Chapter 15
Never Upset An Armed Receptionist
I didn't know how Spats fit into all of this, and I figured I needed to have a face-to-face with him to see what his interest was in this case. He seemed to be connected to the group Joseph was with, but they were mostly low-level thugs on an assigned mission to get the information that Hart had. Spats could be the brains behind it, but I think he would have shown up earlier in the picture if he was a major player. On the other hand, he could be either William Mason or Sam Parrish, though I doubted it.
William Mason and Sam Parrish both worked for National. Mason seemed to be Martin's contact at National. He must have been working both sides: He must have been the go-between with Martin, and he must have been skimming when money was involved. He had to be the one altering reports at National for Martin because they had his signature. At some point, he had to have gone into business for himself, or he and Parrish joined forces. Where the hell was Parrish? I knew Mason was in San Francisco somewhere, and he seemed to be the one running the guys that came at the Lieutenant and me. I needed to get Mason out in the open on my terms, then find Parrish and figure out his involvement. My first move was to see Billie Whitehall. I needed to get a message to Spats, and delivering one at The Palace was my best bet.
Mrs. Stanton would be in the Hotel one more night because she had already missed today's train back East. According to Billie, Spats showed up in the lobby when Mrs. Stanton came down from her suite. That meant that Spats had information about Mrs. Stanton's movements. I just hoped it hadn't been Joseph.
Billie was shining shoes, so I went to one of the lobby alcoves and wrote up a brief message for Spats. I put it into an envelope and went to see Billie.
“I need you to keep an eye out for Spats,” I said to Billie.
“He's in the Piper right now,” said Billie.
I wondered if the fickle bitch was watching out for me or out to get me?
“Okay,” I said. “Watch for him, and deliver this for me.”
I slipped Billie a five and headed for the front lobby exit. I wanted to get back to the office as quickly as possible. I needed to get there before Spats. I needed to alert Betty that we might be getting a guest. One who might be a little dangerous.
I got a cab quick, unfortunately, the driver didn't understand what in a hurry meant. He tried a couple of turns that were out of line. It took my informing him that I was packing heat, and he was pissing me off before he finally got that he should focus on getting me to my destination quickly. The traffic and red lights weren’t his fault. Still, when we got to my office I tossed him his fare sans tip.
I went up in the elevator, and out of habit, I opened my coat. I had a sudden bad feeling and when the doors opened I looked in both directions before exiting the elevator. I walked to the office. I put my hand on the door and opened it slowly. I could see Betty, and she was not happy. I don't know what happened, but I figured I would find out from the Lieutenant what would be the best way to apologize. I stepped into the office.
“You expecting company?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said hesitantly.
“You couldn't give me a heads up?” she asked.
“I thought I would be here before my guest arrived,” I said, “Everything okay?”
“He's in the office. He had to get his own coffee. He called me honey!” she said.
It was then that I saw the snub nose on her desk,
“His?” I asked.
“Yes,” She replied. “When he arrived, he seemed agitated. I could see the bump in his coat. He really should get a better tailor. I explained that unknown visitors were required to hand over any armament until they were fully vetted. He was reluctant to give it up. I retrieved my thirty-eight from under the desk, pointed it at his manhood, and explained if he didn't comply I would perform a bris on him. Fritz did an excellent job; I can retrieve the gun quickly in a single motion and display its presence. It's quite effective.”
“I'll see, uh… Mr. ...”
“He said his name was Smith,” she replied.
“Next time I'll call and give you a heads up,” I said.
“You do that,” she replied.
Spats--Mr. Smith--was sitting in the client chair. He was an older man, slightly heavy with thinning gray hair. He was wearing a three-piece suit; he might have been a banker or lawyer. He was drinking a cup of coffee, it was clear he hadn't been waiting long. He turned and looked at me.
“You have me at a slight disadvantage,” he said. “You are armed, and I am not.”
“If you thought you were in any danger,” I said, “you wouldn’t have come, or you would have brought reinforcements. I think I made it clear in my note that I wanted to talk, possibly exchange information that would be mutually illuminating. And you know who I am, and I don't know who you are. So, I don't think you are at a disadvantage at this moment.”
“Your receptionist is remarkable; would it be possible to persuade her to come work for me?” he asked.
“She's married, and I don't think she wants to work in New York,” I replied.
It was a shot in the dark, but he blinked, and he knew he blinked.
“Well played, Mr. Watcher,” he said. “I would be fascinated to hear how you got mixed up in this.”
