Crossings (A Harry Reese Mystery Book 2)

by Robert Bruce Stewart

  “But why wouldn’t the price of the shares fall even further?”

  “Well, it could. But usually people’s imaginations are worse than the reality. Plus, if you’re short a huge block, you want to cover your position when there are still a lot of people wanting to sell.”

  “And to cover your position, you have to buy?”

  “Yes, and there is nothing worse than having a huge short position when things turn around and the market is buying. Each time you buy, you raise the price some. If there are a lot of people short and they all have to buy at once, things get really ugly.”

  “So if a fellow shorted the stock before anyone else knew about the situation, and then when he knew it was about to become public, he bought shares, partly to cover his short position but a lot more besides, he would make an incredible fortune.”

  “That was what Jay Gould and his friends specialized in. It’s frowned on a little more today, so it would need to be done with more discretion. But you can be sure it goes on all the time,” Ratigan said. “You think someone has been doing this with the Sovereign stock?”

  “The insurance scheme itself made $15,000 on Barclay. Even if they collected on all four policies, it wouldn’t have made more than $30,000. And there were a lot of people involved, each expecting a share. Maybe they expected to get a lot more, but someone who timed the share prices correctly would have none of the risks and could make just as much money.”

  “More. Maybe even gain control of the company. But if they engineered the insurance scheme, they would still have that risk.”

  “Yes. But maybe they were able to control it without being directly involved. I shouldn’t tell you this….”

  “That someone’s planning a takeover of Sovereign?”

  “How’d you know?” I asked.

  “Just a hunch. Their share price has actually risen some the last few sessions, even though a lot of new shorts have entered the game. But you don’t need to tell me any more.”

  “I think you already know more than I do,” I said. “Is there any way to find out who made sizeable gains over this?”

  “I can ask around. It won’t be definitive, but I can get a pretty good idea who the big fish were.”

  I went back to the Bureau and stopped in to see Keegan.

  “All right, Harry. It’s on for this evening. The man’s name is George Koestler. He lives just below Prospect Park….”

  “On Albemarle Road,” I finished for him.

  “You know him?” Keegan asked incredulously.

  “I met his daughter. I assume it’s his daughter. She was a childhood friend of William Huber’s. Which means her father must have known Huber.”

  “Well, just a coincidence in this case. Koestler has taken control of a large block of Sovereign shares. The board is going to meet in the morning and sometime around noon tomorrow he will be taking temporary charge of the company.”

  “Then we can get back inside?”

  “Yes, absolutely. But this evening, Koestler would like you to tell him how you see things. He’ll need to release a statement tomorrow and it will need to be as detailed as possible.”

  “I’m a little short of details.”

  “Well, better to paint the picture too dark than be seen as covering up anything now. It will be imperative that the public, and Wall Street, believes this is behind them. He’ll be expecting you at nine.”

  When I arrived home, Elizabeth informed me that Emmie would be home late, as she’d found employment.

  “I don’t suppose I could be made privy?” I asked.

  “Not by me. Emmie’s been a little closed-mouthed. What happened on your trip?”

  “Nothing really.” I thought it best to change the subject. “How’s your romance with Edward Howell progressing?”

  “Oh, that’s off. I found out his family money gave up the ghost years ago. Besides, I think I reminded him too much of his wife.”

  Elizabeth made dinner again that evening and I realized what a loss it would be if she were to be arrested. She seemed to be in something of an irritable mood, so I chose a conversation topic she couldn’t take offense at. I asked her what Emmie was like in school.

  “Well, she was quite different in some ways. She was very studious. She didn’t live in the houses. So she wasn’t a part of the push.”

  “That must have been too bad.”

  “She complained about it, but I was never convinced she really minded. She had a very low tolerance for all the frivolous chatter and affectations. But I don’t remember her having this fascination with murder and gambling. Is that all due to your marriage?”

  “No, vice versa, I think.”

  About half past eight, I went off to the Koestlers. I was led into the library and not long after George Koestler came in and introduced himself. He was an affable fellow of about fifty, and if I were asked to guess his occupation, it would not be cutthroat financier. He gave me a drink and in a while his wife came in. Lucy Koestler was significantly younger than her husband, not older than thirty-five.

  “There is a need for extreme discretion, Reese,” Koestler said.

  “Yes, of course,” I assured him.

  “I’ve asked Lucy to help with the preparation of tomorrow’s communiqué and it’s necessary she be abreast of the facts.”

  “What are the facts, Mr. Reese?” Mrs. Koestler asked.

  “Well, I’m not sure how much you’ve been told already.”

  “Only the vaguest account,” Mr. Koestler interjected.

  So I started at the beginning of my being called in and went through what had transpired. When I finished, Mrs. Koestler, who’d been taking notes throughout, gave her summation.

  “It sounds as if you’ve made a muddle of it, Mr. Reese.”

  “Now, dear,” Mr. Koestler said.

  “Well, to be honest, I’ve mainly worked on fire insurance cases in the past. But we do have operatives from Newcome’s on it. And the police are of course involved.” I left Emmie off the list. “But I’m afraid you’re correct in thinking we have a lot to find out.”

