by Brad Latham
Hamlisch led him through a quiet dark living room and a long dark hallway to the kitchen. As he fussed with the gas stove, Hamlisch asked again, “What theft?”
“You really didn’t hear about it?” Lockwood asked.
“I wouldn’t ask if I had. How do you like your coffee?”
“You let the thieves out last night at 2:17, according to your log. It was an inside job and you helped them get away with a $100,000 piece of U.S. government equipment.”
Hamlisch dropped the coffeepot into the sink with a clatter. “I did what?”
“You heard me.”
“I don’t know anything about this.”
“Didn’t a two-ton panel truck leave Northstar last night? Didn’t you inspect it?”
“I wasn’t supposed to.”
“They let people take stuff out in the dead of night without supervision? Come on, Hamlisch.”
Hamlisch put water into the coffeepot and put it on the fire.
“Say, mister, I don’t know what this is all about, but I’m no crook.”
“Well, you’re in a lot of hot water,” Lockwood said. “You let somebody drive a $100,000 piece of equipment right through your gate.”
The man crumpled into a chair across from Lockwood. “Look, they didn’t tell me to look in that truck. They told me not to.”
“Who told you what?”
Hamlisch’s eyes appeared lost as he looked back in time. “That truck’s been going out every second or third night for the past two or three weeks. Same guy driving it.”
“What?”
“Yeah,” Hamlisch said. “It started about three weeks ago. Mr. Greer called me up about 6:30, just after I come on, and says that a new guy’s going to be working late and’ll be taking out a load of garbage in the middle of the night, and it’s okay.”
“Did you look in the truck?”
“First time or two I did. He had fiberboard trash barrels full of junk.”
“Last night?”
“It was the same guy as before. He gave me a cigarette, and we shot the breeze a minute or so. I wrote down the license number and the time, and he drove off—same as always.”
“How do you know it was Greer?”
“I—” Hamlisch suddenly looked frightened. The coffeepot boiled over, and he jumped to take it off the stove, burning his fingers in the process. He ran some cold water over his injured fingers and then wrapped his hand in a filthy dish towel.
“Aw, Jesus,” Hamlisch said when he sat back down.
“What?”
“I don’t know it was Greer. He just said it was him.”
“I’ve got a bad feeling it wasn’t Stanley Greer,” Lockwood said. “I bet you’ve been had.”
Fear in his face, Hamlisch asked, “Think I’ll get fired?”
“If you worked for me, I’d fire you.”
Hamlisch shook his head, looking as if he might cry. The look exasperated Lockwood. “I got to have this job.”
“What did he look like?” Lockwood said.
“Who? The guy in the truck?”
Lockwood nodded.
“Said his name was Morgan. Dave, I think. In his early thirties, blond hair, blue eyes, light skin. Real friendly. Didn’t like driving the truck. Said he was just married, and this night work was ruining his home life. Just a friendly working stiff, that’s all.”
Lockwood got up to go. “If I were you, Hamlisch, I’d get on out to the plant. There’s about a dozen guys from the Treasury Department running around there who’re going to want to talk to you, and it wouldn’t hurt your case if you went to them instead of making them find you. They’ll probably go at you through most of the night.”
“What about my job?”
Lockwood sighed for the frightened man. “You didn’t do it, so they’ve got the marines doing it. I think the U.S. Government has just taken over your job.”
Lockwood left, and as he drove up to the front gate of Northstar, he saw Pops Tibbett driving out in a ’35 Ford. It wouldn’t hurt to see where he went now that the T-men were finished with him. Lockwood waited until the car got a quarter of a mile down the road and then swung in behind the black Ford. He reached under his coat for his .38, and cursed silently when he remembered it was still on Dr. Dzeloski’s desk. He wondered if he would have any trouble getting it back and wearing it with all these Feds around.
Pops drove at a maddeningly slow pace northward until he reached a community called North Shore Beach. Pops pulled into the driveway of a run-down house that looked as if it might collapse with weariness in the next rainstorm.
Lockwood drove on past and out of the corner of his eye saw Pops get out and enter. He stopped up the road out of sight and crept back through the field until he had a good view of the front and back of the house. Lockwood made himself comfortable, deliberated whether to have a cigarette, and using his better judgment, decided not to.
After a half-hour, the back door opened, and Pops stood there on the stoop with a long round case in his hand. He looked all around in a wary manner. Lockwood froze. The screen door opened then, and Bingo pushed his way out. Pops moved off, but Bingo stopped and looked around, whining in a puzzled way.
Pops seemed in a hurry and nagged Bingo to come along. Lockwood didn’t move, scarcely daring to breathe.
The two disappeared down a path that cut through the scrub bushes. Lockwood gave them three minutes and then followed. After twenty minutes, by which time Lockwood’s black socks were covered with twigs and irritating little seeds with hooks, he came to a sudden halt, seeing Pops not fifty feet in front of him. Lockwood took off through the woods and circled around, coming up on the old man from the woods.
When he peered through the scrub bush he had chosen for cover, Lockwood saw Pops lean way back with a fly rod and cast it into the Sound. He watched the old man for ten minutes, then realized that he could stay here another couple of hours and wasn’t going to see anything more than an old man fishing. A blind alley. He carefully made his way back through the brambles and shrubs to the path and picked his way back to Pops’ house.
