THE MALTESE SPECTRUM
Created by Rick “Paladin” Pratt
The first time I met Mr. Richard Devon was when my secretary showed him into my office. He was a man of middling height in a plain but meticulously cut gray suit. His stiff formal posture made him seem taller than he was, and with his short well-coiffed gray hair and stern dark-eyed visage, he exuded the air of a successful, confident man of business.
I rose to meet him with an extended hand, which he took in a firm but not overly strong grip.
“You are Mr. Grant?” He asked.
“So they tell me,” I said, straight faced.
A slight look of consternation crossed his countenance.
Oh well, I guess big shot business men can’t afford a sense of humor to go along with their expensive suits and chauffeured cars. One of these days my sarcasm was going to get me in a real jam.
I gestured to the chair facing my desk.
“Please have a seat, Mr. Devon, and tell me what I can do for you.”
He hesitated for a moment then seated himself. From his breast pocket he removed a gold cigarette case and a telescoping cigarette holder. Placing a cigarette in the holder he lit it with a lighter that looked like a gold nugget.
I had already dropped into my chair. I shook a Lucky Strike out of a deck and struck a match on my desktop to light it. Looking at him through the smoke, I waited for him to begin.
“I want you to find my daughter.”
Straight to the point, I like that in a client.
“I am a widower, Mr. Grant. My daughter Cynthia is my only child, and I have perhaps been over indulgent with her whims as a result. She has become a headstrong and willful young woman, and I have sometimes been at my wit’s end attempting to cope with her fiery nature.”
“I own a house on the north shore of Long Island,” He continued. “While staying there this summer, my daughter became involved with a man much older than she. It began one night, when we attending a garden party at the estate of a business associate. It was then that we made the acquaintance of a Mr. Gerald Osbourne. Mr. Osbourne struck me as a man who was, ahem, new to his wealth. He had not the manners of a proper gentleman. In fact, I would go so far as to say that he gave the impression of having made his money by dubious means.”
“You mean he’s a gangster?” I asked.
“Perhaps,” He answered, “perhaps so. In any event, my daughter was apparently charmed by his common, uncouth behavior. She spent a great deal of time speaking with him, far too much time. It was completely improper. I attempted to take her aside to discuss her behavior, but she became enraged and threatened to make a scene. I managed to remove her from the party, and we returned home. I had hoped that within a few days the matter would be behind us, but it was not to be.
Cynthia refused to speak with me. She locked herself in her rooms and would only venture forth to take her meals. I was somewhat angered by her behavior and I attempted to confine her to the house, but she apparently found means to sneak out without my knowledge.”
“I eventually became aware that she was meeting with this scoundrel; they had been observed together in town by my driver. I attempted to put a stop to it at once. I forbade her to have any further contact with the rogue, and I sent a man of my employ around to dissuade him from attempting to contact her again.”
“I guess your man wasn’t quite persuasive enough, or you wouldn’t be here talking to me now,” I interjected.
“Quite right,” he said. “The villain absconded with her. I’ve been able to learn that they traveled here to Manhattan, but I have been unable to discover their whereabouts in the city.”
“Assuming they’re still here,” I interjected.
“I have reason to believe they are,” he said. “Mr. Osbourne claimed to have extensive business interests, as well as a permanent residence in this city.”
“How old is your daughter?” I asked.
“She is twenty one,” He answered.
“You do realize,” I said, “that she is legally an adult. She can run off and marry any damn fool she pleases.”
“I’m aware of that,” he said. “Yet, I am also aware of your reputation, Mr. Grant. I am quite certain that your investigations of Mr. Osbourne will bear fruit, and that in light of these revelations you can convince him that it would be in his best interest to cut off his relationship with my daughter. Once this has been achieved I believe Cynthia will return to me of her own accord.”
“You’re sure Osbourne is dirty?” I asked.
“Quite certain,” he said with conviction.
“Well then, Mr. Devon, I’ll take your case.” I leaned forward in my chair.
“There is of course the matter of my retainer.”
“Of course,” he said. “Would five hundred dollars be sufficient?”
My eyes opened a little wider. “Quite generous! Although in all fairness I have to tell you I was only going to ask for a hundred.”
“No matter, Mr. Grant. I wish to see to all your needs now. This way, should any unforeseen business expenses arise during the course of your investigation, you would not find it necessary to contact me. I should like to keep this matter as discreet as possible.” As he was speaking he removed an envelope and some photographs from his breast pocket and slid them across the desk. I looked at the photos first. One was a group shot at a party. Devon reached over and pointed at a tall thin dark-haired man in the second row. “That is Mr. Osbourne.”
