True Crime Page 9

  “Maybe I should. But what if he is Dillinger? If I go near him, I might get my head shot off. Or if he just lams, and the feds get wind I warned him, suddenly I’m an accomplice or accessory or something. Obstructing justice, that’s called, Shit. I should just walk away from this one. I really should.”

  “That’s what you told this Zarkovich guy—that you wanted no more part of this.”

  “You bet. When I found out that son of a bitch was involved, I knew I wanted to jump ship.”

  “You say he’s a smooth character, though.”

  “Very. A real ladies’ man, too. They call him the ‘Police Sheik,’ back in Indiana.”

  “What’s his relationship with this Anna person…Anna, what was it?”

  “Sage. Well, like I said, he’s a bagman. He picked up money from her and other madams to pass along to the big boys, keeping some for himself.”

  “Do you trust Anna Sage?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “But you don’t suspect her of anything, either.”

  “No.”

  “You don’t think maybe she talked to this Zarkovich before she talked to you?”

  “I suppose that’s possible…but why would she talk to me about her suspicions, if she’d already talked to Zarkovich?”

  “I been in show business since I was about nine. And I can tell you from experience, things are rarely as they seem.”

  “I don’t get you.”

  “This whole thing seems…orchestrated, somehow. Don’t you think?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “You were led to Jimmy Lawrence. By your traveling-salesman client—who you have no way of contacting, right?”

  I nodded.

  “In fact, you can’t even check up on the guy. The only address you have is that flat in Uptown where Polly Hamilton lives.”

  I nodded again. “And since they aren’t married, that’s not really his address. Right. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Did he tell you what company he worked for?”

  I shook my head. “Just a feed and grain company. No name.”

  “So you can’t check up on him.”

  “I can’t check up on him. Well—he said the firm was out of Gary. That would be a start.”

  “So this client, who lied to you, leads you to Polly Hamilton and Jimmy Lawrence. Now, Polly Hamilton knew you through Anna Sage, so if Polly was in on this—just bear with me, Heller—if she was in on this, she could well assume you’d check up on her with—or try to warn her through—Anna Sage.”

  I started nodding again. “And Anna Sage fed me the Dillinger story.”

  “And Anna Sage led Zarkovich to you.”

  “No denying that much.”

  “Maybe you’re being used to set this guy up—whether he is or isn’t Dillinger.”

  “But why? A simple anonymous phone call would do the trick just as well—they could call the cops or the feds and say, ‘I think I saw Dillinger at such and such,’ and accomplish the same thing.”

  “I can’t explain it, Heller. You’re the detective. You’ve got to figure the motives out. Me—I just know theater when I see it.”

  We took the dishes out to the kitchen, and soon she was snoring peacefully beside me while I lay with wide-open eyes staring into how smart she was.

  COWLEY

  11

  I spent the next morning, Friday, sitting in my office running phone checks on the credit ratings of half a dozen would-be borrowers. This I was doing for the Retail Credit Company in Jackson Park, the single account that was keeping me afloat these days. The thought of a piece of the Dillinger reward money coming my way hung in the hot air in front of me, like laundry on a line.

  Just around noon, when I was thinking about going downstairs to the deli for a pastrami sandwich, a big moonfaced man of about thirty-five in a gray hat and a gray suit and a gray tie came in. His complexion was a little gray, too—that hot ball of sun that had been baking Chicago for days upon end hadn’t got to him yet, it would seem.

  “Mr. Heller,” he said, taking off his hat. His dark brown hair was longer on top than on its graying sides.

  “Yes?” I said, half-rising.

  “I’m Sam Cowley. With the Division of Investigation.” He moved forward with a tight, somber expression and extended a hand. I rose the rest of the way to take it, then motioned for him to have a seat.

  “Mind if I take off my coat?” he asked. Apparently the sun had got to him a bit.

  I said sure. Since I wasn’t wearing a coat myself, this piece of protocol struck me as excessive, but sincere—unlike smoothie Zarkovich, who used manners and charm as devices, Cowley was just a big heavyset guy who seemed a little awkward having to deal with people.