“Kismet,” I replied.
Mr. Smith nodded. “You do still have me at a disadvantage”
“Betty,” I called out, “bring Mr. Smith his weapon, I think we have reached an understanding.”
Betty walked in casually with Mr. Smith's gun. She handed it to him slowly noting I had my right hand on my Colt.
“An understanding, huh?” she said.
Mr. Smith had to turn away from me to take his gun and Betty was to one side so that Mr. Smith made an excellent target if he tried to grab her. He slowly took his gun with two fingers and gently slipped it into his jacket. Then he buttoned his coat and I removed my right hand from my Colt.
Mr. Smith looked up at Betty.
“I apologize for the honey reference,” he said, “I underestimated you. I don't do that very often. It won't happen again.”
Betty nodded and went back to her desk, leaving the door ajar. Mr. Smith turned back to me.
“Since you showed good faith in returning my gun to me, I will answer what questions I can,” he said.
“Have you been in San Francisco long?” I asked.
He cocked his head and looked at me.
“An odd question,” he said. “I have been here a couple of days. I arrived in the city by train before you took up residence in this office. You were a surprise. My employers know very little about you.”
“I think maybe you will be more forthcoming if I provide some information you may not know,” I said. “Martin Stanton is dead. He died in New Orleans.”
Mr. Smith's eyes widened, then his gaze narrowed as he gauged if the information I just gave him was true or not.
“You have proof of this,” he said rather than asked.
“No direct proof, mostly circumstantial. But I can give you sufficient information so that any contacts you have in New Orleans can confirm what I say is true. Also, your employers have recently received something that was taken from them in upstate New York. Would you like details?”
“I have been informed that a wire is waiting for me back at my hotel, I suspect that it will most likely confirm what you just said. Why?” he asked.
“Martin Stanton took what was not his because he wanted to get away from his father. The odd thing is that his artistic ability provided a much larger opportunity than his theft. He attempted to make amends anonymously, and head for Europe sans wife. Someone ended his dream before he could make it a reality.”
Mr. Smith leaned back in his chair, brought his hands together, interlaced his fingers upon his chest, and tucked his chin down as he stared at my desk. He sat for a couple of minutes. He was thinking.
“You deduced most of this?” he asked.
“I have,” I replied.
“What do you want?”
“You were seen talking with Mrs. Stanton's chauffeur. I don't know what your intentions are for Mrs. Stanton, but I want you to leave her alone. She was not part of the theft. In fact, her primary activity was to assist your employers in getting their money back. Any other involvement was coerced.”
“Convince me.”
“She has a son, not Martin's. He threatened the boy.”
“If I can confirm what you have told me, I have no interest in the wife. But Martin Stanton had a partner. My employers are concerned about how they were robbed. My job...”
I smiled. While Mr. Smith was a most dangerous man, I realized he was not a problem.
“You're in domestic service,” I said.
He sat upright in his chair, and I might have been concerned, but I knew he just didn't get the joke.
“You clean up after people,” I said.
Mr. Smith's eyes softened and then he laughed.
“My God, Mr. Watcher, I do like you. Domestic service. I think I will put that on a business card.”
“There are three people in this case that might be connected with Martin Stanton. All three are, or were, employees of National: William Mason, Sam Parrish, and Steven Jaxom. Jaxom came too late to be Martin's partner, but Mason and Parrish were in the frame nearly from the beginning. Mrs. Stanton said Martin had a friend at National who was doctoring the reports, so Martin could make good on his getaway.”
Mr. Smith nodded.
“Jaxom is an opportunist who might take advantage of a situation as long as it doesn't get too messy. Mason is not in San Francisco. As for Stupid Sammy...”
“Stupid Sammy?” I said.
“Mason called him something like that. I have no idea where he is,” said Mr. Smith as he stood up. “I'll see myself out. I will be in touch. I didn't really have any information for you.”
“Oh, but you did,” I said.
“What is that?” he asked.
“If I kill anyone else involved in this, your employers don't care, as long as they get the information they want,” I said.
“I believe you are correct,” he said.
“Mr. Smith, I know you are also a point man. Please convey to your employers that San Francisco is really too small to invest in for expansion. It really would be too expensive.”
Again, Mr. Smith eyed me carefully.
“You have only been working out of this office a couple of days. Being a little aggressive, aren't you?”
I slowly stood up and faced him.
“I found you in that time,” I said.
Mr. Smith laughed again.
