Stolen Away (25 page)

“All I know,” she said, “is that Means told me that the Aiken delivery was off—that the child was being taken by water and land to a point near Juarez, Mexico.”

“Mexico?” My head was reeling.

“He said the gang felt safer out of the country. They felt if they were ever caught, that they’d be torn limb from limb.”

“That much is the truth, anyway.” I gulped down the rest of the Bacardi. I could’ve used another, but I didn’t get myself one; Evalyn’s words were making me woozy enough. “And that’s what you meant by, ‘to hell and Texas’?”

She nodded. “Means said if I went to El Paso, just across the border from Juarez, he could arrange that the gang would bring the baby to me.”

“And you went.”

“Inga and I, yes. To the Paso Del Norte Hotel in El Paso, where Means met us, at four in the afternoon. He assured us the ‘book’ was ‘across the river,’ as he always referred to Mexico. He went across the border and returned that night with bad news: the gang was still quarreling over the division of the spoils. This went on for another day, with Means going ‘across the river,’ and returning, with nothing developing; he even brought the Fox back around—who seemed nervous, kept saying he had to protect his gang, couldn’t take a chance on turning the baby over unless they were ‘protected on every angle.’ I blew up at them both, stormed out, took the next train home.”

“Did Means try to stop you from going?”

“He did, until I told him that any prolonged, unexplained absence on my part would make my lawyers and friends suspicious, and that the first thing they’d think of would be to go straight to J. Edgar Hoover.”

“And you returned home.”

“Yes. Arrived late the night before last.”

“Have you heard from Means, since?”

“Oh yes. He called this afternoon. Claimed he’d flown from El Paso to Chicago, with the Fox, shortly after I’d taken my leave from them. That he had just returned to his home, at Chevy Chase, from the airport, and would call on me soon.”

I got up and began to pace. “Do you expect him this evening?”

“Possibly. At this point, do we care? I’m convinced Means is perpetrating the biggest hoax of his career. You were right all along, Nate. I was a fool.”

Suddenly I wasn’t so sure who the fool was. If I’d stayed with Evalyn, and not gone back to reenter the Jafsie sweepstakes, maybe I’d be on top of things, instead of underneath the weight of it all.

“What
is
it, Nate? What’s wrong?”

“Call Means. Get him over here. Now.”

I was perched out of sight in the balcony, from which that reporter friend of Evalyn’s had supervised her first meeting with the notorious Gaston Bullock Means. And like Evalyn’s reporter friend, I was armed. The nine millimeter was snugly beneath my left shoulder.

Below me, in a room lit only by the fireplace, Evalyn—still wearing the dowdy robe, smoking yet another cigarette—paced. Before long, Garboni announced, and ushered in, her awaited guest.

Massive Gaston Means, who had rushed here to see Mrs. McLean, eager to be of help, stood before her like a shaved bear in a suit. That suit was dark blue and vested with a blue-and-red tie; he looked like a Southern senator, the kind a lobbyist could buy for a cigar, a drink and a whore.

“I was afraid, Eleven,” Means said in his mellow manner, “that you had lost faith in me.”

“Please sit down, Means.”

“‘Hogan,’ my dear. I must insist.”

Their voices rose to me, echoey but distinct.

She sat; arms folded, head erect. “Let’s dispense with the melodrama for once. Tell me the truth, Means. Tell me how much more money you want.”

“I don’t want anything,” he said, sitting on the nearest couch, homburg in hand. “The four thousand expenses you gave me is sufficient.”

Evalyn hadn’t mentioned that, though later she confirmed it: Means had asked for, and gotten, four grand from her as an expense account, above and beyond her hundred grand he was “holding.”

“You look tired, Eleven. Are you well?”

She was lighting up a fresh cigarette. “Is the ‘book’ well, is more to the point. What news do you have?”

He gestured broadly. “As you know, I’ve just been in Chicago. A member of the gang was sent there, a few days ago, by the Fox, to unload the fifty grand Lindbergh paid that other negotiator. But the Fox’s man hasn’t had any luck—no buyers. The banks have the serial numbers, you know.”

“So I’ve read in the papers.”

“The gang is pretty sore at Lindy for marking that money. I’m trying to convince them that your one hundred thousand isn’t marked.”

“Thank you. So what’s our next move?”

