by Tom Bradby
‘It’s not illegal. I’ve broken no law.’
‘But that’s what you did?’
‘Yes.’
‘They got their friends on other newspapers to do the same so the price of the stock went sky high?’
He hesitated. ‘Yes.’
‘And then you all sold out, and it crashed?’
‘Yes – no. The stock didn’t always crash.’
‘So, basically, we’re talking fraud,’ Caprisi said.
‘No.’ Colour was returning to Norton’s cheeks. ‘We picked stocks that had some potential to grow and—’
‘What kind?’ Quinn said.
‘Companies that folk on the street had maybe overlooked. I do a great deal of research. We all do. They were good bets.’
‘Any of the stocks you tipped higher than the day you sold them?’ Caprisi asked.
‘Well … I don’t know. Maybe … I couldn’t say.’
‘What about the guys who invested their savings on the back of your recommendations, Mr Norton?’ Quinn asked.
The journalist shifted in his seat uncomfortably.
‘How did they approach you?’ Caprisi said.
‘I got a call.’
‘From whom?’
Norton scratched at the leather on his desk top.
‘It was Matsell and Moe Diamond who reeled you in?’
‘Yes … yes.’
They watched him in silence. It sure didn’t fit. You just couldn’t imagine two-bit poolroom hustlers like Moe and his crowd pulling in a man like Norton. ‘You never met Charlie Matsell, did you, Mr Norton?’ Quinn asked.
‘I’ve told you that—’
‘You’re lying. You never met him. Because if this was just about Charlie Matsell, you wouldn’t be sitting here looking like you’re about to soil your shorts. So you want to tell me who it was who reeled you into this fix?’
‘I’ve just explained to you—’
‘Try again.’
‘I—’
‘Spencer Duncan.’
Caprisi’s head snapped around. Norton closed his eyes.
‘So that’s what’s scaring the living daylights out of you. In the middle of an election campaign, with Major La Guardia on the charge, your little fix links the mayor’s office to a massive Wall Street fraud and organized crime in the shape of our friend Mr Luciano. And now one of your gang has been laid out flat. That’s some story, right? You’re a hack, Mr Norton, you tell me.’
Norton’s hands covered his face.
Quinn didn’t let up. ‘Is the mayor in?’
‘How in hell should I know?’
‘What did Mr Duncan say? How did he reel you in?’
‘I … can’t talk about it.’
‘My advice to you, Mr Norton, is to start talking right now, and do it fast.’
‘I met him a couple of years ago at a conference on Long Island. He said there was a golden opportunity.’ Norton’s voice was tinged with bitterness. ‘He suggested some of my colleagues were already onboard.’
‘What did he ask you to do?’
‘He said there was a chance to make some money, that they’d identified stocks which were undervalued or had potential.’
‘Like everyone else on Wall Street?’
‘They talked it up, said they had a pile of dough behind them and some contacts on the street.’
‘Like Rosenthal?’
‘They mentioned him.’
‘And who else?’
‘Wheeler on the Times. McGovern from the Sun.’
‘What did they ask you to do?’
‘He said they’d call up maybe two or three times a year and ask me to tip a particular stock heavily. The others would do the same.’
‘That way you’d create a buying stampede?’
‘Yes. Of course, the way the market’s been, it’s not been difficult.’
‘And you made a whole lot of money from investing in the tips yourself?’
‘It’s not a crime,’ Norton repeated. ‘Others are doing it.’
Quinn turned back to the photograph on the wall. ‘Did it surprise you to find Charlie Matsell had taken flying lessons?’
Norton winced. ‘Yes. Of course it did.’
‘Did you know who might have had a quarrel with him?’
‘Half the world, I should think. He was a two-bit hustler.’
‘What about Spencer Duncan?’
‘What about him?’
‘Do you have any idea how he got in on the act?’
‘God knows.’
‘Are you still in regular contact with Mr Duncan?’
‘He came in a couple days ago.’
‘What did he want?’
