by Graham Marks
“A real doozy of a Duesey, huh, kid?”
Trey cursed his stupidity for not getting away while the going was good.
“Sure is, mister,” he said as brightly as he could, looking round at the man standing behind him. “It’s a Model X, right?”
“On the button, kid, you know your automobiles.” The man smiled as he went over to the car and posed with one foot on the chrome running board, smoothing back his slicked hair with both hands. “This’ll give you a great snap – and do an extra print, why doncha! Give it to Mr. Dunne to send on to me.”
“Okay…” Trey checked the back of the Kodak, saw that he only had a couple of shots left and frowned, “…but…”
“There’s a fin in it for you,” the man said, a five-dollar bill in his right hand. “Nothing for nothing in this man’s world, right?”
“Okay, mister…” Five dollars, Trey thought as he framed the picture and pressed the shutter, was he serious? You could get a whole roll of pictures taken for that, and have a chunk of change.
“Thanks, kid, give it to Mr. Dunne,” the man said as he handed over the crisp new note. “Tell him it’s for Tony Burrell, that’s two ‘r’s and two ‘l’s, kid – and he’ll know where to get me.”
Trey found himself looking at the bill. He knew he couldn’t accept it, as how was he ever going to get a print to this man? But before he could give it back the guy had disappeared. This had, Trey thought, been quite some afternoon, what with one thing and another. Putting the money in his pocket he was looking to see if there was anything else he should try and get one last shot of, when he saw Mr. Shirtsleeves, the man who’d been changing the Buick’s tyre out on the North Road. Trey turned right round, took a deep breath, and began to walk – not run, he was not going to run – in the opposite direction.
It was absolutely, definitely time to leave the party. Which, as he planned to go via the main gate, should be a heck of a lot easier than getting in…
“Did you see that kid, Joe?” Bowyer Dunne was standing by the window of his office.
Joe Cullen shrugged. “What kid?”
“The kid with the camera!” Bowyer lifted a slat of the Venetian blind and glanced out of the window. “I think he was taking pictures.”
“And?”
Dunne turned round, scowling.
“And? I’ll tell you what the ‘and’ is – there’s a possibility he could have one of me and Mario…” Bowyer Dunne took a white linen handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed perspiration off his top lip. “You sure you didn’t see this boy?”
Joe shook his head. “It’s a big party, quite a few boys running round out there.” He watched his boss, who was now chewing a fingernail. “The kid probably just got given a new snapper, boss, any pictures he takes’ll be out of focus and all the heads cut off.”
“But they might not! This is an election year, in case you hadn’t noticed, Joe, and I have a position of some influence in the Republican party. While both Mario and I might agree in private that keeping the Prohibition laws exactly as they are is a good idea, a picture of me with a Chicago crime boss is a risk I can’t take!” Bowyer Dunne thumped his fist on the desk. “What in the world is anyone doing giving a kid a camera? Who wants them taking pictures all over the place – snap, snap, snap!”
Waiting for his boss’s rant to finish, Joe Cullen got out his pack of Chesterfields and shook a cigarette up. This, he thought as he struck a match, could take some time.
“I pay you to just stand around and smoke, Joe?”
Joe’s hand stopped an inch or two from the tip of the cigarette he was about to light; he looked at his boss, then blew out the match. “No.”
“Damn straight. So go ask around, okay? Find out who the kid is.”
“And then?”
“I have to tell you everything?” Bowyer sat down behind his desk, hunching forward and jabbing an accusatory finger. “You get the film off of him and bring it back to me. And make completely darn sure Mario doesn’t get wind of this, or my life will not be worth living, I can tell you that for nothing. I make myself clear?”
Joe knew that Mario Andrusa was a tricky customer, and one with a hair-trigger temper, but why he would kick up a fuss about being in a snapshot with the likes of Bowyer Dunne was not at all clear. “Yes, Mr. Dunne, you do.”
