“Would he handle Creedy’s business?”
“There would be no one big enough except him to handle it.”
“Know who the blond dude is over there with the pencil at his nose?”
Greaves shook his head.
“Or the girl at the back?”
“No.”
As soon as the Coroner had gone, the blond gentleman slid out of court with no more commotion than water makes leaving a sink.
The two glossy men went over to Rankin and talked for a minute or so before leaving. While I watched them, I missed seeing the girl in grey leave.
Greaves said he would take the bus back. He added he hoped I would keep in touch with him. We shook hands and he went off.
The two glossy men went away and that left Rankin and me alone in the court room.
I went over to him.
“Anything new?” I asked.
“No.” He looked vaguely uneasy. “Not yet. I still can’t get a line on that icepick.” He took out a cigarette and began to fidget with it. “We’re now digging into the girl’s background. She may have been a dark horse.”
“Yeah? Suppose you dig into Creedy’s background,” I said. “That might pay off. Were those two guys representing him?”
“They just looked in to pass the time. They have a case on now, and they were a little early for it.”
I laughed.
“Is that what they told you? You don’t fall for that, do you?”
“Well, I can’t stay here talking to you. I have work to do,” he said, his voice curt.
“Did you see the blond boy in the grey suit? Know who he is?”
“He works at the School of Ceramics,” Rankin said, looking away from me.
“That’s interesting. What’s he doing here?”
“Maybe Hahn sent him down,” he said vaguely. “Well, I’ve got to get moving.”
“If you want me, I’m staying at Arrow Point. I’ve got me a little bungalow out there.”
He gave me a curious stare.
“There’s only one bungalow out at Arrow Point. I thought it belonged to Margot Creedy.”
“So it does. I’ve rented it off her.”
Again he stared at me, started to say something, changed his mind, nodded and went away. I gave him time to leave the building, then I went out to the Buick. The time was now half past four. I asked a policeman who was airing himself on the edge of the kerb where the Courier’s offices were. He directed me as if he were doing me a favour.
I got over to the Courier’s offices a few minutes to a quarter to five. I told the girl at the reception desk that I wanted to talk to Ralph Troy. I gave her my business card and, after a five-minute wait, she took me down a passage into a small office where a man was sitting behind a crowded desk, a pipe in his mouth. He was a big man with greying hair, a square jaw and light grey eyes. He pushed out a big firm hand over the litter of his desk and shook hands.
“Take a seat, Mr. Brandon. I’ve heard about you. Holding called and said you might look in for a talk.”
I sat down.
“I haven’t much to talk about right now, Mr. Troy,” I said, “but I wanted to introduce myself. Maybe in a little while I’ll have something for you. I understand that if I give you some facts, you’ll print.”
He showed big, strong white teeth in a wide smile.
“You don’t have to worry about that,” he said. “I aim to print the truth and only the truth, and that’s the only reason why I’m still in business. I’m glad you looked in. I want to put you wise to this town. You’ve heard Holding sound off, now it’s my turn.” He eased himself back in
his chair, puffed smoke at the ceiling, then went on, “There’s an election for a new term coming along in a month’s time. The old gang who have been in power now for five years have got to get back into power or sink. And when I say sink, I mean just that. The only way these boys can keep alive is to continue to keep their paws in the gravy. Take the gravy away and they’re finished. St. Raphael City is one of the biggest money spinners on the Pacific coast. Even without the rackets, it would still make money. It’s the rich man’s stamping ground. There’s everything here. There’s no other place outside Miami that offers so much for the millionaire who wants to relax. This town is in the hands of the racketeers. Although Creedy owns a little more than half of it, even if he wanted to, he couldn’t keep the racketeers out. It so happens he doesn’t give a damn one way or the other so long as his holdings pay off. He isn’t a bad man, Mr. Brandon. Don’t get that idea into your head. I’m not saying he isn’t a greedy one. He wants a return for his money. If the racketeers push up the value of his holdings as they are doing he isn’t objecting. So long as the Casino, the gambling ship, the various night clubs, the five movie houses, the theatre and the opera house, all of which he has financed, pay off, he isn’t worrying his brains that the racketeers, the chiselers, the con men, the dope traffickers and the vice boys don’t cut into his profits, he leaves them alone, and they are smart enough to know it. This town is riddled with vice and corruption. There’s scarcely an official in the Administration who isn’t collecting a cut from somewhere.”