‘Oh …’ Norton threw his arms into the air ‘… to know I was still on the level. He asked me if I’d like to join their goddamned poker game. He said he had a real spectacular broad we could all use. Why in hell would I be interested in that?’
‘What kind of broad?’ Quinn snapped.
He shrugged.
‘He didn’t give you a name?’
‘No.’
Quinn brushed a speck of dust from his jacket. He was careful to keep his voice level. ‘Did he show you a photograph?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Did he say where this broad would be?’
‘No.’
‘A hotel, maybe?’
‘How in hell should I know?’
Quinn was aware of Caprisi’s eyes on his face. ‘Thank you, Mr Norton,’ he said.
‘A hunch?’ Caprisi yelled.
Quinn walked faster, but his partner kept pace. ‘You’re going to claim you had a hunch that the guy who strolled into Charlie Matsell’s office that morning was the mayor’s closest goddamned aide?’
‘It was a hunch.’
‘No, it goddamn wasn’t.’
‘Okay, somebody gave me a description of the guy.’
‘Who?’
‘A witness.’
‘What kind of witness?’
‘Martha.’
‘And you didn’t think to tell me about it?’
‘She only talked about it last night. She didn’t positively identify the guy, but there was a real accurate description. Cheeks like a bloodhound. It made me think of the way Duncan and the mayor spoke to us at the Plaza.’
Caprisi clutched at Quinn’s sleeve. ‘Hold on a minute, Detective. You’ve just landed us deep in the shit. As your new best buddy in there worked out, you’ve managed to explode a bomb in the middle of a real bitter election campaign.’
‘We’re detectives on a case, Caprisi. That’s it.’
‘No, no, no. We’re two detectives officially not on a case. And you just turned it into a suicide mission.’
‘You want to pack it in? Go ahead. I never said you had to come along.’
‘I’ll tell you what I don’t want to do. I have no desire to bust into Duncan’s office to throw these allegations around, and if you’re crazy enough to want to try you’re on your own.’
‘Okay.’
‘No! Wait a minute.’
‘Norton was on the level.’
‘Sure, but Duncan may not be the only one who ends up wishing he’d kept his mouth shut.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
QUINN DROVE UPTOWN TOWARDS DUNCAN’S PLACE, AND BY THE TIME they’d turned off Park Avenue the heavens had opened again. They found the house, killed the engine and sat watching the rain run along the edge of the sidewalk. A mother passed them, bringing two pretty daughters home from school. The girls skipped through puddles as day faded imperceptibly into night.
‘We should drop this, Joe,’ Caprisi said quietly. ‘I promised I’d come along for the ride, and I have, but we should get out now.’
‘It’s too late for that.’
‘It’s never too late.’
‘Are you scared, Detective?’
‘Of course I’m goddamn scared. Why wouldn’t I be? La Guardia has spent six months trying to prove the mayor is ben
t and we do the job for him in a morning. If this gets out, the mayor, the commissioner, Schneider and God knows who else will be out, and the shit dumped on our heads will make the tussle with Brandon and his boys seem like a picnic.’ He paused. ‘We’re in way out of our depth.’
Quinn thumped the steering-wheel. ‘Why did Luciano want to buy us?’
‘I don’t know and I don’t want to. There’s no need to make it our business.’
‘Then what’s the point of being a cop?’
‘To win the battles you can win, not get whacked in the ones you can’t.’
‘You figure that’s how it works?’
‘I know it is.’
Quinn lost his train of thought in the neon lights and wound up with an image of Martha from the previous evening. He touched the edge of the photograph in his jacket pocket. ‘I want to speak to Duncan,’ he said, forcing himself to concentrate. ‘Then we’ll talk again.’
‘I need some food.’
‘In a minute.’
‘Now.’
‘Okay, okay.’ Quinn fired up the Gardner and nosed it around the corner until he found a fancy-looking café.
Caprisi went in and got them a couple of thick sandwiches filled with bacon and melted cheese, and coffee in paper cups decorated with pink flowers. He wolfed his food like he hadn’t eaten for a week.
