by Tom Bradby
‘Jesus, Joe. That could take a while.’
‘Mark it down as a multiple homicide wrap, ongoing, and say I need the reply by seven a.m.’
‘They’ll never do it by then.’
‘Mark it “critical, ongoing”.’
‘Is that wise? If the boss finds out, he’ll—’
‘If we do it any other way, I’ll be lucky to get the reply by Christmas. Thanks, Mae, I owe you.’
‘Sure, Joe, I’ll … I’ll do it, for you.’ She severed the connection.
Caprisi walked in with another roll of dollar bills. He dropped it onto the bed and took a seat.
‘How much you figure is there?’ Quinn asked.
‘Fifty thousand at least.’
Quinn passed across the pictures. ‘Maybe these will take your mind off it.’ He upended the suitcase. At the bottom, he found Charles Matsell’s passport. He flicked through it. ‘The guy’s been everywhere – France, England, Germany, Switzerland, Cuba, Colombia, Argentina, Brazil …’ He threw it to his partner.
There was a faint knock on the door and the manager glided in. One hand pressed the ends of his moustache. He stopped dead, mesmerized by the dollar bills.
‘Fifty thousand or more,’ Quinn said. ‘In his case, his pockets, the closet and the drawers.’
‘But we have a safe downstairs. We could have …’ The man’s eyes were popping, and he was struggling to maintain an air of distant superiority. ‘I have spoken to the front desk, to Security and the chambermaid who does the afternoon and evening shifts on this floor. None of them can recall Mr Matsell receiving any guests. Nor had he stayed here previously.’
Quinn handed him one of the photographs. ‘You sure there were no broads?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you bring up the guys from the front desk?’
‘I asked them to wait in the corridor, but I can assure you—’
‘Bring them in.’
Quinn watched the two women and three men file through the door. ‘Thanks for coming up. I figure you all know that our friend Charlie Matsell met with a real unpleasant end this morning.’ They were silent. ‘So, we need to ask a couple of questions. Did any of you see him last night?’
The eldest of the group nodded. He wore a uniform with shiny brass buttons. ‘He came to the desk to get his keys.’
‘What time?’
‘It would have been about eight o’clock.’
‘Did you speak to him?’
‘No more than to say good evening.’
‘Was he usually more talkative?’
‘No, sir, I can’t say that he was.’
‘Did anything strike you as out of the ordinary?’
The man shook his head.
‘Were there any visitors? Phone calls? Requests for assistance?’
‘No, sir.’
‘He didn’t order room service?’
They all shook their heads.
‘So he came in about eight, but that was the last anyone saw or heard of him. And he didn’t make any phone calls.’
‘I did take a message for him, sir,’ one of the telephonists said. ‘At least, I think it was for him. It gets so busy at that time, it’s hard to—’
‘Who was the message from?’
‘I …’ The woman blushed. ‘I’m sorry, sir. It was a gentleman, but I can’t remember who.’
‘It’s okay,’ Quinn said gently. ‘What was the message?’
‘It was just … I think it was just that someone called, but would call again.’
‘But no one did?’
‘No … I mean, yes, that’s right.’
‘What happened to the message? Did you write it down and slip it under the door to his suite?’
‘All messages are written out and taken to Reception straight away,’ the manager said. ‘He would certainly have received it.’
Quinn faced the guy from the front desk with the shiny brass buttons. ‘Do you recall giving him the message?’
‘I don’t, sir, but I’m sure I would have. I’m certain it would have been there.’
Quinn double-checked the desk and the trash can next to it. ‘Was the room cleaned today?’
The manager looked surprised. ‘No. As soon as we heard, I ordered that it should not be touched.’
‘Good.’ Quinn found another trash bin by a lamp in the corner. There was nothing in it. He pushed back the furniture and checked behind the desk. He went through to the bedroom and located a third trash can half hidden behind the bed. In it was a piece of screwed-up paper, upon which was written: ‘Mr Scher called again.’
‘Is this it?’ Quinn asked. ‘That’s your hand?’
The woman nodded. ‘Yes, sir. I remember now.’
‘What did it mean, “Mr Scher called again”? When did he call before?’
