Caused by your callousness, thought Abel.
“ … seems to have left you with the immediate job of running the Richmond Group until the bank is in a position to find a buyer for the hotels. Although one hundred percent of the shares of the group are now in your name, the property, in the form of eleven hotels, which was held as collateral for the late Mr. Leroy’s loan of two million dollars, is legally in our possession. This leaves you with no responsibility at all, and if you wish to disassociate yourself from the whole program, we will naturally understand.”
An insulting thing to suggest, thought William, but it has to be said.
The sort of thing a banker would expect a man to do, walk away from something the moment any problem arose, thought Abel.
William Kane continued. “Until the two million debt to the bank is cleared I fear we must consider the estate of the late Mr. Leroy insolvent. We at the bank appreciate your personal involvement with the group and we have done nothing about disposing of the hotels until we had the opportunity to speak to you in person. We thought it possible you might know of a party interested in the purchase of the property, as the buildings, the land and the business are obviously a valuable asset.”
“But not valuable enough for you to back me,” said Abel. He ran his hand wearily through his thick, dark hair. “How long will you give me to find a buyer?”
William hesitated for a moment when he saw the silver band around Abel Rosnovski’s wrist. He had seen that band somewhere before, but he couldn’t think where. “Thirty days. You must understand that the bank is carrying the day-to-day losses on ten of the eleven hotels. Only the Chicago Richmond is making a small profit.”
“If you would give me the time and backing, Mr. Kane, I could turn all the hotels into profitable concerns. I know I could,” said Abel. “Just give me the chance to prove I can do it, sir.” Abel found the last word sticking in his throat.
“So Mr. Leroy assured the bank when he came to see us last fall,” said William. “But these are hard times. There’s no telling if the hotel trade will pick up, and we are not hoteliers, Mr. Rosnovski; we are bankers.”
Abel was beginning to lose his temper with the smoothly dressed “young puppy”; Davis had been right. “They’ll be hard times, all right, for my hotel staff,” he said. “What will they do if you sell off the roofs from over their heads? What do you imagine will happen to them?”
“I am afraid they are not our responsibility, Mr. Rosnovski. I must act in the bank’s best interests.”
“In your own best interests, Mr. Kane?” said Abel hotly.
The other man flushed. “That is an unjust remark, Mr. Rosnovski, and I would greatly resent it if I did not understand what you are going through.”
“Too bad you didn’t wheel out your understanding in time for Davis Leroy,” said Abel. “He could have used it. You killed him, Mr. Kane, just as surely as if you had pushed him out of that window yourself, you and your Simon-pure colleagues, sitting here on your asses while we sweat our guts out to be sure you can take a rake-off when times are good and tread on people when times are bad.”
William, too, was becoming angry. Unlike Abel Rosnovski, he did not show it. “This line of discussion is getting us nowhere, Mr. Rosnovski. I must warn you that if you are unable to find a purchaser for the group within thirty days, I shall have no choice but to put the hotels up for auction on the open market.”
“You’ll be advising me to ask another bank for a loan next,” said Abel sarcastically. “You know my record and you won’t back me, so where the hell do you expect me to go from here?”
“I’m afraid I have no idea,” replied William. “That’s entirely up to you. My board’s instructions are simply to wind up the account as quickly as possible and that is what I intend to do. Perhaps you would be kind enough to contact me no later than February fourth and let me know whether you have had any success in finding a buyer. Good day, Mr. Rosnovski.”
William rose from behind the desk and again offered his hand. This time Abel ignored it and went to the door.
“I thought after our phone conversation, Mr. Kane, you might feel embarrassed enough to offer a helping hand. I was wrong. You’re just a bastard through and through, so when you go to bed at night, Mr. Kane, be sure to think about me. When you wake up in the morning, think about me again, because I’ll never cease thinking about my plans for you.”
William stood frowning at the closed door. The silver band bothered him—where had he seen it before?
His secretary returned. “What a dreadful little man,” she said.