‘You’re supposed to chew it first,’ Quinn said.
‘I missed breakfast.’ Caprisi had a slug of coffee. ‘She’s beautiful, your sister.’
‘She’s not my sister.’
‘I know. That’s lucky, though, right?’
‘How about you?’ Quinn said. ‘I saw the picture of your wife and son you keep in your wallet. What’s your boy’s name?’
‘Andy.’
‘After your brother?’
Caprisi shot him a warning glance. ‘Who says I have a brother?’
‘We talked about it before. I heard you had two and both were cops. I’m sorry if they—’
‘Yeah, well, that’s my affair.’
Quinn sipped his coffee. ‘How old is your boy?’
‘He’s three.’
Quinn finished his sandwich. ‘What are you going to do back in Chicago?’
‘My father has a hole-in-the-wall grocery store. My baby sister’s been helping him out, but he wants me to run the place.’
Quinn considered trading in his job to run a grocery store. He couldn’t imagine not being a cop. ‘Won’t you miss it?’ he asked.
‘What?’
‘This. Being a cop.’
‘Are you kidding me?’
A Negro maid answered the door. She was dressed in a blue-and-white check uniform with a silver watch pinned to the bib of her apron. Light and warmth tumbled out onto the damp step and, inside, they could hear children laughing. ‘Good afternoon. I’m Detective Quinn and this is my partner, Detective Caprisi.’
‘Come in – and wipe your feet!’
She pushed the door shut against a gust of wind. ‘Stay here,’ she said. ‘Mrs Duncan don’t like to have water on her carpets.’
She disappeared down the hall, leaving them to wonder at their surroundings. There was a thousand-dollar rug in front of them, with colours that glowed in the hall light. The painting on the wall looked like a European old master. A chandelier hung from the ceiling. Caprisi picked up a plate to check if it was solid gold. He grinned at his partner. ‘Don’t step on the carpet.’
A blonde woman rounded the corner and he put down the plate hurriedly. She was tall, with legs that appeared to stretch to her armpits. She wore a cream dress that hugged slim hips, many layers of beaded necklaces, embroidered stockings and enough makeup to keep a theatre company on Broadway for a month.
‘Mrs Duncan?’ Quinn asked. He followed the direction of her gaze to the trail of damp footprints. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, ma’am, but we’re looking for your husband.’
Her frown deepened. ‘So am I, Detective. So is half of Manhattan.’
‘He’s at the office?’
‘No. He went to his tailor. He said he’d be no more than an hour and asked Elsie to bake a cake for the children’s tea,’ she answered, with a bitter smile.
‘How long has he been gone?’
‘More than three hours.’
‘You’ve called his office?’
‘Yes. He’s not there and they don’t expect him. What do you want to see Spencer about?’
Quinn took a step forward, careful not to put his wet feet on the rug. ‘You seem anxious, ma’am. Is there a reason for that?’
‘No.’
‘You can try us.’
‘Maybe he’s got himself another girl. Maybe he went to shoot her.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘He took a revolver with him.’
‘Was that usual?’
‘Spencer fears no man, Detective. I didn’t even know he had one. If you’d like to wait, perhaps he’ll grace us with his presence when he’s done.’ She glanced around for somewhere they could go that would not risk soiling something expensive. There wasn’t anywhere.
‘Ma’am, may I use your telephone?’
‘If you must.’
Quinn moved to the hallstand. ‘Would you have the registration number on his automobile?’
‘Why do you want it?’
‘Just a routine check, ma’am, to be sure there hasn’t been an accident.’
‘Yes.’ She sank slowly onto an ornate chair. ‘He only just bought it so the file is on his desk.’
‘What make?’
‘A swanky black Buick.’ She smiled again. ‘The kind the girls like.’
Quinn unhooked the earpiece and asked for Headquarters. The operator put him through to McCredie. Mae answered, and by the time he was connected to his superior, Caprisi stood beside him with a registration document for the Buick. ‘Boss, it’s Joe Quinn.’