‘I believe he had telephoned earlier in the day. At least, he said he had.’
‘Was his a name you recognized?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Did he say anything else?’
‘No, sir.’
Quinn turned to the manager. ‘Have you heard the name before?’
‘No.’
‘Okay. That will be all for now.’
The manager took one more look at the cash and they all turned away. Quinn scooped up the money, the photographs and the passport and put them back in the suitcase. He picked it up, walked to the elevator with Caprisi and they rode down in silence.
The lobby was thronged with wedding guests, the men in morning suits and top hats, the women dressed as if for the world’s last waltz. Somewhere close by, a swing band was playing ‘Ain’t Misbehavin’’, which Louis Armstrong had just turned into the hit of the year. Quinn spotted Mayor Jimmy Walker behind a palm tree.
They made for the exit, but the mayor blocked their way. He was dressed for the wedding, with a silver-topped cane under one arm. ‘Gentlemen.’ He flashed them his trademark smile. ‘You’re the new detectives on the Headquarters Squad.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Quinn said.
‘This is my assistant, Spencer Duncan.’ The tall, lugubrious man resembled a bloodhound. ‘Deputy Commissioner Schneider has told me about you. I wanted to offer my gratitude for the way you handled a difficult circumstance this morning.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Spencer and I are great supporters of the police department, as you know. We shall be watching your career with interest. Your father was once, after all, a man to be reckoned with. Is that not so?’
‘Yes, sir – I mean, I believe so.’
Someone else was waiting for the mayor’s attention, so he moved on. Duncan didn’t budge. ‘Did your report throw up
anything, boys?’
‘We’re still working on it, sir.’
‘Did one of the guys at Headquarters speak to you?’
‘Er, you mean—’
‘McCredie’s in charge, right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But I bet Schneider had a word with you too. He’s an ambitious guy.’ It was said without wholehearted approval.
Neither Quinn nor Caprisi replied.
‘It’s a sensitive time, the way Wall Street is. You’re smart enough to understand that.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘This election could be tighter than people think. If we screw up, we’ll all be out of a job.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Just as long as you get that.’ Duncan patted Quinn’s shoulder and edged him towards the street, which was a sea of gleaming metal. A row of finely polished automobiles disgorged more wedding guests. The women glittered under the street-lamps, dripping diamonds and decked with feathers.
‘What was that about?’ Quinn asked.
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘How did he know who we were?’
They watched a couple of tourists climb into an open carriage for a tour of the park. Quinn checked the time. ‘I’ll go and see if they’ve identified the guys in the Hudson. See you tomorrow.’
&nb
sp; ‘I’ll come with you,’ Caprisi said.
‘I thought you said it was your wife’s birthday.’
‘It is.’
‘Then go home. Take her a present. I’ll call you if anything shows up.’
‘I want to keep an eye on you.’
If this was a joke, Caprisi’s expression remained funereal.
‘You really are a tough nut to crack, Caprisi, do you know that?’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MCCREDIE HAD HIS COAT ON WHEN QUINN PLACED MATSELL’S OPEN suitcase on his desk. Outside, the office lights had been dimmed and most of the detectives on the floor had long since departed; only Caprisi was left, hunched over his desk. Somewhere a wireless had been left on and the upbeat sound of a steel band floated down the corridor.
‘I thought I told you this case was closed,’ McCredie said. ‘Schneider’s been busting my balls all afternoon about you going to see Doc Carter. What’s this?’
‘I figured if he committed suicide, we ought at least to clear his place out.’
‘Did you find anything else?’
‘No, sir.’
‘How much did you take?’
‘Nothing.’
‘C’mon, Detective. We don’t believe in fairy tales here.’
‘We haven’t touched it.’
‘You frightened of the guy from the Rat Squad?’
‘No.’
McCredie stepped over. He picked up a couple of the photographs and examined Matsell’s passport. ‘He got around. Have you counted it?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You should.’ McCredie handed Quinn the pictures and the passport. He shut the case. ‘I’ll make sure it gets into the benevolent fund, if no one claims it. And for Christ’s sake don’t tell Schneider or we’ll never see it again.’