“Terrific. Now go…”
6 TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 4TH, CHICAGO
Trey stood on the sidewalk, looking up and down the street. All the signs that fall was approaching were there if you cared to look for them. As Austin J. Randall said, in almost every chapter of How to Become a Private Eye in 10 Easy Lessons, it was the smallest detail that could often break a case and so it was essential to practise looking at things. Anything would do, according to Mr. Randall, just so long as you looked at it very hard and remembered everything you could.
A quick glance at his watch told Trey that he’d better make tracks into school, rather than mooch around outside, because if there was one thing the Mount Vernon Academy demanded of its students it was punctuality. He couldn’t believe summer was well and truly over (which, as Monday had been Labour Day, it surely was) and that he was unlikely to be visiting the Circle M again for a good six months.
His parents had arrived to collect him a couple of days after Bowyer Dunne’s party at the T-Bone ranch, and as they drove away Trey had waved goodbye to Gramps, Gramma Cecilia and any chance of solving The Mystery of the White Limousine. He shrugged at the thought, and was about to join some other boys on their way into the Academy’s grounds, when a big Packard drew up. The chauffeur jumped out and opened the rear door with a smart salute.
This was not such an unusual sight, but Trey hung back and watched anyway, noting the auto’s special two-tone, dove grey and black paint finish. A pallid dark-haired boy, probably about the same age as Trey, got out of the car and nervously looked around, pushing his gold, wire-framed spectacles up his nose. A swot, if ever he’d seen one, in Trey’s opinion. The boy was about to walk off when someone inside the car called out – it sounded like the name “Alex”.
As he turned to go, Trey saw a man, also wearing glasses, get out of the Packard. He was holding what looked like books that the boy had forgotten, and Trey stopped as if someone had stepped on his brakes. He might not have a clue who the boy was, but he ab-so-lute-ly, no doubt about it, one hundred per cent recognized this person – it was the man with the tortoiseshell spectacle frames Trey had first seen, along with Bad Frank and Tall Suit, when their white Buick Monarch had gotten a flat out on the North Road. And who had been in the group of people Trey’d had to photograph at the T-Bone ranch party!
Case reopened!
School was not the easiest of places to act like a detective in search of facts. To start with, you were in class most of the time, and when you weren’t you were supposed to be en route to the next one. Then there were all the people always on the lookout to catch you not doing whatever it was you were supposed to be doing.
By the end of the day Trey had discovered that Alex’s surname was Little and that he was, like himself, in Seventh Grade. The information had been duly recorded in his trusty notebook. It was not, Trey had to admit, a lot to show for a day’s work, but, along with Latin, Geography, double Math, English and Music, there hadn’t been a whole lot of time left over for sleuthing. Still, he thought on the walk home, it was a start and better than nothing.
After dinner – and with the next day’s History report finally completed – Trey was still at his desk. He was sitting in the pool of light thrown by the black goose-neck lamp his father had brought back from the office for him, pensively chewing on a pencil. He knew he had to get down to rubbing a few brain cells together to create some heat, as Trent Gripp would say, so he could figure out what to do next.
On the pad in front of him he’d written down some notes, but once again they didn’t amount to much. All he knew for certain was that Bowyer Dunne had played host to some people who Trey was prett
y sure were gangsters. Especially the one called Frank. He was very sure about him. And one of these people, a Mr. Little as he’d discovered, had a son just started at the Mount Vernon Academy. Added to which there was the Mario character with the Duesenberg; although Trey had no idea who he was, he looked very much like he was the kind of guy to end up with his mug on the front page of the papers – and for all the wrong reasons. And to be honest, Trey didn’t know what to make of Mr. Tony Burrell, the man who’d paid him five dollars for a single snapshot.
Trey sat bolt upright. The film! What with one thing and another (mainly schoolwork, it had to be said in his defence) he hadn’t gotten round to developing it yet. For all he knew it could be stuffed full of clues! He stood up, ready to make straight for his bathroom, where his pop had helped him turn a corner into a simple but effective darkroom, but as he pushed his sleeves back he noticed the time. Any minute now someone would be by to make sure he was getting ready for bed. He slumped down in his chair. This job was just going to have to wait.