  Or at least with me.

  “I understand you spoke with Chief Purvis yesterday,” he said. He had slipped the coat on the back of the chair. I’d misjudged him and the sun: the sweat circles on his shirt, under his arms, were like moons. They complemented his round face.

  “I spoke with Chief Purvis,” I confirmed.

  “He informs me you feel you may have seen John Dillinger.”

  “That’s right.”

  He moved his hat around in his hands, fingers on the brim like he was drying a plate. “We could use any information you might care to give us.”

  “I’ve…reconsidered.”

  “How so?”

  I chose my words carefully. “I now feel I was hasty. I’ve had second thoughts about the likelihood that the man I saw was John Dillinger.”

  Cowley made a small shrugging gesture with his head. “There have been some misidentifications. I can understand your caution.”

  “Your associate Mr. Purvis—Chief Purvis—strikes me as a little too hot to trot, where Dillinger’s concerned. I’m afraid he’d shoot Aunt Jemima if you pointed at her and said, ‘There’s Johnny.’”

  I thought I saw the faintest trace of a smile appear on Cowley’s lips, but he buried it. Said, “Chief Purvis is not alone on this investigation.”

  “I know. Your boss Hoover sent you in to be a steadying influence. I read the papers.”

  Cowley stirred in his chair. “That—that wasn’t in the papers, not in that manner.”

  “I can read between the lines. Your boss seems real public-relations conscious to me. He couldn’t fire Purvis after Little Bohemia without making the division look bad; so he sent for you.”

  Cowley waved a big deliberate paw in the air, said, “Be that as it may—I can assure you, any information you relay to our office—to me—will not be treated lightly, will not be acted upon rashly.”

  He was choosing his words carefully, too. I leaned back in my chair; studied him. I instinctively liked this man. He was a big, shy bear who could be trusted. He struck me as competent, as well. But I was still afraid that his competence would only be canceled out by Purvis’ incompetence.

  “I’m looking after a client’s interests,” I said. “And I don’t think my client’s interests would be best served by my getting further involved in this matter.”

  Cowley’s face turned stern and he pointed a finger at me as thick as a twenty-five-cent cigar. “If you’re aiding and abetting a fugitive, Mr. Heller, you can’t hide behind the cloak of your profession. You’re not a lawyer. Just a private operator. You’ll go to jail.”

  “Inspector Cowley,” I said, with what I hoped was a peacemaking smile, “I’m not harboring a fugitive. My client is not John Dillinger. He happens to be a traveling salesman and a law-’biding citizen. Whose girlfriend happens to be seeing another man, on the sly.”

  Cowley nodded thoughtfully. “The man who may be Dillinger.”

  I pointed at him this time. “That’s a good way to put it. A man who may be Dillinger. And to be frank, if I had to bet on it, I’m not so sure I wouldn’t bet against.”

  Cowley lifted his shoulders and eased them back down. It was about as demonstrative as he got. “Why not clear it up by leading us to this man?
We can talk with him, find out who he is, clear this all up.”

  I shook my head and kept shaking it. “My client’s girlfriend has been at this man’s side day and night for at least a week. If I lead you to him, how can I be assured your overeager associate won’t lay down a tommy-gun welcome for this ‘man who might be Dillinger’—a welcome Nervous Purvis is likely to extend to my client’s girl, as well?”

  He didn’t blink at my rather arch brand of sarcasm. He just said, “Maybe you can best prevent that by being involved yourself.”

  “I don’t see it that way.”

  “Are you still shadowing this man?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve ascertained what I need to, where my client’s concerned. I’ve fulfilled my responsibilities. And besides, maybe you’ve actually got somebody in that officeful of college boys who might succeed in shadowing me. Though I sincerely doubt it.”

  Cowley looked at me blankly; then the corners of his mouth turned up, barely perceptibly, and he said, “I doubt it, too.”

  An El train rushed by and we just sat and listened to it.

