A Shared Confidence (11 page)

“Apart from the description, that he works in Baltimore, and that he advises people to make investments at a phony brokerage firm, no.”

“Baltimore's a big city, you know. It has a fair-sized population.” Another cow-town crack about Kansas City. I was starting to get a little sick of those. Nathan continued: “And did you manage to verify that this brokerage office you saw today was definitely not legitimate?”

“I didn't go inside to trade any stock if that's what you mean.” If I'd tried, Nathan would be posting my bail right about now.

“And I don't suppose you actually looked in the valise to see if it was filled with money?”

“Yes, yes, Nathan, I did. I asked them real nice-like and they dumped it all out on the sidewalk for me. The three of us sat down on the curb together and counted it. Thank God it wasn't windy.” Now I was really starting to get steamed. I'd taken time off work, flown all the way out here, done everything I could to try and help, had my initial advice ignored, and tried my best to head off an even bigger disaster. And Nathan had the gall to start talking down to me? Asking me chump questions like I was some school kid lying about his homework? I thought about walking out of the restaurant, sticking him with the bill, and heading right back to K.C. I took a sip of brandy and waited for him to push me over the edge.

“Dev,” Nathan put up a patient, condescending hand, “I'm just saying that it seems all you have here is conjecture. We don't even know for a fact that Myers and Wiedermann are involved in the disappearance of the money.”

“Then why did they sell you that hooey about the Chamber of Commerce meeting this morning?”

“I'll certainly speak to them about that tomorrow,” he said firmly. “But maybe they just got hold of a good stock tip and wanted to make an investment on their own. It was wrong of them to leave work to do it, yes, but that doesn't make them embezzlers, and it certainly doesn't make them victims of a confidence scheme.”

I sat there almost wanting to laugh, marveling over how my brother's mind works. Why no, Waiter, we don't know for a fact that this is food you've just served me. All we really know is that it's a warm, pleasant-smelling substance served on a plate at a restaurant. Let's not go drawing any wild conclusions now.

“I did mention,” I began patiently, “that the spotter put a cop on me the second I crossed the street? That this cop was on me like gravy on biscuits the instant I tried to talk to Myers and Wiedermann?”

“You were breaking the law,” Nathan answered, his face showing amused bewilderment. “You jaywalked. In front of a policeman, no less. Did you expect him to let you finish your shopping, wait for the right moment to approach you about it? And this spotter, did you even talk with him? He could have been anybody.” There are people who have an answer for everything. More often than not, they're the kind of people who've already made up their minds what the facts are, and long before hearing any of them.

“I'm sorry, Dev,” he went on, “but this whole confidence setup you're talking about…dozens of men using phony offices and bringing in one victim after another in broad daylight, and no one nearby notices any of this…it doesn't strike you as a little fanciful?” It's too bad Marie doesn't let him smoke cigars, I thought; one would have gone well with the brandy in his hand and the self-satisfied look on his mug.

What Nathan didn't understand, what most people don't, is that cities are like mazes: you only see the part you're looking at every day. And because of that, you forget there are other parts. You may not even be aware of them to begin with. Church-going grandmothers never see the back alley crap games at midnight. Cat burglars never sit in on troop meetings of local boy scouts. Soda jerks don't watch the county coroner cut open a dead body on a sunny, Tuesday morning. Nobody sees all the levels, all the layers, all the nooks and crannies, even if a few of us see more than most. But that doesn't make the parts you don't see any less real.

I had an idea. “Tell you what, Nathan. First off, don't say anything to Myers and Wiedermann about them missing work today. Give it at least one more day. Promise me that, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Second, check out First Quality Investors tomorrow on Chase Street. Make some calls if you want. Better yet, go down there yourself. Walk in and buy some stock, something small. If you can manage this, it proves the joint is on the up and up, and I'll admit I've manufactured this whole scenario and we'll start from scratch. Fair enough?”

Nathan's eyes glittered at the chance to make of fool of me over this.

“Fair enough.”

I didn't fly back to Kansas City that night. I settled for sticking him with the bill.

Nathan was
singing a different tune the next afternoon. Christ, he was sitting in with a whole different orchestra! The trip to Baltimore paid for itself at 1:35 pm on Wednesday, April 3rd, 1935. As long as I live, I don't think I'll ever forget the image of Nathan standing at the sergeant's desk at the local police station after I'd just posted his bond.

I've seen my brother's indignation more times than I can count, seen him self-righteously lousy with it. But at that moment, I could have lit a cigarette off the back of his neck. I didn't say a word until we were outside and all the way to my rented car.