I glanced at the second picture and tried not to whistle. Cynthia Devon was quite a looker! “Redhead?” I asked. She had the look, but of course you can’t tell in a photograph. Devon nodded.
“I left my card with your secretary. Please contact me when you have found both my daughter and the evidence necessary to separate her from Mr. Osbourne.”
He rose. We shook hands, and then taking his hat, he left.
“Penny!” I called to my secretary. Then I opened a desk drawer, took out a bottle and two glasses, and set them on top.
Penny came into the office; her eyebrow rose in a questioning manner. She saw the bottle and smiled; then sauntered over and sat in my lap crossing her long legs.
“We have a case?” She asked.
“We do.” I leaned forward to pour us a couple of drinks and her long blonde hair brushed against my cheek. “And a five hundred dollar retainer.”
She stopped in the act of lifting her drink and stared at me open mouthed.
“Drink up, Sweetheart,” I said with a lopsided grin.
She downed it in one shot. Then she jumped off my lap and said excitedly, “Well what are you waiting for? Get out there and solve this case!”
I sighed and then swallowed my own drink. “You sure know how to kill a mood.”
“Never mind that. Get out there and earn that five hundred bucks.”
Shaking my head and chuckling, I stood, and walked over to get my hat. As I passed her, I gave Penny a playful swat on the bottom. She yelped, then turned with her hands on her hips, and fixed me with a stern glare. I gave her another grin then beat a hasty retreat.
***
Out on the street, I climbed up to the platform of a gyrotaxi stand and pressed the button on the pole to hail a cab. The light on top of the pole began to flash, and after a few minutes I saw one swerve down towards me. I stepped back against the rail as he came in for a landing, holding on to my hat so the wind from the prop and the top rotor didn’t blow it away.
I climbed in, and the pilot turned around to glance at me. “Where to Mac?”
“Eighth and Fifty Third Street,” I said.
As the gyrotaxi took off and began to navigate the congested canyons of the New York streets, I settled back in my seat to think. Finding someone in a city of almost two million people was not an easy job, even with a photo and a name. But I had a good idea of how to go about looking for Ms. Devon and her shady companion. The Black Orchid Ballroom was a popular nightspot. A wealthy young woman who was fond of parties and night life would be almost certain to go there at some point, and the owner was a friend of mine.
Even if they didn’t go to the Orchid, chances were that they wouldn’t be the stay-at-home types. I would just have to visit all the bars and dance halls until I found them or someone who had seen them.
The cabbie dropped me off on the platform I had asked. I tossed him a fin and told him to keep the change, then took the elevator down to the street. The Black Orchid was in the middle of Fifty-Third. It was the middle of the day so the place was closed, but I knew that Tom would be in. I knocked on the delivery door and Tom himself answered. “Johnny! What are you doing in this part of town?”
“Business, Tom,” I said as he lead me into his office. “I’m looking for a girl.”
“Ain’t you always,” he laughed.
I smiled. “Yeah, well this time I’m working on a case.” I took out the photograph of Cynthia Devon. “Have you seen this girl?”
He took the photo and studied it for a moment. “Yeah. Yeah, I seen her. She’s been here a few times. She was here just the other night with a fella.”
Bingo! “A fella huh? Was it this guy?” I passed him the other picture.
“Yeah, that’s him. Nasty piece a work that guy. I seen him here before.”
“Oh yeah?” I raised an eyebrow in interest.
“Yeah. I don’t know his name but I seen him with Vinnie The Finger.”
I whistled. Vinnie “The Finger” Carpone was a big man in the city’s underworld. He had a “finger” in every form of illegal activity; from prostitution, to gambling, to bank jobs. If it was illegal and there was money to be made, Vinnie had a piece of it. If Osbourne was one of his boys this business could get really ugly.
“Do you think he works for him?” I asked.
“I don’t know for sure. It ain’t healthy to know too much about The Finger, if you know what I mean, but I don’t think he does. The couple of times I seen him with Vinnie and his soldiers he didn’t come here with them, and one of Vinnie’s goons patted him down before he was allowed to sit at the table.”
I nodded. Probably not one of Vinnie’s boys, but maybe an associate. I could check on that later. “Thanks, Tom, I’ll be by tonight to drink some of your rotgut.”
Tom laughed then turned serious. “Fine, Johnny, but if you’re gonna be working-”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “If they’re here all I’m gonna do is watch them.”
“I hope so,” he said. “I just finished cleaning up after the last time you worked in my joint.”
I gave him my most sincere grin. ‘Trust me.”