Trey scribbled “DEVELOP FILM!!!” on his notepad, underlined it three times, then sat back shaking his head and examining the tooth-marks on the end of his pencil. The more he thought about it, the more it was obvious that something was very definitely up in Topeka. But there were, he knew, always two sides to every story and there was always the possibility he could be wrong. What if these suspicious visitors to the T-Bone ranch had nothing at all to do with the sabotage at the Circle M? But if they did, would that mean that Gramps was involved in the same kind of business as types like Bad Frank and the Mario guy?
“Not possible…” Trey muttered to himself, frowning as he recalled the mystery phone call to the person called Bill. “Not in a million years…”
No matter which way he looked at it, there was only one path open to him: if he wanted to find out anything about anything he was going to have to bite the bullet and talk to sappy Alex Little. This would, he knew, be something of a strain as all they had in common in the whole world was being Seventh Graders, which was no great start for a friendship of any type.
Austin J. Randall made it quite clear that one of the main attributes anyone wishing to enter the detective business had to develop was the ability to successfully pretend to be someone you were not. Well, Trey thought, here was his chance to put theory into practice.
7 WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 5TH, TOPEKA
“What?!” Bowyer Dunne yelled; leaping up as if he’d sat on a fistful of thumbtacks, he sent his heavy oak and leather office chair flying across the room on its castors. Then he leaned forward, his knuckles on the burnished walnut desk, glowering. “Who did you say the kid with the camera was?”
“Old man MacIntyre’s grandson, Mr. Dunne,” said Joe Cullen, making a “who’da-thought-it” face and staying right where he was by the office door.
“Old man MacIntyre’s grandson…that little weevil wasn’t even invited to the darn party!” Bowyer Dunne’s face reddened to match his hair as he pointed a stubby finger at the man who currently held the position of Head of Security at Dunne Inc. “This is terrible! And how come it’s taken you three whole weeks – count them, Joe – to find out that the kid is Ace MacIntyre’s grandson?”
Joe wanted to say that he had rather more important things to do than chase down some kid who may, or may not, have some blurred snapshots in his possession. But he didn’t. “There was no list of who came, boss, and then school went back and—”
“No list?” interrupted Bowyer. “Why was there no list, for crying out loud?”
“Well, y’see, boss…”
“What? Spit it out, man.”
“Mrs. Dunne was the one got the kids to come. I had nothing to do with that side of things.” Joe shifted from one foot to the other. “And, like I say, there was no list made, just invitations mailed. Apparently. That’s what Mrs. Dunne told me.”
“She did, did she?” Bowyer grabbed his chair, pulled it back and sat down with a grunt of frustration. “Right, well, fine…fine – but, but, but what was MacIntyre’s grandson doing at my party taking pictures? Huh? What? And how’d he get in? They were checking invitations at the gate and he sure as heck did not have one. So how’d he get in?!”
Joe shrugged, frankly at a loss what to say.
“Well he got in somehow!” Bowyer carried on regardless. “And I am in so much trouble now – we have got to get that film, Joe, and then tear it up or burn it or whatever we have to do to destroy it!”
“Right, boss.” Joe was beginning to wonder if Mr. Dunne had gone off his nut, the way he was acting.
“I cannot believe he sent a spy!” Bowyer got up and went to stare out of his second-floor office window at downtown Topeka.
“Who?” Joe asked, finding it difficult to follow the way the conversation was going.
Bowyer turned round. “MacIntyre, you idiot! It’s obvious he put the kid up to it…he must’ve found out about the meeting, somehow, and sent that boy in like some undercover Bureau cop! You believe that? His own flesh and blood? It’s despicable!”
“But—”
“And whaddaya know? The kid swans right in like he owns the place, takes a bunch of pictures – including one of me with Mario – then walks right out again, five bucks up on the whole deal according to Tony Burrell! Could’ve been in the house, for all we know!”