‘But should I—’
‘I wouldn’t trust the little shit to take out my trash. How do you figure he can afford an estate out on Long Island? So, count it and bring it back with a note of how much is inside. I’ll make sure it doesn’t go missing.’ He picked up his own briefcase. ‘I’ve got to get out of here. Mrs McCredie wants to take in a show. Have you spoken to Yan?’
‘No.’
‘Give him a call. At this time of night, you’ll probably get that Polish dwarf of his.’
‘Maretsky’s Russian, sir.’
‘Well, they’re all damned Poles to me. God knows how the basement got so full of them.’ He tutted. ‘We’ve got an ID on one of the guys from the Hudson. He’s a guinea hood. Yan was trying to dig something up. We need to come up with a reason why you should have chased those guys off the pier or Schneider’ll be busting our balls all week about the cost of the divers.’ McCredie opened the door and reached for his hat. ‘I’ll be home around eleven. Give me a call if Yan turns something up.’
‘Yes, sir, but—’
‘What, Quinn?’
‘It’s just … You must have worked with my father.’
‘Of course, son.’
‘I wondered if—’
‘All that’s in the past. But you’ve a great future, so don’t worry about it.’ McCredie stepped out of his office. ‘Cheer up, son. Tomorrow is another day.’
Caprisi was hammering away at his typewriter, so Quinn slid past him and walked down the stairs to the basement. Yan was still at his desk, devouring a sandwich like it was the last food left in Manhattan. He was a big man, with a jovial, lived-in face and a clipped grey moustache. Yan thought Gloria Swanson, Babe Ruth, Ronald Colman and (especially) Commissioner Grover Whalen overrated, but would happily have laid down his life for the Brooklyn Dodgers.
Quinn knew all this because Yan loved to talk. He lived in Brooklyn, surrounded by Newfoundlanders who ran fishing smacks out of Sheepshead Bay. Quinn had once busted a group of them for running stolen bank bullion up to Boston, which had made them firm friends. Yan didn’t seem to like his neighbours very much, or Maretsky, or most of the other central Europeans he stuffed his department with.
It was an achievement to get in and out of his bureau in less than half an hour. ‘Hey, kiddo,’ he said, folding his newspaper. ‘Is this the hero detective who chases hoods into the Hudson? You’ll wish you hadn’t when you see this!’ He pushed a file across the desk. Pinned to the front was a photograph of a man with a thin face, large eyes and bushy brows. His name was Paulo Vaccarelli and he was a strong-arm hood for Charlie Luciano and Ben Siegel.
Quinn stared at the photograph. It was true, he’d had better news. ‘You know anything else about this guy?’
‘Not much.’
‘Can I take a look at the files on Luciano and Siegel?’
‘Be my guest.’ Yan lifted the flap to allow Quinn through and led the way to a large, well-lit section close to the fingerprint division. A sign above it read ‘Rogues’ Gallery’. ‘Welcome to the men who run the greatest city on earth.’
An entire wall was devoted to Arnold Rothstein.
Yan caught the look on Quinn’s face. ‘You could never have enough files on AR. He was in on everything. The bad news for you is that Charlie Luciano’s his natural heir and you just gave one of his guys an early bath.’
The section on Luciano was to their left. Quinn ran the tip of his finger along the line of files and pulled out the one marked ‘Charges’. It was as thick as the Bible, but there weren’t many convictions. Charlie Luciano had been done for shoplifting as a kid and spent five months in a corrective penitentiary as a teenager for peddling heroin, but every charge since then – and they were numerous – had been marked ‘dismissed’ at a preliminary hearing. In each case, bail had been posted by the Detroit Fidelity and Surety Company and guaranteed by Arnold Rothstein. On each occasion, an assistant district attorney had reported that there was insufficient evidence to prosecute.
‘Did Charlie Luciano work for Rothstein?’ Quinn asked.
‘Nobody worked for Rothstein. He was a loner. But if you want to understand who Luciano is, what he does, and what position he occupies in this city, then you first have to understand the life and times of Mr Arnold Rothstein. He was king of the underworld and link-man between organized crime and the fat-cat politicians who have their snouts buried deep in the Tammany trough. Or so it is said.’ Yan smiled, with heavy irony. ‘His death created a vacuum. I’d say Charlie Luciano is working hard to fill it.’