***
I grabbed a gyrotaxi and headed over to Times Square. It dropped me off on the platform at the north end at the corner of 47th. It was early, and the neon splendor of the square had not yet awakened to it’s nighttime brilliance, but it was still busy. They say the place is the “crossroads of the world,” and that everyone comes there eventually. I don’t know about that, but there were sure a whole lot of people there. It was all I could do to force my way down the sidewalk. It would be a hard place to find someone if you didn’t know where to look; luckily for me, I did. Around the corner in an alley off of 42nd street I found my man.
Jimmy Parks was a lanky sallow-faced punk in a dirty newsboy’s cap with a cheap cigarette pasted in the corner of his mouth. He was a small time crook and pimp, and he was one of my regular informants–though not by his own choice. I had some really good dirt on old Jimmy, dirt that would earn him a pair of cement shoes if I whispered it in the right ear.
As usual, he wasn’t very happy to see me.
“Jeez, Grant! Are you tryin’ to get me killed? What are you doin’ here in broad daylight?”
“Relax, Jimmy,” I said, placing my hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you step into my office so we can talk in private.” I shoved him down the alley then pushed him behind a dumpster.
Jimmy responded with a couple of words that would have gotten a mouth full of soap and a ruler across the knuckles in a good Catholic school. I just backhanded him across the face.
“Watch your language, Jimmy, I have delicate ears.”
“You can’t just come down here and slap me around!” He was getting himself all riled up. “I got friends see! I know fellas who can take care of you!”
I didn’t have time for one of Jimmy’s tantrums. I grabbed him by his tie and slammed his head against the brick wall a few times then pulled him up on his toes, his face close to mine. I can look really mean and ugly when I put my mind to it, and I gave old Jimmy boy the full effect.
“Listen up slimeball!” I growled in his face. “The only reason you’re still sucking air is because you sometimes make yourself useful to me! If the cops stuck you behind bars or your boss threw you in the river it wouldn’t mean a thing to me! You’re just a low life no good pimp! So if you want to keep breathing you better try real hard to keep me happy!”
His eyes were big and round with terror, I think he actually wet his pants. I tossed him back against the wall. His legs gave out and he collapsed to the grimy pavement.
“Get up!” I barked in disgust.
He pushed himself shakily to his feet.
“I didn’t mean nothin’ honest,” he gasped. “I was just kiddin’. Really I was! What do you need, Grant? I’ll tell you anythin’! Anythin’ you want!”
I stared at him with my evil face for a little bit longer just to make sure, then I took out the picture of Osbourne and showed it to him.
“You know this guy?”
His eyes got wider for a moment then he looked back at me and flinched.
“Yeah,” he said, looking down at his feet. “I know him.”
“Well?” I growled.
He flinched again. “His name’s Fletcher, Adam Fletcher. He’s a fence. Deals mostly in high-end merchandise; expensive jewelry, artwork, stuff like that.”
I kept up my level stare. “How do you know so much about him, Jimmy? That’s not your usual racket?”
“I-I did a job for him. Me and a mick named Sean. He gave us the lowdown on a Park Avenue apartment. He paid off the help to get us in and we robbed the joint. It was a funny job. All he wanted was this crate that was in the safe. That’s what Sean was for; he’s a first-rate cracker. So we gets him this crate and we get to have the rest of the take. Jewelry, dough, silver and gold plates and candlesticks! All sorts of stuff! It was the best haul I ever seen! All he wants is this one lousy crate!”
“What did this crate look like? How big was it?” I asked.
“It was about the size of a suitcase, but it was heavy. Oh yeah, it had writin’ on it, words and numbers.”
“What did it say?” I asked.
He made a face. “I ain’t never learned to read. I dropped out of school in the third grade.”
I sighed. “All right, what else?”
“Well, like I said it was the best haul I ever seen. We moved it down the freight elevator. Fletcher had a truck waitin’ for us. I figured when he saw all we got he’d change his mind and want a cut, but he just smiled and said good work. Then he took his crate and left. So I figure I’ll take my half and retire. Move south or somethin’. Sean and me was laying low in an old warehouse waitin’ to move the loot. We stayed together to keep an eye on each other, you know. So one of us didn’t try to cheat the other.”
I nodded.