When he reached his car, he took a fresh pair of socks out of his attaché case and threw the burr-covered pair into the bushes. Thinking better of his carelessness, he retrieved the socks and put them in his glove compartment.
Lockwood was irritated that he had found so little today. How long would Pops fish? Didn’t Lockwood have twenty to thirty minutes? Might as well make the time count.
He walked briskly to the front door of Pops’ sagging house and knocked loudly on the screen door’s wood frame. After a couple of minutes, when no one answered, he slipped the hook out of the eye of the catch with his penknife and noisily entered the front hall.
The hallway smelled of old carpet, stale cooked cabbage, stewed meat, and old man.
Lockwood yelled, “Anyone home?”
No answer.
He checked his watch—he didn’t want to be here more than fifteen to twenty minutes in case the fish weren’t biting.
He moved quickly through the old house, not sure what he was looking for. The living room, off to the right of the hall, looked to have been furnished from the town dump but was surprisingly orderly. The table’s drawers revealed half a dozen balls of string, dirty stubs of pencils, old bills, and three ashtrays overflowing with odd screws, nuts, and washers. He had no more luck in the bedroom, the kitchen, and the storeroom that led to the back stoop. To hell with it, Lockwood told himself, nothing here but old man, and he hurried back out to his car.
Back at Northstar, Lockwood collected his gun and shells from Dzeloski’s office and looked up Myra Rodman, who worked in an office down the hall from Northstar’s president.
“Where have you been?” the redhead asked.
“Asking questions,” Lockwood replied. He could feel an electric current between them. How much more fun to investigate by asking her questions than dealing with Hamlisch or Pops. He eased into the chair across from her desk. “Anybody a
round here have any luck?”
She laughed and leaned back, putting her hands behind her head and stretching like a compact jungle cat. For the second time today, Lockwood felt himself attracted to her.
“They put two men in the shop and went over every inch with fingerprint powder. They traced all the circuits on the elevator. They’ve got four guys combing Long Island looking for the panel truck, and the police in three states are on the alert for it. They’ve asked a million questions, and I don’t think a one of us has gotten more than thirty minutes work done today.”
“They’re pretty sure it’s still on the Island?”
Myra cocked her head at him. “You want the truth? I don’t think they have any idea where it is. They’re just doing everything they can think of and trusting to luck. For my money, by now, the thing’s in Pennsylvania or Ohio.”
“What makes you think so?”
“They’d be stupid to stay around here.”
“But what can they do with it in Pennsylvania?” Lockwood asked.
“Huh?”
“You’re pretty sure it’s another government, right?”
“Yeah.”
“There are no foreign governments in Pennsylvania or Ohio.”
“You mean they’d stay near the coast?”
“If they haven’t already shipped it out,” he said.
Myra looked at him hard. “That thing is really heavy, you know. You don’t just put it in a canoe and paddle it out to sea.”
“Couldn’t they get it through a Canadian border?”
“Not after 8:30 this morning,” Myra said. “The first thing the Treasury said was that they were alerting the Customs and the Coast Guard.”
“And they can’t take a chance of driving across the country to the West Coast.”
“Hardly,” she said. “They could off-load the bombsight into another truck. But driving to the West Coast would take three or four days, and I wouldn’t want to break down in Nebraska or Nevada with the Feds prodding every highway patrol about this thing.”
“It’s that serious?”
“Oh, it’s that serious,” she said. “They’re not playing tiddlywinks in Europe. We’re really going to be in it.”
“Aw, come on. We did our job last time.”
Myra bridled. “We’re going to have to do it again.”
Lockwood didn’t argue, but swung back to the search. “Let me get a better feel for this thing. Let’s say you’d stolen it, that you’d stolen a bombsight like this in—Italy—for instance, and you were faced with getting it back to this country. How would you go about it?”
Myra’s face clouded in thought. “Nice question. I would get it to a deserted warehouse. I would study it and diagram how it worked, reduce the blueprints, and mail three copies to three different people I trusted—to their homes—back here.”
“Okay—how long would that take?”
“I could do it in—say a week. It would depend on how expert the engineer was you had doing the drawings. How much he knew about bombsight research.”
“You would need a specialist?” Lockwood asked.
“How long would it take you to diagram a Model T or an RCA radio so that an engineer could duplicate it?” Myra asked.
Lockwood grinned. “Probably years.”
“Right,” she said. “And if you were a radio or auto engineer?”
“Okay, okay. Do you think the Germans, the Japs, or the Italians have any engineers that could reduce this thing to diagrams fast? And how fast?”
She pursed her lips and considered his question. “It’s a complicated device, Mr. Lockwood.”
“Make it Bill.”
He liked her merry grin. “Fine, make it Myra. Even if I were doing it, I would take it apart very carefully to make sure I didn’t get confused about how to fit it back together.”
A knock at the door, and Guy Manners entered. “There you are, Lockwood. Can I have a word with you?”