Quinn moved backwards along the line of files. ‘Rothstein/ Chicago Club/Saratoga’; ‘Rothstein/Gambling Commission/Bag Man’; ‘Rothstein/World Series Fix’ … He took down the World Series folder, but only out of curiosity. It was part of the thrill of making it to Headquarters that you could leaf through the details of a case that had shocked America. ‘What kind of guy wants to fix the World Series?’
‘A guy like Rothstein.’
Quinn replaced the file and looked further along the line: ‘Rothstein/Idaho Copper’; ‘Rothstein/Colombia Emerald Company’; ‘Rothstein/File# 77’; ‘Rothstein/Wall Street’ …He pulled out the Wall Street file.
‘Anything I can help with?’ Yan asked.
‘The dead guy was pushed off a building on Wall Street.’ For once, Quinn was in no hurry to get away. ‘When Caprisi and I left the scene, Luciano’s men followed us up to my place on Seventh. Why?’
Yan pursed his lips. ‘Rothstein had Wall Street connections, but not Luciano – at least, none I’ve ever heard of.’
‘What’s this file for?’
‘They were bucket-shop swindles, probably before your time. Rothstein was always in the background, but we never pinned anything on him.’
‘A bucket shop?’
‘It’s like a betting shop for stocks. They’ve turned into brokerage houses now, but six, eight, ten years ago, they used to have boiler rooms out back packed with salesmen trying to peddle worthless stock to suckers on a tipster list.’
‘And the suckers lost everything?’
‘Sure they did. Rothstein provided the bankroll, but the fixes were set up by a guy called Rice. He got folks to
pile into worthless companies like Idaho Copper and sold out his own stock for an enormous profit.’
Quinn leafed through the file. George Rice had set up a newspaper called the Iconoclast, which had been sent out to three hundred thousand investors on a mailing list bought from a racing tipster. He had urged his subscribers to invest first in the Colombia Emerald Company. A Colombian priest, he alleged, had discovered an ancient map that had led him to a mine abandoned by the Incas, which had started producing emeralds valued in millions. Investigators had discovered no such mine existed and taken out an injunction to prevent sale of the stock, but not before Rice had made a mint.
A few months later he had tried the same fix again with a company called Idaho Copper. The file contained the headline on the front page of the Iconoclast, which urged its readers to ‘SELL ANY STOCK YOU OWN AND BUY IDAHO COPPER. WE KNOW WHAT THIS LANGUAGE MEANS AND WE MEAN IT’.
Quinn shut the folder and slipped it back on the shelf. ‘Did Luciano have any connection to this stuff?’
Yan shook his head.
‘But now Rothstein’s dead, he could have moved into this world?’
‘He could have.’
‘And he’s the king now, right? If anyone was going to fill Rothstein’s shoes, it would be him?’
‘In theory, he still works for Joe the Boss, the man who likes to think he’s the big guy. But Luciano is a maverick. That’s why they cut him up.’
‘Who cut him up?’
‘Nobody knows. About two weeks ago, someone took Charlie for a ride out to Staten Island and left him for dead. Now they’re calling him “Lucky”.’
Yan disappeared into the warren of shelves and emerged with a slim folder. Inside it was a photograph of Charlie Luciano with a vicious gash across his cheek. ‘Salvatore Lucania’, it read, ‘known as Charles Luciano. Born Lercara Friddi, Sicily, 11 November 1896. Staten Island Report.’
‘Those bastards out at Tottenville can’t write English,’ Yan grumbled.
He wasn’t wrong. The stenographers couldn’t type, either, or spell. Tottenville appeared with four ts and a single l. The facts appeared straightforward, though. A few weeks ago Charlie Luciano had presented himself, exhausted and covered with blood, at the front booth of the Tottenville Precinct and demanded the uniform cops order him a taxi. They’d taken him to the hospital, where his cheek had been sewn back together. The doctors said they’d overheard him say the wound had been inflicted with an ice pick.