‘Detective. It’s a good thing I’m not the Bull.’
Quinn had clean forgotten about the events of the morning.
‘Everybody’s talking about you, Detective. They all want to know where you learnt to be a prize-fighter.’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘They’re the kind I like. I’ll buy you a soda some day and you can tell me about it.’
‘Sir, we’re at Spencer Duncan’s place.’
‘What? What in hell are you doing there?’
‘Sir, there’s more to this case than—’
‘For God’s sake, Quinn. Are you determined to follow Matsell off that roof?’
‘Sir, Mrs Duncan is concerned about her husband. He went out three hours ago with a revolver and still hasn’t come back. She seems kind of shaken up.’
‘So he’s got a new showgirl. You want me to break that to her, or can you manage it yourself? She ought to understand, she was once one herself.’ McCredie sighed. ‘For Christ’s sake, Joe—’
‘Sir, this is different. There’s something not right.’
‘Are you an expert on Broadway types, Detective?’
Quinn lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Duncan was mixed up with Charlie Matsell. He was the guy’s last visitor. But there’s more to it than that. Matsell was part of a Wall Street stock fix that connects the mayor’s office to Lucky Luciano’s boys. And now there’s trouble. Trust me, it’s—’
‘Trust you? Right now, I wouldn’t trust my own mother to piss straight.’
‘According to the documents, the automobile’s a black Buick. You want the plate number?’
McCredie grunted in frustration, but Quinn gave him the number anyway. He said he would call back. Quinn replaced the earpiece and tried to offer Mrs Duncan some reassurance, but her attention was fixed on the wall opposite. The children’s voices floated to them down the corridor. ‘Mind if I smoke, ma’am?’ he asked. He lit up when she didn’t reply.
He looked around him. The door was open to a bathroom. He could see a set of gold taps over an enamel basin. There were three kinds of soap
in a bowl and a hand-towel draped neatly over a rail. Halfway down the wall, there was a portrait of Mrs Duncan in her Broadway prime, dressed for the stage. She was a beautiful woman.
Quinn smoked the cigarette to the stub, then looked about him for somewhere to get rid of it. Caprisi pointed at the floor, but Quinn shook his head. When he was sure it was out, he slipped it into his pocket.
The telephone rang. He snatched the earpiece.
‘Quinn?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘The Buick was called in five minutes ago. It was dumped at the eastern edge of the park by a hundred and second. It’s a real mess. Get around there and keep the uniform boys away from it. I’ll speak to the Bull. Don’t tell the wife.’
‘Sir.’
‘And don’t talk to anyone else. When the newspaper boys get a hold of this, they’ll go nuts. I need to make some calls.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE BUICK STOOD JUST INSIDE THE BOUNDARY OF THE PARK, PULLED into the side of the road and surrounded by dead leaves. Anyone passing would have assumed it was the scene of an illicit liaison and moved right on by.
The uniform cops were parked front and back. They’d put some tape around the scene and a couple walking down Fifth Avenue had stopped to see what was going on. Quinn offered his identification to the young officer in charge. He didn’t look a day older than twenty. ‘Sir, it’s quite a—’
‘You know who it is?’ Quinn asked.
‘No, sir.’
‘If you see any newspaper boys you keep them well back, you hear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Who found it?’
‘A lady who lives up on a hundred and fifth. She was walking her dog. Her sons were fooling around and she told them not to look through the window, but they did. She went home and called it in. I’ve got her address if you want it.’ The officer ripped the relevant page from his notebook.
‘Turn your patrol car in here and keep the lights on,’ Quinn ordered, ‘but don’t come across the tape.’
He did as he was asked.
Quinn put his head through the door, careful not to touch the sides, and cast a ghostly shadow across Spencer Duncan’s ashen face. He got into the back of the Buick and crouched on the floor.
Duncan was sprawled across the seat. His pants were hooked around his knees, his groin exposed. There was a knife wound in his chest and a shallow cut across his throat. Quinn took out a handkerchief, covered his hand and prised apart the dead man’s lips.