“Sure. I’d like to hear more, Myra,” he said as he stood up. “Can we have dinner tonight? Maybe you can show me where you eat the famous lobsters out here?”
She cocked her head again. “Fine. Seven o’clock at this address,” and she scribbled something and handed it to him.
Lockwood saw Manners’ face tighten, and that made him feel even better.
Chapter 4
“You’ve given some of the brass in Washington a merry afternoon, Lockwood,” Manners opened the conversation when they’d entered Area C. Another half-dozen of the bland-looking Feds were searching the room, men Lockwood had not seen earlier in Dr. Dzeloski’s office.
“And?” Lockwood asked. He didn’t like Manners and saw no reason to kowtow to the man.
“You and me, we got off to a bad start,” Manners said. He put out his hand. “The Pentagon tells me they want this firm paid off so it can stay in business, and to cooperate with you. Can we work together?”
Warming a bit to the man, Lockwood smiled and shook Manners’ hand. “Let’s try it.”
“Good. After all, we both want to get the bombsight back and make America strong against the Huns.”
Lockwood winced slightly at Manners’ crude attempt to con him, smiled again, and nodded, waiting for it, and then Manners threw it at him.
“So, when can Transatlantic give Northstar the check? Can you make it certified? They have a payroll to meet in five days, and they were counting on picking up the next Air Corps check this Friday.”
“Look, Mr. Manners,” Lockwood said. “I’ve been on this —what?—five hours? I’ve got a lot of work to do, and with all this secrecy and locked doors and the stand-offishness of your people, I haven’t even got started.”
“I’m not getting any cooperation out of you.”
“I’m not paying without an investigation.”
“The Treasury Department will investigate.”
Lockwood folded his arms and shook his head.
Manners said, “Transatlantic might find it difficult to do business.”
“We have state charters.”
“We’ve got connections in state capitols, Lockwood.”
“It’ll take you months, Manners.”
“Maybe I’ll put you in jail.”
“Maybe you will. You think that’s going to get a check written?”
“I’m a federal officer!”
“Good for you.”
Manners walked to the door, turned back, walked again to the door, then turned around again and said, “All right. Can we work together?”
“What does that mean?”
“You let me know what you turn up, and I let you know what I turn up.”
“It’s fine by me, but I can’t imagine you thinking an insurance dick will come up with anything.”
Manners flushed, caught out. “I want to give you enough stuff so that the claim is paid off fast. Then you’re out of here.”
Lockwood sighed in exasperation. “Let me level with you, Manners. Don’t go by the ads Transatlantic runs in the Saturday Evening Post and Harper’s that say we send out a cheerful, solicitous claims adjuster within hours of your loss, ads that make it look as if you get your check by nightfall. Faced with a good-sized claim, insurance companies make sure they aren’t being spoofed, or after a while we’d go out of business. Take this case. First, somebody’s got to prove to me there was a bombsight, and that it was here yesterday. Then I want to know that it was worth $75,000, the face amount of the policy. I want all this proved, with evidence, the sort of evidence that will stand up in court—because if Dzeloski and crew can’t come up with it, then we let him take us to court, and we just sit it out.”
“Which could take months.”
“Years. Now, after I get those things proved, then I want to make sure Dzeloski didn’t just roll the damn thing down to the basement and cut the hole in the fence himself.”
“You found the hole?”
“Sure. Doesn’t prove anything. We don’t pay a beneficiary if he caused the
loss. You with me so far?”
“I don’t know that I want to hear any more,” Manners said. He was getting much less friendly. He looked vaguely around the room, as if he was considering just walking away from Lockwood, then seemed to change his mind. “We know how to play these games in the Treasury Department. You’re going to stall with a million different rules and requirements, and no matter how hard Dzeloski tries, he’s never going to quite satisfy them.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“You pay off some policies?”
“Sometimes even in four to six weeks.”
“And here?” the T-man asked. “There is a ‘time of the essence’ clause, isn’t there? Can’t Northstar sue you for damages if you pay late?”
“Sure. They can collect too—if they win every appeal.”
Manners nodded bleakly. “And I thought the Government was bad. It’s a wonder you guys have any customers.”
Lockwood grinned. “It doesn’t mean I’ll take it that far, just that I have a job to do. If I’m pushed too hard by you or Northstar, I got ways of digging my heels in. If somebody did break in here last night and did make off with the thing, and the policy is valid and they can show that our policy covers what was stolen and that it was really worth $75,000—they’ll get a certified check from us pretty fast. But we have a responsibility to our shareholders.”
“I’m getting the picture. Within the bounds of national security, I’d like to feed you what we get that will speed up the claim. Deal?”
“National security? What’s that?”
“I won’t tell you anything that one of this country’s enemies could use against us.”
“You’ve got a deal. What do you have?”
“What you got?” Manners asked back.
Lockwood didn’t trust Manners but not for any reason he could easily explain. It had something to do with the smooth official face, the nondescript suit, and his blustering way. Lockwood figured Manners to be a guy who would buddy-buddy you along and then knife you in the back. Still, he had no reason to hold back so he gave Manners a full account of his day and at the end asked if he could have back his .38 and shells. Manners looked pained.
“You have to have them?”