“And Judge Harrison plans to put all that right?” I asked.
Troy lifted his bulky shoulders.
“That’s what Judge Harrison promises to do if he gets elected, but he won’t, of course. I’m not saying there won’t be a token clean-up: there will be. A number of the minor vice characters will get tossed into the can. There’ll be a certain amount of flag waving and a hell of a lot of talk, then, after a month or so, the big boys will flex their muscles and everything will be back as it was. The Judge will find his bank balance has suddenly mysteriously increased. Someone will give him a Cadillac. He’ll find it is that much easier to let things go on without interference: for Creedy read Harrison, otherwise it will be the same old racket. It’s the system, not the men. A man is honest just so far, but if the money is there, then he can be bought. I’m not saying every man can be bought, but I know damn well Harrison can be.”
“I was under the impression that Creedy was the boss of the rackets. If he isn’t, then who is? “
Troy blew more smoke before saying, “The man who uses Creedy’s money and who really runs this town is Cordez, the owner of the Musketeer Club. He’s the boy. He’s the one who will still be here if Creedy drops out and Harrison takes over. No one knows much about him except he is a slick operator from South America who arrived overnight and who seems to have a natural talent for making profit out of any kind of racket. If Creedy’s big business, then Cordez is big rackets. But make no mistake about this: Creedy is just a song at twilight compared with Cordez. If anyone could pull the rug from under Cordez’s feet, this town would be free of the rackets, but no one is big enough.”
“Let me get this straight,” I said. “The Musketeer Club isn’t Cordez’s only asset, is it?”
Troy smiled grimly as he shook his head.
“Of course not. He uses Creedy’s money to make himself money. Take the Casino as an example. Creedy financed the building and gets the house stakes, but Cordez also gets twenty-five percent as protection money. Creedy financed the gambling ship. He reckoned it would bring in the tourists. It does, but Cordez is there to pick up another twenty-five percent. If there was no payoff a bomb would go off in that ship. Those who run the ship and the Casino and all the other money spinners know that so they pay up.”
I sat for a long moment taking a look at what he had told me. This wasn’t anything new. It was happening in New York, Los Angeles, San Francisco and all over. In thirty-six hours I seemed to have moved a long way from Sheppey’s sudden death in a hot little bathing cabin to this. Had he found out something that might have put Cordez on a spot? Sheppey had been a good man with a nose for finding out things like that. I thought of the icepick that had been filed down to a razor-sharp point: a gangster’s weapon.
“I wanted you to get the picture,” Troy said. “That’
s how it is. And another thing: watch this guy Holding. You can trust him the way you trust a rattlesnake: no more, no less. So long as you play it his way, he’ll be your friend, but move one step out of his way of thinking and you’ll wonder what’s hit you. So watch him.”
I said I would, then went on to tell him about the possible hookup between Creedy and Sheppey. I gave him all the facts and I also told him about the mysterious match holder.
“It’s my bet that Creedy hired Sheppey to do a job like watching his wife or something like that and Sheppey stumbled on something big that has nothing to do with Creedy,” I said. “I may be wrong, but I can’t imagine a man like Creedy having anyone killed.”
Troy shook his head.
“You’re right. He wouldn’t do that. He might have a guy beaten up if he got in his way, but killing would be out.” He leaned back in his chair. “This is quite a story, isn’t it? But there’s nothing yet we can print. With a little digging we might come up with a real humdinger.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got things to do, Mr. Brandon. I’ve got to get going. I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll turn young Hepple on to this set up. He’s one of my best men. You can use him when and how you like. He’s got a talent for nosing out information. Don’t be scared to work him hard, he thrives on it. He might dig into Hahn’s background for a start. I’ve always thought there was something fishy about that fella.”