“No, not really,” said William. “He thinks we killed his business partner, and now we are disbanding his company without any thought for his employees, not to mention himself, when he has actually proved to be very capable. Mr. Rosnovski was remarkably polite given the circumstances and I must confess I was almost sorry the board felt unable to back him.” William looked up at his secretary.
“Get Mr. Cohen on the phone.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Abel arrived back in Chicago on the morning of the following day, still preoccupied and furious with his treatment at the hands of William Kane. He didn’t catch exactly what the boy was shouting at the corner newsstand as he hailed a cab and climbed into the back seat.
“The Richmond Hotel, please.”
“Are you from the newspapers?” asked the cabdriver as he moved out onto State Street.
“No. What made you ask that?” said Abel.
“Oh, only because you asked for the Richmond. All the reporters are there today.”
Abel couldn’t remember any functions scheduled for the Richmond which would attract the press.
The driver continued: “If you’re not a newspaperman, maybe I should take you to another hotel.”
“Why?” asked Abel, even more puzzled.
“Well, you won’t have a very good night’s sleep if you’re booked in there. The Richmond has been burned to the ground.”
As the cab turned the corner of the block, Abel was faced head on with the smoldering shell of the Chicago Richmond. Police cars, fire engines, charred wood and water flooding the street. He stepped out of the cab and stared at the scorched remains of the flagship of Davis Leroy’s group.
The Pole is wise when the damage is done, thought Abel as he clenched his fist and started banging on his lame leg. He felt no pain—there was nothing left to feel.
“You bastards!” he shouted aloud. “I’ve been lower than this before, and I’ll still beat every one of you. Germans, Russians, Turks, that bastard Kane and now this. Everyone. I’ll beat you all. Nobody kills Abel Rosnovski.”
The assistant manager saw Abel gesticulating by the cab and ran over to him. Abel forced himself to be calm.
“Did everybody get out safely?” he asked.
“Yes, thank God. The hotel was nearly empty, so getting everyone out was no great problem. There were one or two minor injuries and burns—the people were taken to the hospital—but there’s nothing for you to worry about.”
“Good. At least that’s a relief. Thank God the hotel was well insured—over a million, if I remember. We may yet be able to turn this disaster to our advantage.”
“Not if what they’re suggesting in this morning’s papers is true.”
“What do you mean?” asked Abel.
“I’d rather you read it for yourself, boss,” the assistant manager replied.
Abel walked over to the nearby newsstand and paid the boy two cents for the latest edition of the Chicago Tribune. The banner headline told it all:
RICHMOND HOTEL BLAZE—ARSON SUSPECTED
Abel shook his head incredulously and reread the headline.
“Can anything else happen?” he muttered.
“Got yourself a problem?” the newsboy asked.
“A little one,” said Abel, and returned to his assistant manager.
“Who’s in charge of the police inquiry?”
“That offic
er over there leaning on the police car,” said the assistant manager, pointing to a tall, spare man who was going prematurely bald. “His name is Lieutenant O’Malley.”
“It would be,” said Abel. “Now, you get the staff into the annex and I’ll see them all there at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. If anybody wants me before then, I’ll be staying at the Stevens until I get this thing sorted out.”
“Will do, boss.”
Abel walked over to Lieutenant O’Malley and introduced himself.
The tall, spare policeman stooped slightly to shake hands with Abel.
“Ah, the long-lost ex-manager has returned to his charred remains.”
“I don’t find that funny, officer,” said Abel.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It isn’t funny. It’s been a long night. Let’s go and have a drink.”
The policeman took Abel by the elbow and guided him across Michigan Avenue to a diner on the corner. Lieutenant O‘Malley ordered two milk shakes. ’
Abel laughed when the white, frothy mixture was put in front of him. Since he had never had a youth, it was his first milk shake.
“I know. It’s funny, everybody in this city breaks the law drinking bourbon and beer,” said the detective, “so someone has to play it straight. In any case, Prohibition isn’t going to last forever, and then my troubles will begin, because the gangsters are going to discover I really do like milk shakes.”