  “Perhaps we should put off our takeover,” Koestler said to his wife.

  “The problem is,” I said, “Redfield has put the lid on us learning anything about what Osborne was doing.”

  “So you’re counting on the takeover to gain access?” Koestler said.

  “Yes, precisely,” I said. “But I don’t think it’s likely that this involved more than the one person inside Sovereign.”

  “And William Huber, of course,” Koestler said. “So you believe that with Osborne’s death, the scheme is ended.”

  “Yes, at least as far as Sovereign is concerned.”

  “But that’s all that matters for tomorrow. You can work on filling in the details afterward.”

  “Do you think that’s wise, dear?” Mrs. Koestler asked.

  “Unavoidable, I’m afraid. Once we make our announcement, the police will look foolish for not having uncovered anything themselves. But it will be important that we stay one step ahead of them.”

  He asked his wife to type a letter that instructed Sovereign employees to cooperate fully with my investigation. She did, and handed it to me.

  “Don’t let anyone see that until the takeover is completed,” he said.

  As I was leaving, he told me that he would be at Sovereign after noon the next day and to keep him regularly posted. Outside, I met Sally on the path to the house.

  “Looking for me?” she asked. She seemed noticeably less perky than usual.

  “Yes,” I said. I wasn’t sure how far I was meant to take the discretion. “I was just wondering if you had any news?”

  “About William?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. I would have telephoned you. Is that really why you came?”

  “I was passing by, and just thought I’d check with you.”

  When I arrived home, Emmie was there speaking to Elizabeth and it seemed things weren’t quite as light as
they had been. They stopped when I entered.

  “Where have you been?” Emmie asked.

  “I might ask you the same.” Of course I might, but there was little point. “I will tell you this, there will be some excitement tomorrow in the insurance trade.”

  “Does it take much to excite the insurance trade?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Frankly, no,” I conceded. “Nonetheless, developments could be interesting. But I mustn’t say anything more about it.”

  We went in to bed, while Elizabeth stayed up reading.

  “You seemed to be taking Elizabeth into your confidence,” Emmie said. “Does that mean you agree she had nothing to do with it?”

  “I’m afraid not, dear. Just a little test.”

  “I don’t like that, Harry. It makes me feel as if you’re spying on her.”

  “Are you so sure she isn’t spying on us?”

  About an hour later, I heard Elizabeth moving about. She was making a phone call. I heard the word Sovereign, but nothing more. The next morning, while we were alone at breakfast, I asked Emmie about her new employment.

  “I’m trying to find out who the second man was.”

  “The second man?”

  “The second man who visited Mrs. Warner. The one you conjectured was a debt collector. But I won’t say any more until I find something out.”

  When I arrived at the Bureau, I called Tibbitts first thing.

  “I have some news I thought you’d be interested in, but maybe you already heard it?”

  “About Sovereign?”

  “Yes. Did you know?”

  “No, what is it?”

  “There will be a takeover announced at noon. I’m told that anyone short might want to cover by then.”

  “Thanks, Reese. I owe you one.” He hung up without saying anything else.

  I took that to mean Elizabeth hadn’t telephoned him the previous night, though perhaps he was just playing his hand close. I couldn’t think who else she would have called. Then I let Ratigan know about it and he sent a couple operatives round with the idea I would take them into Sovereign as soon as we had access. We needed to talk to everyone who had worked with Osborne and try to find out about any unusual meetings or movements—did he leave early one day, come in late, etc. We spent the morning planning.

  At exactly noon, Koestler went in with his people and took control. His communiqué was released to the financial press at the same time, and at about 12:10, I went in with the two operatives Ratigan had sent. I went immediately into what had been Osborne’s office. His replacement as chief of the Claims Department had taken it over. I introduced myself and told him why I was there.

  “Have you come across anything unusual among Osborne’s effects?” I asked.

  “Nothing personal. I thought perhaps his wife had gone through the office and taken those things.”

  “But anything related to the job that struck you as unusual? Any files out of place?”

  “Not that I’ve noticed.”

  “Would you mind going through them and just looking for anything that catches your eye?”

  I also gave him the cards Emmie had found and asked if he could find the policies on Warner and Marquisee, and check with the agents named. Then one of the operatives from Newcome’s came in.

  “I think you might want to meet this fellow.” He led me out and introduced me to Eugene Donigan, Osborne’s brother-in-law.

  “I had a feeling something was going to happen,” Donigan said. He was in his thirties, and had a kind of careless look.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Can we go somewhere else?”

  “Sure, we can find an office to use,” I suggested.

  “Maybe out of the building?”

  “All right,” I agreed.

  We went out to a chop house and ordered lunch.

  “You suspected your brother-in-law was involved in something?” I asked.

  “I knew he was afraid of something.”

  “Why? What did he say?”

  “Nothing, really. But he told me to take Ellen out of town.”

  “Ellen is your sister?”

  “Yes, and his wife.”