“I’ll call him tomorrow and we’ll have a talk,” I said.
“Hepple did you say his name was?”
“That’s right: Frank Hepple.”
“I’ll call him.” I got to my feet. “You wouldn’t know anyone who is a member of the Musketeer Club, would you?”
“Me?” Troy laughed. “Not a chance.”
“I’d like to get in there and look around.”
“You haven’t a hope. Don’t kid yourself. No one goes in there unless he’s a member or a member takes him in.”
“Well, okay. We’ll keep in touch,” I said. “With any luck I’ll let you have something in a day or so.”
“If it’s anything about Creedy, it’s got to be solid facts: nothing else will do,” Troy said, leaning across his desk to stare at me. “I can’t afford a libel suit with him. He could put me out of business.”
“When I give you something on Creedy, it’ll be solid facts,” I said.
We shook hands and I left him.
At least now I felt I had someone I could rely on. It was a pretty comforting thought.
Chapter 8
I
I learned from a traffic cop that the Musketeer Club was on the top floor of the Ritz-Plaza Hotel, and this came as a surprise to me. I had imagined the club would be an ornate palace standing in its own grounds.
“You mean it’s just a collection of rooms on the top of a hotel?” I said. “I thought it was the Taj Mahal of this city.”
The cop took off his cap, wiped his forehead and squinted at me.
“Taj who?” he said. “What are you giving me, Mac?”
“I thought it was certain to have its own grounds and be a sort of palace.”
“I can’t help what you thought, can I? It’s way up on the twenty-fifth floor with a roof garden. But what are you worrying about? You’re not going up there, Mac. Me neither.”
I thanked him and went back to the Buick. I sat behind the wheel and thought for a few minutes. Then I remembered Greaves had said that at one time he had been a house dick at the Ritz-Plaza. It occurred to me he might have an idea as to how I could get into the club.
I drove to the nearest drug store and called him.
“I could use a little help if you can spare the time,” I said, listening to his heavy breathing coming over the line. “How about meeting me some place? I’ll buy you a beer.”
He said he would meet me in half an hour at Al’s Bar on 3rd Street.
I drove over to 3rd Street, left the car in a parking lot, found Al’s Bar and went in.
It was one of those intimate places with booths, and I took the end one against the wall, facing the entrance, and sat down. I ordered a beer and asked the barman if he had an evening paper I could look at.
He brought the beer and the paper.
There was an account of the inquest and a photograph of Rankin looking a little like Sherlock Holmes just after he’d given himself a shot in the arm. On the back page was a photograph of Thelma Cousins. The caption said the police were pursuing their inquiries concerning the second mysterious stabbing in a Bay Beach bathing station. While I was looking at the photograph, Greaves came in and spread his fat form on the bench seat opposite me.
After I had bought him a beer, I told him I was planning to gate-crash the Musketeer Club and had he any idea how I could do it.
He looked at me as if he thought I was crazy.
“You have as much chance of doing that as you have of gate-crashing the White House,” he said.
“I’m not convinced. I hear it’s on the top floor of the Ritz-Plaza. As you’ve worked in that hotel, you should know the layout of the club.”
Greaves swallowed half his beer, set down his glass and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
“That won’t help you. They have the whole of the top floor, and they have two private elevators. You go into the hotel, through the lobby, down a passage on the left.
At the far end there’s a grill guarded by a couple of guys who know all the answers. They damn well have to or they wouldn’t last five minutes. Unless they recognize you they don’t open the grill. It’s as simple as that. If they recognize you, they open up and you have to sign the book. Then you’re taken up in one of the elevators. What happens after that I wouldn’t know because I’ve never been up there. They wouldn’t recognize you so they wouldn’t open up. So skip it. You’re just wasting your time.”
“They have a restaurant up there?”