Means leaned forward conspiratorially, clutching his homburg like a tiny shield. “The gang wants clean money to replace the marked stuff they got from Lindbergh. They’re willing to sell that marked fifty thousand back for thirty-five thousand, unmarked.”

“And I suppose that thirty-five thousand is to be taken out of my hundred thousand?”

He leaned back, surprised, almost insulted. “Oh no—that hundred thousand is not to be touched under any circumstances. The moment a deal for the marked money goes through, the hundred thousand might be needed on a moment’s notice, for the return of the ‘book.’”

Evalyn blew out smoke. “Means, have you still got that money of mine?”

“Your money? Why, of course!”

“Where is it?”

“In a safe down at my family home in Concord…and has been since right after you saw it in my home that day. Surely, Eleven, you can’t imagine I would’ve taken that money with me to Aiken or especially to Texas—and run the chance of having it hijacked!” Smilingly, he patted his chest. “You don’t know Gaston Means.”

“Sometimes I wish I didn’t. This thirty-five thousand—who’s going to put that up? I haven’t got that much in cash.”

“I tried to raise it myself, my dear, from a bookmaker friend of mine. But, alas…”

That was it; that was all I could take.

I came down the stairs. My footsteps were like gunshots. Means looked around, startled. He rose from the couch, turning, his moon face intense, his hand drifting toward his coat pocket.

But I already had the nine millimeter in hand.

“Don’t,” I said without enthusiasm.

He didn’t. His face was slack, the dimples lost in fleshiness; his tiny eyes were wide.

Evalyn’s eyes glittered; she seemed a little afraid, and a little excited by my entrance. She liked melodrama, too.

“I’ll need a few moments alone with Mr. Means,” I told her. She’d been warned I might do this. She nodded and went quickly out.

“Eleven!” he called after her, pawing the air. She didn’t answer. A door closed, heavily.

I walked over to him. “Hands up, Means. You know the procedure.”

“What’s the meaning of this, Sixteen?”

“You remembered my code number. I’m flattered.” Patting him down, I found a small automatic, a .25. In his fat hand it would have looked like a party favor. I tossed it gently on the couch.

“Who
are
you?” he asked indignantly.

“Not the chauffeur. What do you
really
know, Means?”

He gave me his innocence-personified expression; he looked like a dissipated cherub. “Know?”

With measured sarcasm, I replied, “About the Lindbergh case.”

He shook his head, dignified, stubborn, idealistic. “I’m sworn to secrecy.”

“I want names. I want to know who engineered this thing.”

“What thing?”

“The kidnapping, you fat bastard. The kidnapping.”

He held his chin up; it was shaped like the end of a small garden shovel. “I don’t know anything more than I’ve told Mrs. McLean.”

“Would you be willing to take a lie-detector test, Means?”

He snorted. “I don’t believe in those things. Wires and electrodes and needles. Poppycock.”

“I didn’t mean that kind of lie detector.”

He snorted again, skeptically. “What kind
did
you mean?”

“The Chicago kind.”

“And what, pray tell, is the Chi—”

He didn’t finish the question, because I’d stuck the barrel of the nine millimeter in his mouth.

“We use this kind of lie detector in Chicago,” I explained.

His eyes were as wide as Mickey Mouse’s, and just as animated. His dimples had returned but, with his mouth full like that, he wasn’t smiling.

I was. “Get down on your knees, Means, and do it smooth. This has a hair trigger, and so do I.”

Carefully, he got down on his knees, a kneeling Buddha on an Oriental carpet, unwillingly suckling the Browning all the way.

Once he was settled in his prayerlike posture, he made some sounds; he seemed to want to know what I wanted.

“Names, Means. I want the names of the people that did the job.”

He made more sounds around the gun, apparent protestations of innocence, of ignorance. I pushed upward, so the gun-sight would cut the roof of his mouth. He began to cough, which was dangerous. His spittle turned reddish. He began to cry. I had never seen a man that big cry, before. I would have felt sorry for him if he weren’t the scum of creation.

“Nod,” I said, “if you’re ready to tell the truth.”

Choking a little, he nodded.

“Okay,” I said, and slid the gun out of his mouth. It dripped with his reddish saliva, and I wiped it off on his suitcoat, disgustedly.