“No, I don’t think—”
“So I have to have that film back! For one thing, MacIntyre would just love to get a picture of me, the Chairman of the Republican party’s Mid-West Fundraising Committee – dressed as a cowboy, no less – with Mario Andrusa, a man known as ‘Missouri’s Mr. Mob’!” Bowyer Dunne made quotation marks in the air with his fingers. “He has put many thousands of dollars into our campaign to help ensure we get Herbert Hoover elected this November, and we all know every cent of it is bootleg booze money, plain and simple.”
“The man in the street doesn’t like Prohibition, boss.”
“That still doesn’t make it legal.”
Bowyer sat back down again and Joe watched silently as the man ran his fingers distractedly through his thatch of red hair. Joe had advised his boss against having the birthday party the same day as the big meeting, but had been overruled, told in no uncertain terms that the shindig would be, to quote, “excellent cover” should anyone wonder why there were so many automobiles at the ranch. Right, that was going to work, especially when those autos included a certain bright blue, very noticeable Duesenberg. But Joe was in no doubt that this was not the time to remind his boss – never a man to take kindly to being proved wrong – at whose feet the fault lay.
“Don’t you think we’d know if MacIntyre had the pictures, boss? Wouldn’t he have done something with them by now, if he was gonna?”
“There’s still two months to go before the election, and are you forgetting the man’s a lifelong Democrat, and a big donor to their campaign? He’s waiting for the right moment to do the most damage, Joe, that’s what he’s doing! Don’t you get it?”
“Thing is, boss, from what I managed to dig up on the boy, he’s a keen snapper. And right now, he’s back in Chicago, along with his camera, and something tells me the film also.”
“Oh really, Joe?” Bowyer sneered. “And exactly why do you think that…exactly what proof do you have?”
“If Ace MacIntyre was gonna make use of what was on that film he’d have had to develop it first, boss. Otherwise, how would he know if what was on it was going to be any use to him? And…” Joe got a small leather-bound notebook out of his jacket pocket and opened it, “…as far as I can tell neither he, nor his good lady wife, has taken a film into any of the local pharmacies or stores specializing in photographic whatnotery in the last three weeks. And I have been all over Topeka. I think the boy took it back home with him, Mr. Dunne.”
Bowyer’s right eyelid twitched as he sat, staring into the middle distance and tried to work out if this was good news, or bad news.
“This is good news, Mr. D
unne,” said Joe, inadvertently echoing his boss’s thoughts. “The kid develops it, he won’t know who anyone is.”
“He may not, but what if he shows the pictures to his father? Thought about that, Joe? And even if the film is in Chicago, like you say,” Bowyer stood up again, pointing to himself with both index fingers, “I still need it back. Tony Burrell told Mario about the kid taking his picture and he’s been hounding me…”
“Mario?” Joe frowned. “Why’s he so fired up about these pictures, boss?”
“First off, he’s more than a little annoyed I didn’t personally tell him there was a chance we’d been snapped together.”
“But surely he ain’t the one going to be in trouble if those snaps ever get out.”
“So much you know…” Bowyer Dunne sat back in his chair. “You ever meet Mrs. Andrusa?”
“No, why?”
“As it happens, she’s the beloved only child of the one man can tell Mario what to do; he’s what I’m reliably informed is called Capo di tutti Capi, something like that – ‘The Boss of Bosses’, a real big cheese.” Bowyer sat back down. “She’s a very nice woman, I am sure, Mrs. Andrusa, but I gather not blessed in the looks department. Unlike Mario’s ‘secretary’. You recall her, Joe?”
“Sure do.”
“She was in those pictures too, Joe, and were Mario’s father-in-law to see them…well, let me put it this way: if he does, Mario’s a dead man.” Bowyer neatened up an already very tidy desk. “Leastways that’s what Mario told me, which is the reason why he’s so ‘fired up’, as you put it.”
“Okay, I see…”
“No, no you don’t.” The colour drained from Bowyer’s face.
“You okay, boss?”
“I…” Bowyer looked like a cushion that’d just been sat on by Fatty Arbuckle. “Look, I only said it because Mario was shouting at me down the phone and making all kinds of threats I happen to know he’s very capable of seeing come true…”