“Sure. It’s supposed to be the finest restaurant in the country. I wouldn’t know. I’ve never fed there. What’s that to do with it?”
“Don’t tell me they cart sides of beef and boxes of fish through the lobby of the hotel. I just won’t believe it.”
He rubbed his fat nose with the beer glass.
“Who said they did? They share the hotel’s goods entrance. It’s around the back, down an alley. It so happens the hotel has its kitchens on the tenth floor as the restaurant is up there. I don’t know what the club’s system is for delivering the stuff, but I’ve seen goods going up there and the guys who deliver the stuff go up with it.”
I smiled at him.
“I was hoping you’d say that. If I took a package up there I might get a chance to have a look around. You wouldn’t know any of the staff who could be persuaded to cooperate? I’d spring fifty bucks if I had to.”
Greaves thought for a long moment, then finished his beer before saying, “You’re sticking your neck out, but there was one guy I knew who worked there: Harry Bennauer. I don’t know if he’s still there. He was fourth barman or something like that. He was always right out of dough: a sporting man. I’ve never known a guy to bet the way he did. It wouldn’t surprise me if he mightn’t be willing to help.”
“Try him, will you?” I said. “See if he’s still around. Ask him if he’d like to make fifty easy bucks. If he shows interest, tell him I’ll be up by way of the goods elevator at seven o’clock sharp.”
Greaves thought about it. I could see he wasn’t too enthusiastic.
“You’re taking a risk. Bennauer might sell you out. There could be a reception committee waiting for you. From what I hear the bouncers working for the club aren’t a bunch of powder-puffs. You might get bounced pretty hard.”
“That’s my funeral. Go ahead and try him.”
Greaves lifted his massive shoulders, got to his feet and went over to the row of telephone booths. While he was in one of the booths I ordered a second round of beers. He talked for five minutes or so, then he came back and sat down.
“I got him,” he
said. “Right now, he tells me, he’s so short of dough, he’d sell his wife for fifty bucks. It’s a deal so far as he’s concerned. It’s up to you now. I wouldn’t trust him further than I could throw him—not as far. He might go to the management and sell you out for fifty-five bucks.”
“Suppose he did? They can’t kill me. All they can do is to toss me out. I don’t bounce easy anyway. You told him seven o’clock?”
Greaves nodded.
“He’ll be waiting by the elevator. He’ll probably double-cross you. You probably won’t get further than the elevator doors. As soon as he gets the money, like as not, he’ll kiss you goodbye.”
“He won’t get it until I’ve seen what I want to see.” I looked at my watch. I had forty minutes to seven. “You wouldn’t have any suggestions about what I should take up there just in case of trouble?”
He bent his brains to the problem. After turning it over for a while he said, “Stick around. I’ll see what I can do.” He finished his beer, then pushed his way out of the booth and left the bar.
I waited, sipping my beer, looking at the newspaper and wondering what I was walking into.
He came back within the half-hour.
He was carrying a brown paper parcel under his arm and as he sat down opposite me he put out his big hand, palm upwards.
“You owe me twenty bucks.”
I took out my billfold, parted with four five-dollar bills and asked, “What does that buy me?”
He put the parcel on the table.
“A guy I know is in the brandy trade. He wants to get his liquor into the club. He hasn’t a hope, but he doesn’t seem to realize it. I kidded him you could get a sample bottle of the stuff before the management. This is it.” He tapped the parcel. “For the love of Mike, don’t drink it. It’ll raise callouses the size of tomatoes in you if you do.” He felt in his vest pocket and put a card on the table. “That’s his trade card. Now it’s up to you to take it from here.”
I picked up the card and stowed it away in my billfold.
“That’s just what I’m looking for. Thanks a lot. Well, if I’m going, I’d better go.”
“The hunk of beaten-up meat I’ll find outside the Ritz-Plaza with his brains beaten in will be you,” Greaves said soberly. “You insured?”
The Guilty Are Afraid Page 11