“I really do like you, Mr. Watcher. I agree. For other reasons as well, San Francisco is not worth cultivating for my employers. We will talk again before I leave.”
Mr. Smith nodded and went out of my office. He said good-bye to Betty and was gone. I took a deep breath. Mr. Smith told me a lot more than he realized.
Betty entered my office and stood in the doorway.
“Just who was he?” she asked.
“He works for Martin Stanton's father’s business associates. He provides services that involve cleaning. He was genuinely surprised that Martin Stanton was dead, though he is not yet convinced of his demise. He’s not a part of this case. He was, however, most informative by his lack of knowledge. He was following Mrs. Stanton, believing she was Martin's contact. Now that he has information that she isn’t, and he’ll follow that up. Which is to our benefit.”
“How?” she asked.
“He has resources at his disposal that I don’t. I was forthcoming with him to a point, and I expect he will discover the gaps in what I’ve told him. He’ll confirm what I suspect and then he’ll contact me.”
“Can you trust him?” she asked.
“Oh, yes. If he tells you he is going to kill you, he most certainly will.”
Just then the outer door opened, Betty turned quickly and judging by the instant change in her demeanor, I knew it was the Lieutenant who had just come in.
“Please, Lieutenant,” I said. “Come in.”
He appeared at my office door. “How the hell did you know...”
I pointed at Betty. “She doesn't look like that when I come in here,” I smiled.
“Betty,” I said. “Please lock the outer door, and then come on back and we’ll all catch up.”
Lieutenant Sanders sat on the sofa and we waited for Betty to return. She sat down in one of the client chairs.
“I passed a man in the lobby, packing heat, was he a visitor here?” Lieutenant Sanders asked.
“Was he wearing spats?” I asked.
Lieutenant Sanders nodded.
“He was,” I said. “Your wife smoothly disarmed him.”
“She disarmed him?” he said.
“He had a small-caliber snub nose, and I had a thirty-eight,” she said, “it was simply a matter of superior firepower. That and the fact I was faster than he was.”
“And his desire to keep his manhood intact,” I said.
Lieutenant Sanders closed his eyes and shook his head. Then he looked at Betty, “You're enjoying this.”
“Shouldn't I be?” she asked innocently as she batted her eyelashes.
“Jeez, Betty.” Then he looked at me. “Is he involved with Mickey's death?”
“His interests run in a parallel investigation with some overlap, but he’s not directly involved with what happened to Mickey Philips,” I said. “Though he may be able to provide us with some information that could lead to Mickey's killer.”
Lieutenant Sanders nodded and leaned back in his seat.
“I received some interesting news this morning from a friend back east in Washington.”
He turned to Betty, “I have some background on your new boss. I think you should hear it.”
I already had a pretty good idea about what the Lieutenant was going to spill, and I thought he was being a little melodramatic. I really wasn't interested in hearing my background discussed, but it was something I was going to have to sit through at least once, anyway.
“Colonel Thompson was very interested in learning where you were. He's a little pissed with you. You wouldn't re-up.”
“Eight years was enough,” I said.
“Jonas Watcher was among the last of the ten thousand who were shipped to Europe at the end of the war,” he said to Betty. “He received a field promotion to an officer, which was sustained. For the last six years of his service in Europe, he answered directly to the Provost Marshal in the MPs as a criminal investigator. Your boss was a Captain in the Military Police.”
He turned to me and stared hard.
“What the hell happened?”
“A whole lot more than I want to cover here,” I said. “Let's just say that peacetime in the good ol' U.S. of A. was not what I expected.”
“You became a drunk,” he said.
“Yeah,” I replied, “and I’m still on the edge, so can we just get back to the business at hand?”
“There isn't much more. William Mason is still in the wind, Joseph is in jail, and apparently, Sam Parrish has fallen off the face of the earth. We are no closer to Mickey's killer,” Lieutenant Sanders said.
“I believe that one of the three men from National killed Mickey,” I said. This whole case is about a lot of money, close to half a million dollars, maybe more. I don't know how many paintings Martin Stanton sold, or for how much, but between liquidating, moving, and investing money, Hart's notes indicate that Martin accumulated a fortune.”
Lieutenant Sanders whistled.
“So, who's got it?” he asked.
“Whoever is pulling the strings,” I said. “Look, let's wrap this up for the night. I need to get my head around this some more; maybe something will materialize by morning.”
We said our good-byes and all left the office together. I headed to my apartment, and the Sanders headed for home.
I didn't hear laughter in the background; maybe The Sisters were losing interest.
