way to me, too. Can you help me at all?”

“Marcel, when this is settled, are you going to tell me the rest of the story attached to these questions?”

“Sure.”

Samson consulted a desk directory, then picked up the telephone receiver and asked the operator for a number. Seconds later, he was speaking into the mouthpiece.

“This is Dr. Samson at Xavier University. I was wondering if you'd received any applications in the recent past for a state permit from a pharmacist by the name of Albert Chenier? No, eh? How about Wilbur Lee Payne? Nothing there either. How about a gentleman named Keys?” He looked at Marcel and shook his head.

“Ask if they've had any applications from pharmacists licensed in Texas,” Marcel suggested in a low voice.

Samson relayed that to the person at the other end of the line, then picked up a pencil and wrote down two names. “Do you happen to know which pharmacies these men are working in? Yes, yes, thank you.” He wrote some more information down on the pad, then thanked the other person and hung up.

“Well, we've got two transfers—Louisiana and Texas have a reciprocal agreement that enables pharmacists from each state to travel to the other and receive certification to work within a couple of days. The names he had were Orville Goff from Seguin, Texas and Milton Jasper from Austin. They're working at these addresses.” He tore off the slip of paper and handed it to Marcel.

Marcel took it, glanced at it then slipped it into his coat pocket. “I remembered you saying that you worked with the Negro branch of state board of pharmacy. I figure these for long shots, but it's ground I have to cover.”

“All right,” Samson said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. “I answered your questions, so tell me what this is all about.”

“Fair enough. A young woman came to town two days ago looking for a pharmacist named Albert Chenier, supposedly from New Orleans. He left Brownsville very suddenly without telling her goodbye, so she came looking for him. Last night I discovered the man is an ex-convict who went by the name of Wilbur Lee Payne.”

“My God. An ex-convict posing as a reputable Negro pharmacist? That's a kind of publicity we don't need. What will you do if you find him?”

“Depending on what I find, I'll either hold him until his ex-girlfriend can give him a piece of her mind, or I'll hand him over to the police. Whatever brought this man to New Orleans, it's bound to be crooked.”

Samson rubbed his forehead as he considered what the younger man had told him. “I'm not too experienced in this kind of conniving, but your story has my mind working.”

“Go ahead, sir. I'm here to listen.”

“Well, for one thing, I'm not sure that a man could get work in a big city pharmacy with fraudulent credentials. Even a small pharmacy would require a diploma from his school, a state certificate, and probably some references. A smaller town might not demand so much. Perhaps a letter of reference on some other pharmacy's letterhead addressed ‘to whom it may concern.' Also, a phony diploma might more easily get by a small-town druggist, too.”

Marcel's eyes narrowed and a smile grew on his lips. “Go on, sir.”

“Well, it takes a considerable education to become a registered pharmacist. Much of what we study is identical to what is taught in a course of medical education.”

Marcel folded his arms and cupped his chin in his left hand as he mulled this over. “One of the things I've been able to learn about this fellow is that he's got a remarkable ability to learn things—a photographic memory is how somebody described it. He must've learned all this medical and pharmaceutical knowledge on his own.”

“Well,” Samson continued, “this man might find it too risky to pose as another pharmacist here. He'd have too many hurdles to jump just to find work. Now I'm supposing the man you're looking for is a con artist of some kind.”

“On the nose.”

“Well, maybe I'm jumping to conclusions but an unscrupulous Negro looking to make a profit as a phony professional man would know that our people have a special feeling of respect for one of their own who has risen above his origins. This is particularly true for teachers, lawyers—and doctors. It would actually be easier for such a man to pass himself off as a doctor than as a pharmacist.”

Marcel raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Well, if he set himself up in private practice, he wouldn't be answerable to anyone. He could hang out his shingle and gradually work his way into the community until he realized whatever goal he had. Plus, if he's played at being a pharmacist, he would know how to get various kinds of drugs and stock his own dispensary. With his own supplies, he wouldn't have to forge or fabricate prescription blanks that might be recognized as such.”

“Wow,” Marcel said. “He could operate indefinitely.”

Samson nodded. “A skillful and lucky man would find many doors opened to him, including those of liberal-minded whites.” Samson looked at Marcel appraisingly. “This thing you're doing, it seems like something the law should be handling, and yet you've taken it upon yourself. It sounds as though it could be dangerous.”

Marcel nodded soberly. “Sometimes life has risks, and I guess you can say I'm a gambler in all things.”

Samson rubbed the side of his face. “I'm beginning to believe a career as a pharmacist or a teacher would be a bit too tame for you, Marcel. I didn't realize until today that you're somewhat unconventional. Will you tell me how this turns out? For you as well as for the young woman?”

“If you're sure you want to hear about it. Some laws might get broken before this is all over.”

“That'll make it a bit more interesting, won't it?”

“A bit.”