  Then Cowley said, “We’ve had contact from someone else who has a line on Dillinger.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “Someone who’s seen him on the North Side.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Someone with a police agency. An out-of-state agency.”

  “Really.”

  “East Chicago, Indiana, as a matter of fact.”

  “No kidding.”

  “A Sergeant Martin Zarkovich and his captain, a man named…it escapes me…”

  “O’Neill,” I said.

  Cowley, feigning surprise, said, “You know of them?”

  “I know Zarkovich. I don’t believe I’ve met O’Neill, but I’ve heard of him.”

  “Do you have an opinion of, uh, the East Chicago police?”

  “Generally, or specifically?”

  “Either. Both.”

  “Generally, corrupt. Specifically, Zarkovich.”

  He smiled a little and leaned forward in his seat. He held the hat in one hand, now, and seemed to be offering it to me.

  He said, “Then you know why we can use a corroborating source. As a matter of fact, if I could handle this through you entirely, I’d feel more comfortable. So would Chief Purvis.”

  That surprised me. “Really?” I asked. “What makes me such a sterling character?”

  “Being compared to Zarkovich,” Cowley said, deadpan.

  That made me smile. “You’re going to have to go with Zarkovich. He’s a cop. Why don’t you bring Stege in, while you’re at it?”

  Cowley didn’t answer at first. “There’s little love lost between our office and the Chicago police. Precious little mutual respect or cooperation.”

  “I take it this state of affairs predates your coming aboard.”

  “I haven’t been here long, Mr. Heller. You know that. Just since April. But it doesn’t take very long to realize the Chicago police are lacking in certain respects.”

  “So instead you deal with East Chicago? Look, there are a few good Chicago cops around—and Stege is one of ’em. I know, I know—you’ve heard he doesn’t think much of me. Granted. But you could do with him in your corner, on this one, believe me.”

  Cowley rose. He wasn’t leaving: he was just restless. Quietly so. He went over to one of the windows and looked out at the El. Without looking at me, he said, “I hear you’re an honest man, Mr. Heller.”

  “More or less,” I said.

  He smiled, again without looking at me. “That’s high marks in Chicago. We, uh…have a mutual friend, you know.”

  “I know.”

  Eliot Ness.

  “So,” Cowley continued, “if I say some things off the record, you’ll keep them there.”

  “I’m not a reporter.”

  “If a reporter asked you.” He looked over at me sharply. “Or even a judge.”

  I nodded.

  He walked back and stood by the chair. Said, “Zarkovich and O’Neill have made some conditions. One of them is that Stege and the Chicago police not be involved in Dillinger’s…capture.”

  “Why do you pause before the word ‘capture’?”

  He hesitated. “It has to do with another of their conditions.”

  “I see. Have you agreed to these various conditions?”

  “Not yet. That’s where you come in, Mr. Heller. Why not help the federal government avoid having to rub up against something as dirty as the East Chicago police? Why not tell us what you know, and keep us from having to deal with the likes of Zarkovich and O’Neill?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Well,” Cowley said, with an air of finality, “think it over. But think quickly. Because this is liable to come together quickly.”

  “And go down the same way?”

  He nodded slowly. He put on his coat, his hat. “Your help would be appreciated. By tomorrow, say.”

  “I’ll be thinking it over.”

  “Why don’t you contact your client, if you’re worried about getting his girlfriend involved?”

  “I’m afraid I have no way of contacting him. He’s on the road, and said he’d check back in with me. He hasn’t, yet.”

  Cowley shrugged. “You’re a detective. How did he get in touch with you?”

  Through a referral from a lawyer. Specifically, Louis Piquett. Piquett!

  “Say, Inspector. You’re obviously more up on the Dillinger case than I am. What lawyer was it Dillinger contacted to come up to Crown Point and defend him, right before he broke out last year?”

  “It was February of this year,” Cowley said. “And I’m surprised at you, Mr. Heller—you said you read the papers, and the papers played up Dillinger’s hiring such a colorful ‘mouthpiece.’”

  And I—like you—knew what he’d say next.