Abel laughed for a second time.
“Now to your problems, Mr. Rosnovski. First I have to tell you, I don’t think you have a snowball’s chance in hell of picking up the insurance on that hotel. The fire experts have been going over the remains of the building with a fine tooth comb and they found the place was soaked in kerosene. No attempt to even disguise it. There were traces of the stuff all over the basement. One match and the building must have gone up like a Roman candle.”
“Do you have any idea who is responsible?” asked Abel.
“Let me ask the questions. Do you have any idea who might bear a grudge against the hotel or you personally?”
Abel grunted. “About fifty people, Lieutenant. I cleared out a real can of worms when I first arrived here. I can give you a list, if you think it might help.”
“I think it might, but the way people are talking out there, I may not need it,” said the Lieutenant. “But if you pick up any definite information, let me know, Mr. Rosnovski. You let me know, because I warn you, you have enemies out there.” He pointed into the milling street.
“What do you mean?” asked Abel.
“Someone is saying you did it because you lost everything in the crash and needed the insurance money.”
Abel leaped off his stool.
“Calm down, calm down. I know you were in Boston all day and, more important, you have a reputation in Chicago for building hotels up, not burning them down. But someone did burn the Richmond down and you can bet your ass I’m going to find out who. So let’s leave it at that for the moment.” He swiveled off his own stool. “The milk shake’s on me, Mr. Rosnovski. I’ll expect a favor from you sometime in the future.”
As the two men walked toward the door, the policeman smiled at the girl at the cash register, admiring her ankles and cursing the new fashion for long skirts. He handed her fifty cents. “Keep the change, honey.”
“A big thank you,” the girl said.
“Nobody appreciates me,” said the lieutenant.
Abel laughed for a third time, which he would not have thought possible an hour before.
“By the way,” the lieutenant continued as they reached the door. “The insurance people are looking for you. I can’t remember the name of the guy, but I guess he’ll find you. Don’t hit him. If he feels you were involved, who can blame him? Keep in touch, Mr. Rosnovski—I’ll be wanting to talk to you again.”
Abel watched the lieutenant vanish into the crowd of spectators and then walked slowly over to the Stevens Hotel and booked himself in for the night. The desk clerk, who had already checked in most of the Richmond’s guests, couldn’t suppress a smile at the idea of booking the manager in, too.
Once in his room, Abel sat down and wrote a formal letter to Mr. William Kane, giving him whatever details of the fire he could supply and telling him that he intended to use his unexpected freedom to make a round of the other hotels in the group. Abel could see no point in hanging around in Chicago warming himself in the Richmond embers, in the vain hope that someone would come along and bail him out.
After a first-class breakfast at the Stevens the next morning—it always made Abel feel good to be in a well-run hotel—he walked over to see Curtis Fenton at the Continental Trust to apprise him of Kane and Cabot’s attitude—or to be more accurate, of William Kane’s attitude. Although Abel thought the request was pointless, he added that he was looking for a buyer for the Richmond group at $2 million.
“That fire isn’t going to help us, but I’ll see what I can do,” said Fenton, sounding far more positive than Abel had expected. “At the time you bought the twenty-five percent from Miss Leroy I told you that I thought the hotels were a valuable asset and that you’d made a good deal. Despite the crash I see no reason to change my mind about that, Mr. Rosnovski. I’ve watched you running your hotel for nearly two years now, and I’d back you if the decision were left to me personally, but I fear my bank would never agree to support the Richmond Group. We’ve seen the financial situation for far too long to have any faith in the group’s future, and that fire was the last straw. Nevertheless, I do have some outside contacts and I’ll see if they can do anything to help. You probably have more admirers in this city than you realize, Mr. Rosnovski.”