“Max Hassel,” he said, breathing hard. “And Max Greenberg.”

“Are you making that up?”

“No! No.”

“They’re both named Max?”

“Yes! Yes.”

“Who are they?”

“Bootleggers.”

They would be.

“Where can I find them?”

“Elizabeth.”

“New Jersey?”

“New Jersey,” he nodded.

“Where in Elizabeth?”

“Carteret Hotel.”

“Be specific.”

“Eighth floor.”

“Good. More names.”

“That’s all I know. I swear to God, that’s all.”

“Hassel and Greenberg are the kidnappers?”

“They engineered it. They didn’t do it themselves. They used their people. People who were selling beer to Colonel Lindbergh’s servants, and the Morrow house servants.”

“Was one of the servants in on it?”

He nodded. “Violet Sharpe—but they just used her. The little bitch didn’t know what she was doing.”

I slapped him. Hard. I slapped him again. Harder.

“What…what else do you want to know?” he asked, desperately.

“Nothing,” I said. “I just want to slap you around some, you fat fuck.”

His cheeks were red and burning and tear-streaked; he looked pitiful, on his knees, the world’s biggest altar boy, caught with his hand in the collection plate.

“If Hassel and Greenberg aren’t for real,” I said, “you’re going to take the lie-detector test again, Means—and you’re going to flunk.”

“They’re…they’re for real,” he said, thickly.

“If you say a word to them, or anyone, about our conversation, I’ll kill you. Understood?”

He nodded.

“Say it,” I said.

“If I say a word to anybody, you’ll kill me.”

“Do you believe me?”

He nodded; there was still red spittle on his face.

“Good. Are you really in contact with the kidnap gang?”

Without hesitation, he nodded.

“Is the boy alive?”

Without hesitation, he nodded.

“Do you know where he is?”

Now he hesitated, but he shook his head, no.

“Who is the fellow ‘the Fox’?”

He swallowed. “Norman Whitaker. A friend of mine. Old cellmate.”

“He’s not in on the kidnapping?”

“No. He’s with me.”

“What’s his function?”

Means shrugged. “Color.”

“Color. What about Evalyn’s dough?”

“I still have it.”

“You still have it.”

“I swear. I really have been trying to negotiate the return of that dear child.”

“Stop it or you’re going to get slapped some more. What’s the extra thirty-five grand for?”

He pressed his hands over his heart. “That was true, all of it…I
did
go to Chicago, the gang
can’t
move that marked cabbage…I swear to God.”

I smacked him along the side of the head with the nine millimeter; he tumbled over, heavily, like something inanimate, and the furniture around him jumped.

But he wasn’t out, and it hadn’t cut him; he’d be bruised, that was all.

“All right,” I said, kicking him in the ass. He was on his side. He looked up at me with round hollow eyes. There was something childlike in his expression. I gestured impatiently with the gun.

“Get up,” I said. “Go home. Talk to fucking no one. Wait for Evalyn to call.”

He got up, slowly. His face was soft, weak, but the eyes had turned hard and mean. If he was like a child, in his endless self-serving fabrications spun from fact and fancy, it was an evil, acquisitive child, the kind that steals another kid’s marbles, the kind that steps on anthills.

I’d gone to great lengths to prove to him I was dangerous; but despite his tears and cowardice, Means remained goddamn dangerous himself.

I gave him his hat and, sans slugs, his gun.

“Who
are
you?” Means said, thickly.

“Somebody you never expected to meet.”

“Oh, really?” he said, archly, summoning some dignity. “And who would that be?”

“Your conscience,” I said.

He snorted, coughed, and lumbered out.

I sat on the couch, waiting for Evalyn. I didn’t have long to wait; she came down the stairs as if making a grand entrance at a ball, despite her dowdy bathrobe. She’d gone around somewhere and come out on that balcony and eavesdropped the whole encounter.

She moved slowly toward me; the shadows of the fire danced on her. Her face was solemn, her eyes glittering.

“You’re a nasty man,” she said.

“I can leave,” I said, embarrassed.

She dropped the robe to the floor. Her skin looked golden in the fire’s glow; nipples erect, delicate blue veins marbling her full ivory breasts, a waist you could damn near reach your hands around, hips flaring nicely, legs slender but shapely.

“Don’t dare leave,” she said, and held her arms out to me.