  “Louis Piquett, of course,” Cowley said, and nodded to me, and left.

  LOUIS PIQUETT

  12

  They call LaSalle Street the Wall Street of the West. Whatever, it’s a concrete valley where money and power live—if there’s a difference. Between Randolph and Washington streets, well before its claustrophobic canyon dead-ends at the Board of Trade Building, LaSalle in an act of sacrifice before the great god graft devotes an entire city block to City Hall, a modern whitestone monolith with classical airs. Money and power reside there, as well.

  But tucked away in the skyscrapers along LaSalle, above the giant banks and brokerages, are small offices where men who are not financial wizards nor politicans but who find their way toward money and power, just the same, also reside. Men like attorney Louis Phillip Piquett.

  On the west corner of Washington and LaSalle, a sleek gold-brick skyscraper was where Piquett kept his office. He was on the twenty-fifth floor. Looking down on City Hall.

  Going up in the elevator was like riding in an oven; it was just me, the uniformed operator and a couple of guys in business suits. I was in a business suit, too. We were basting in our own sweat. This was LaSalle Street, however, and one of the few places in the city where shirt sleeves were not the heat-wave order of the day. I suppose when you’re on your way to an air-conditioned office, you can afford roughing it.

  Piquett’s office was air-conditioned, beyond its pebbled-glass-and-wood facade, and brother did it feel good. The waiting room was surprisingly modern, for such an old-fashioned mouthpiece, with a white wall-to-wall carpet and black leather chairs with chrome arms along the glass-and-wood walls; there were several doors leading off the reception area, all of which said PRIVATE in black letters. A disturbingly pretty secretary at a big black desk, her head a cap of blond curls, gave me a sharp businesslike look, letting me know her chorus-girl beauty may have got her the job, but she was here to work, by God. She was, in fact, typing at the moment, sitting sideways at her desk working at a typewriter on a stand. She had black-frame glasses she maybe didn’t need and
a white mannish blouse and said, “Yes?”

  “I’m Nathan Heller,” I said. “Would you tell Mr. Piquett I’m here to see him?”

  “Have you an appointment?”

  “No.”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Piquett’s a busy man.”

  The office wasn’t exactly jumping: we two were alone in the reception area, and there were no sounds from behind the doors marked PRIVATE.

  “Just let him know I’m here, would you?” I said, and smiled politely, letting her know her chorus-girl beauty didn’t interest me particularly, which I could tell bothered her. She was the sort who resented you for noticing she was pretty but if you didn’t, resented you for that. I sat down. She knocked on Piquett’s door and went in and in a minute or so came out looking vaguely confused, then covered it quickly with that businesslike manner.

  “He’ll see you,” she said, and I started to rise, but she motioned me back. “It’ll be a few minutes.”

  And she returned to her typing.

  I sat and read one of the handful of magazines on a small glass-and-chrome table between two of the chairs; a Saturday Evening Post from the second week of January. Between the air conditioning and pictures of kids building snowmen, I was ready to find myself a pair of snowshoes.

  The frosty receptionist answered the phone on her desk and it was an inner-office call; she glanced up at me disinterestedly and said, “You can go on in, now.”

  I’d been waiting half an hour.

  Piquett was seated behind his desk, paperwork spread out across it unconvincingly. He’d kept me waiting on purpose; why, I didn’t know. But one thing was for sure: Piquett wasn’t a paperwork-style lawyer.

  He’d never been to law school; he studied the law books while working as a bartender and waiter. That much was well known by the public at large, who viewed him as a colorful character. Lesser known was Piquett’s stint as a hanger-on at police precinct houses, carrying messages to lawyers and bail bondsmen, as sort of an apprentice ambulance chaser. Ward heelers and politicians, as well as various underworld characters, were valuable connections made in those days by the would-be lawyer (rumor had it he tried out for the bar a dozen times before passing). And working as a waiter and bartender in road-houses and, later, in various Loop and North Side restaurants and taverns enabled Piquett to make some good, lasting friendships.