After Lieutenant O’Malley’s comments, Abel had wondered if he had any friends left in Chicago at all. He thanked Curtis Fenton, returned to the teller’s cage and withdrew $5,000 in cash from the hotel account. He spent the rest of the morning in the Richmond annex. He gave every member of his staff two weeks’ wages and told them they could stay on at the annex for at least a month or until they had found new jobs. He then returned to the Stevens, packed the new clothes he’d had to buy as a result of the fire and prepared for a tour of the rest of the Richmond hotels.
He drove south in the Buick he’d bought just before the stock market crash and started with the St. Louis Richmond. The trip to all the hotels in the group took nearly four weeks and although they were run-down and, without exception, losing money, none of them was, in Abel’s view, a hopeless case. They all had good locations; some were even the bestplaced in the city. Old man Leroy must have been a shrewder man than his son, thought Abel. He checked every hotel insurance policy carefully; no problems there. When he finally reached the Dallas Richmond, he was certain of only one thing: that anyone who managed to buy the group for $2 million would be making himself a good deal. He wished he could be given the chance, because he knew exactly what had to be done to make the group profitable.
On his return to Chicago he again checked into the Stevens. There were several messages awaiting him. Lieutenant O’Malley wished to contact him. So did William Kane, Curtis Fenton and finally a Mr. Henry Osborne.
Abel started with the law, and after a short phone conversation with O‘Malley, agreed to meet him at the diner on Michigan Avenue. Abel sat on a stool, with his back to the counter, staring at the charred shell of the Richmond Hotel while he waited for the lieutenant. O’Malley was a few minutes late, but he did not bother to apologize as he took the next stool and swiveled around to face Abel.
“Why do we keep meeting like this?” asked Abel.
“You owe me a favor,” said the lieutenant, “and nobody in Chicago gets away with owing O’Malley a milk shake.”
Abel ordered two, one giant, one regular.
“What did you find out?” asked Abel as he passed the detective two red-and-white-striped straws.
“The boys from the fire department were right—it was arson okay. We’ve arrested a guy called Desmond Pacey, who turns out t
o be the old manager at the Richmond. That was in your time, right?”
“I’m afraid it was,” said Abel.
“Why do you say that?” asked the lieutenant.
“I had Pacey fired for embezzling hotel receipts. He said he’d get even with me if it was the last thing he did. I didn’t pay any attention—I’ve had too many threats in my life, Lieutenant, to take any one of them that seriously, especially from a creature like Pacey.”
“Well, I have to tell you we’ve taken him seriously, and so have the insurance people, because I’m told they’re not paying out one penny until it’s proved there was no collusion between you and Pacey over the fire.”
“That’s all I need at the moment,” said Abel. “How can you be so certain it’s Pacey?”
“We traced him to the casualty ward at the local hospital, the same day as the fire. A routine check asking the hospital to give us the names of everyone who had come in that day with severe burns. By chance—which is so often the case in police work since we’re not all born to be Sherlock Holmes—a sergeant’s wife heard the name. She had been a waitress at the Richmond and told us he used to be the manager. Even I can put those two and two’s together. The guy came clean pretty quick—didn’t seem that interested in not being caught, only in pulling off what he called his own St. Valentine’s Day massacre. Until a few moments ago I wasn’t sure what the object of that revenge was, but I sure know now—though I’m not too surprised. So that just about wraps the case up, Mr. Rosnovski.”
The lieutenant sucked on his straw until a loud gurgle convinced him he had drained the last drop.
“Have another milk shake?” asked Abel.
“No, I’ll pass it up. I’ve got a heavy day ahead of me.” He stood up. “Good luck, Mr. Rosnovski. If you can prove to the insurance boys you had no involvement with Pacey, you’ll get your money. I’ll do everything I can to help if the case reaches court. Keep in touch.”
Abel watched him disappear through the door. He gave the waitress a dollar and then, outside, stood on the sidewalk staring into space, a space where the Richmond Hotel had been less than a month ago. Then he turned and walked back to the Stevens.
Kane and Abel/Sons of Fortune Page 28