“Well, I had gone down to the corner to get somethin’ to eat, when all of a sudden I hear a bunch of shootin’ comin’ from the warehouse. I look outside and I sees a whole bunch of cops in front of the place and more goin’ in the doors. So I beat it, I figured after they got Sean they’d come lookin’ for me. I found out later that the stupid mick got hisself killed tryin’ to shoot it out with the cops! At first I was afraid that Fletcher had set us up. I found out later that it was Sean’s fault. He’d pulled a bank job a couple of months before but he’d screwed it up. He missed a bank guard and the old duffer had gotten some shots off at him. Sean only got away with a small bag of dough from one of the tellers and it was marked! The stupid bum had been spendin’ it all over town! The cops didn’t know nothin’ about me or our loot when they raided the place. They thought they was just goin’ after one mad dog killer of a bank robber. So I lost it all for nothin’!”
“Tough break,” I said. I wasn’t exactly consoling about it.
He gave me a sour look but he went on with his story. “I went to Fletcher to see if he could help me out, seein’ as I’d done the job for him in the first place, but the cheap bum told me that if I couldn’t hold on to my money that it was my problem not his!”
He looked at me and his face was hard. “If you want to take him down be my guest! I done that job for him and I ain’t got nothin’ to show for it. Arrest him, kill him for all I care!”
***
I went down to the Automat and got myself the afternoon paper, a sandwich, and a cup of coffee. I thought about the case as I drank. It was shaping up nicely. I figured I had enough dirt on Osbourne or Fletcher or whatever he wanted to call himself to convince him to back off. Still, there was something about this case that bothered me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Something just didn’t feel right. I chased my thoughts around through two more cups but I couldn’t pin down what it was.
Then I looked at the paper.
Hitler had invaded Poland.
Not again! Dear God not again!
I remembered the last war well enough, far too well.
I remembered in 1918, when we thought the war was about to end. Then the German land ironclads had come rolling over no man’s land, blasting the British tanks into so much scrap metal and pushing our lines back to the breaking point. It had taken another four years of hard fighting and that crazy young officer, Patton, President Roosevelt’s golden boy, to finally beat them. He’d convinced Teddy to buy those weird tricycle tanks from the Russians. They were light on armor but Patton used them like the old horse cavalry, and they ran rings around the land ironclads, shooting out their tracks then swarming them, like wolves taking down a bear. Even after the President died in 1919, no one could argue with Patton’s success.
We’d won. Yes, in the end we’d won.
But we’d had to wade neck deep in blood to do it.
The paper’s editorial column was a fiery piece in support of America’s policy of neutrality. “The American people,” it said, “had had their fill of foreign wars.”
They wanted no part in this one.
***
By the time I left it was dark outside. I went to the corner platform and hailed a gyrotaxi. The trip downtown to the Orchid took longer than I had expected. Sky traffic was heavy and Broadway was crowded with advertising dirigibles. Even so, when I got to the club the crowd was still light. I got myself a drink, found a dark corner, and settled down to watch.
The floor show that night was Professor Jaxon Sax And His Automatic Orchestra. The Professor was a crazy looking old fossil with wild white hair and a mismatched suit. His “Orchestra” was a gigantic clanking monstrosity. It looked like a piston engine from a destroyer that had gotten into a traffic accident with a trumpet factory. The professor was jumping around and waving his baton at the behemoth while it chugged along and blasted notes out its trumpet bells. Whether his conducting actually affected the thing or not I had no idea, but it didn’t sound half bad.
I turned my attention back to the crowd. It was the usual mix of city regulars and tourists out for a night on the town. I spotted an obviously “green” pickpocket trying his best to work the crowd and I discretely pointed him out to one of Tom’s bouncers.
It was going on midnight by my jump hour watch, and I was starting to think they wouldn’t show tonight when suddenly I saw her–Cynthia Devon, big as life and even better looking than her photograph. Her long red hair was fashionably pinned up and she was wearing a red evening gown that hugged her curves in such a way that I almost forgot what I was supposed to be doing. I finally managed to drag my gaze from her figure long enough to scan the crowd for Osbourne, or Fletcher or whatever he was calling himself, but he was nowhere to be seen. She took a table not far from the corner I was lurking in.
From the moment she sat down she appeared to be agitated. Was she waiting for Osbourne? Maybe someone else? She turned down a number of prospective suitors asking for a dance, and as time went by she appeared to become more anxious. After an hour had passed she stood up and headed for the door. I followed after her at a distance making sure not to lose sight of her. I knew that if she headed for a car or tried to hail a cab or a gyro I’d have to move fast, but when she got outside she turned left and headed east on foot. I followed her to the end of the block, then she turned and started across the street towards an all night parking garage. I was just thinking that I’d have to find a cab after all, when I suddenly got that crawling feeling on the back of my neck. When you do this job long enough you start to get something, whether you want to call it instinct, premonition, or eyes in the back of your head: litt