***

Marston Leake gave the outward appearance of a fussy professorial type, but where it didn't show he was as tough as pig iron. Banking wasn't a business for the faint of heart under the best circumstances, but the boom-and-bust of the 1920s and '30s had been the crucible that dissolved some men and made steel of others. Leake had also worked for over twenty years with A. J. McCandless, a man with no more depth of feeling than an armored tank.

From the time he had first been approached by the Treasury Department, Leake had considered how quantities of counterfeit money could make it into the vaults of important banks and escape detection for so long a time. He had been in touch with colleagues in Atlanta and some of the other affected cities, and had interrogated them thoroughly as to what they had experienced. Gradually he developed a theory, but he was unsure as to what he could do with it.

He had been with McCandless a long time, and had long believed him to be obstinate and unimaginative. However, he knew the bank was McCandless's life. He had broached some of his concerns to the bank president, but had found him strangely preoccupied.

Leake read
The New York Times
and
The Washington Post
almost daily, and listened to the reports from Europe and Asia on his console radio each night, and what he learned made clear to him that the world was coming apart at the seams. It also seemed to him that this was no time for a banker, of all people, to get complacent about the very lifeblood of the United States.

Leake had his doubts about Max Grossmann, too. Part of it, he had to admit to himself, was due to the fact that Grossmann was a European Jew. Leake had been brought up in an environment prejudicial to Jews, and although he had taught himself to resist it, the prejudice remained. However, Grossmann was intelligent and insightful, if a bit fluttery in his temperament. With McCandless locked in some sort of self-imposed isolation, Leake decided to bounce some of his theories off Grossmann.

“Sorry to bother you,” Leake said when he called at Grossmann's office.

“Not at all. Come in.” Grossmann raised an eyebrow. “You have a look in your eye, Marston. Does it concern what we spoke about on the telephone earlier this week?”

Leake took a chair facing Grossmann's desk. “Yes. The size and scope of this counterfeiting scheme have my mind working overtime.”

Grossmann put his pen down and clasped his hands on the blotter. “In what way?”

“What about the fact that they've
not
turned up any bills in
this
city? New Orleans is the biggest banking city between Dallas and Atlanta, and they've not found a single bill here.”

“Why, indeed. But they've found no counterfeit in Texas thus far, either. Perhaps Agent Ewell is correct. Perhaps they simply haven't worked this far south as yet.”

Leake's stern mouth was stretched tight. “I think there's a better reason, Max. New Orleans
is
the headquarters for the counterfeiting ring. What would make better sense? If no money is passed here, the police would never think of looking here for the criminals.”

Grossmann put down the pen he had been toying with, his eyes wide. “I say, that is an interesting theory. That would make these crooks ‘pretty slick,' as I think Humphrey Bogart said in a film I watched some time ago.”

“Slick is the word,” Leake replied. “I've been in banking all my adult life. Counterfeiting is something I've dealt with a few times before, and this gang is different than any other in my experience. I have a suspicion that the reason Treasury hasn't had any luck catching them is that they aren't thinking big enough.”

“Surely you're wrong,” the fat man said. “They've recognized that this gang has the resources to operate over a six-state region. Not many gangs could do that unless they were big and well-organized.”

“It's more than that,” Leake persisted. “Think about it, Max. American money is very difficult to copy. There are three different colors of ink, each a special formula. The intaglio printing process requires five separate steps to emboss the paper, then to print the three colors on the front and back of each bill. The paper is a special grade of linen and cotton with no wood pulp. It would require skilled chemists to come up with ink and paper that can fool the average bank employee. The time invested in analysis, production, and the engraving of the plates would be considerable, requiring resources to support the enterprise until profit began to roll in.”

Grossmann tapped a broad finger against his fleshy chin. “Heavens, you really have made a study of all this. But I sense you have some point you're coming to. What is it?”

“Just this,” Leake replied. “The world is in a condition of considerable upset, and nothing is more vulnerable right now than individual economies. Suppose, for example, one of the warring parties decided that the United States was particularly sympathetic to their opposition. That bloody conniver, Roosevelt, is doing everything but kissing Churchill on the cheek with all his lend-leasing and what-not. Suppose the Nazis decided to make a preemptive strike to cripple us.”

Grossmann turned serious. “Whatever are you talking about, old boy?”

“Think about it, Max. This is a big operation with power and resource behind it. What if the German government decided to flood our currency market with counterfeit bills. Think what that would do. It would throw doubt on our currency and could cripple our efforts to climb out of this damn Depression.”

Grossmann's eyes examined the ceiling while he thought Leake's words over. His fleshy jowls quivered occasionally before his face fell into an expression of calm deliberation. “Marston, that is a pretty extraordinary theory. It's rather like a plot from an E. Phillips Oppenheim thriller. Much as some of us might wish it, the United States has no war-like intentions toward the Nazis, nor have the Nazis any such intentions toward us so far as I can tell. I've certainly paid attention, believe me.”