  “We were told there was an illness in the family, that’s what sent you both to Cincinnati.”

  “That was just an excuse.”

  “But you must have had some idea why he was sending you away.”

  “He said he’d done something he shouldn’t have. That there was some danger. He was pretty upset.”

  “Didn’t that seem out of character? He sounds like a straight-laced guy.”

  “Yeah, he was. That’s why I took it so seriously. I assumed it was some shuffle at work.”

  “What sort of shuffle?” I asked.

  “Just some paper thing, where money ends up going to someone it shouldn’t. Every day they write dozens of checks for claims. If someone in his position wanted to make some money, it’d be pretty easy.”

  “Yes, but pretty easy to get caught, too. And he seemed like the cautious sort. There is another possible explanation. Maybe he came across someone else working a scheme and wanted to uncover it.”

  “Yeah, I thought of that, too,” Donigan said. “But why wouldn’t he tell someone else in the company?”

  16

  After lunch, I went out to Brooklyn to meet Osborne’s wife. The maid let me in and led me to the parlor. A little while later Ellen Osborne, a short, stout woman, appeared. She was dressed in mourning and looked older than I expected, but that may have been due to the circumstances. She was the picture of distress. She told me much the same story as Donigan, but offered none of his conjecture.

  “Do you have any idea why your husband wanted you to leave town?”

  “He wouldn’t say exactly, but he was very upset. I didn’t want to make him more so, so I followed his wishes. That’s really all I know.”

  “Did he know he had a bad heart?” I asked.

  “Yes. It didn’t trouble him much, but he had to avoid strain.”

  “Had he been meeting with anyone new recently?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Well, did he have to go places in the evening?”

  “No, nothing out of the ordinary. Do they think he did something wrong?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid it looks that way.”

  “That would be so unlike him.” She looked away, maybe to keep me from noticing she was crying. Then she excused herself with a whisper.

  When I arrived back at Sovereign, one of the fellows from Newcome’s pulled me aside. He told me a co-worker of Osborne’s had seen him having lunch the Monday before his death down at Delmonico’s on Beaver Street. This co-worker thought it was notable because Osborne never dined extravagantly. He also described the fellow Osborne was with and he sounded suspiciously like John Huber. I telephoned Huber and he said he’d be in a meeting uptown until seven and then was heading to his parents’. I suggested we meet briefly at the Carleton, which would be on his route home. He agreed. I spent another hour speaking with people at Sovereign and not finding out much else. Then I went and met with Ratigan.

  “Can you check up on John Huber? William’s brother.”

  “You think he’s involved?”

  “Well, I believe he met with Osborne the day before he died. And he’s the one who discovered his brother’s body.”

  “I thought that was definitely suicide?”

  “Yes, so I was told.”

  I gave him the relevant facts and he said he’d put someone on it right away. Then I used his phone to track down the doctor who performed the autopsy on William Huber. His name was O’Hanlon, and he happened to be at Brooklyn’s morgue on another job. I caught an L across the bridge and then walked down to Willoughby Street. It was about half an hour before Dr. O’Hanlon came out of the examination room. I introduced myself and explained my interest in Huber’s death. I also made sure to mention that powerful interests were behind my investigation. He didn’t seem
terribly impressed.

  “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you might have made an error in the report on Huber?”

  “What sort of error?”

  “The location of the head wound?”

  “I don’t even remember.”

  “You testified the wound was on the forehead. Could it perhaps have been on the back of the head?”

  “What difference would that make?”

  “Well, a wound on the forehead would be consistent with Huber hitting his head on the desk after being rendered unconscious by the gas. But a wound on the back of the head might mean he’d been rendered unconscious by another party. Then that party turned on the gas.”

  “If I said it was on the forehead, I’m sure it was.”

  “Perhaps the body can be exhumed.”

  He looked more annoyed than frightened at my threat.

  “Look—this is how it went. It was a busy day. I completed my finding and sent it on. When the police sergeant on the case saw my report, he told me I had it wrong. I had it that the wound was on the back of the head. He said it was on the front of the head. Then he had the boy’s family corroborate that. I assumed I had just made an error and wrote out a new report.”

  “Without checking the corpse?”

  The doctor began walking out of the room, but turned and said over his shoulder, “By then he’d been buried.”

  Whether O’Hanlon was simply easily persuaded or outright corrupt, I had no way of knowing. But I’d never met a doctor so willing to be second-guessed.

  From the morgue, I made my way over to Williamsburg. The sequence of events the night Huber died had always been vague. John may have arranged to pick up his brother at his office and accompany him to the family home. He might have knocked him out then, turned on the gas, and later made sure he’d be the one who discovered him—just in case there were any loose ends that needed attending to. The note found with the body simply said, “Tell Mother I’m sorry.” William could have written that for a thousand reasons, and at any time. But I couldn’t imagine what John’s motive would have been. Or how he could convince a police sergeant to cover up the crime. Perhaps the wound really was on the forehead.

  I was at the Carleton by seven, renewing acquaintances and whatnot. Huber came in a while later and we sat down at a table. I decided to play my hand close.