“Nathan, when you telegrammed and asked me to fly out here to bail you out of some trouble, I never thought–”

“This is an outrage!” he exploded. “I am a respected member of this community! A vice president at one of the oldest financial institutions in Baltimore! A law-abiding citizen, taken into custody like a common criminal!” Why was I not surprised he worked his position at Beldham & Morrissey into his tirade?

“A little louder, Nathan. One of the shopkeepers might be snoozing in the back room.”

He whipped his to the left and right, mortified, then lowered his voice and hissed at me over the roof of the Terraplane.

“Somebody is going to pay for this! I don't care how long it takes, I don't care who I have to go to! I will clear my good name if it takes the rest of my days on earth!”

“Get in the car, Nathan.”

I settled in behind the wheel, wincing as Nathan slammed his door shut. I pressed the starter and pulled into traffic, casually asking: “So what was the charge?”

“Disturbing the peace.” He answered, biting off each syllable with disgust. I damned near had to stuff the end of my necktie into my mouth. “And there wasn't a soul around except myself and the arresting officer! And what is so damn funny, Mister?”

“I'm sorry, Nathan. This
is
an outrage. We'll get a lawyer and fight this thing to the bitter end.”

“Damn right we will!” Two damns in two minutes, two more than I'd heard Nathan use since I got here. He turned to me hotly and demanded: “And what have you been doing all day?”

“Oh, hanging around the hotel, waiting for you to call.”

I could feel him staring at me.

“You knew this was going to happen?”

“Knowing you?” I asked. “I'd have been willing to put greenbacks on it.”

“Then why didn't you say something last night?!” he demanded angrily.

I turned to look at him while we waited out a traffic light.

“I said a lot of things to you last night, Nathan. You ready to listen to some of them now?”

He chewed that over while I drove him back to the bank (he'd taken a cab over to the phony brokerage office, not sure of the neighborhood and so not wanting to park his own car there). He had a brief panic attack just before we arrived. What if the newspapers got hold of this? What if his employers found out? I calmed him down, assuring him that I knew how to handle this kind of situation. Nobody would find out anything if he did what I told him to, and yes, I promised I wouldn't breathe a word of this to Marie.

I parked the car half a block down from the bank.

“So where do we stand on the other issue?” he asked.

“Same as before,” I told him. “Don't say anything to anyone, not until we've had a chance to go over the situation in detail.”

“If it really is as you say,” Nathan said, “Myers and Wiedermann will be damn sorry they ever set foot in my bank.”

“Please don't talk like that, Nathan.”

“What?”

“It's just that, well, jail hardens a man. I'd hate to see that happen to my only brother.”

He slammed the door again before stalking off. For a moment, I sat there shaking with laughter. When I could drive again, I pulled out my handkerchief, wiped my eyes, and put the car into gear.

After dinner that night at Nathan's house – and our usual war council on the back porch – I was back in my hotel room, pacing the floor and thinking. Mostly I was thinking about those three altered documents in Nathan's desk. How would they look in court? My brother would need a good lawyer, and that lawyer would need to pay for a first-rate forgery expert. Bank examiners would have to be brought in to try and trace the missing money, and Nathan's lawyer would probably have to use a subpoena to get a look at any evidence that was turned up, which could take awhile. Nathan's reputation and work history would weigh heavily in his favor, but would they weigh heavily enough? Even if they did, it was going to cost Nathan some real dough to get out of this mess. And an outfit like Beldham & Morrissey, where probably at least half the board members had bragging rights to ancestors on the Mayflower? Even if he were cleared in full of any wrongdoing, just the hint of such scandal could cost him his job. Would another bank hire him on? Sure, probably one of them. For a lot less money and responsibility. No more new Hudsons, maybe a smaller house, a lot fewer family dinners in restaurants.

I wanted to throw something but settled for punching my right fist into my left palm. It hurt. Must have flattened a blood vessel, dammit. I massaged my left hand just below the fingers and started thinking all over again. Keep it simple, Dev. Keep it clear. And find a goddamn answer! Your pompous, know-it-all older brother needs you. And so does his family. So unless you want to be responsible for Little Mary Caine sleeping out on the sidewalk and catching the malarity, think of something. Anything.

I started pacing again, looking around the room at various objects, trying to get my brain started. The money is gone. A confidence man named Clay Stanton has it. There's no way to get it back, not now. The two men responsible have framed Nathan and just might make that stick.

There really isn't much to look at in your average hotel room. A bed, a desk, a bureau, a few chairs, a picture or two on the wall that you'd be embarrassed to hang in a kid's treehouse. The contents of my pockets were spread out on top of the bureau. My wallet, a pen, a lighter, half a pack of Camels and the change I'd received from the tobacconist (three ones, a Liberty silver dollar, some quarters, a nickel and a dime), a pocket comb, and a small brown notebook. And the pint of scotch I'd picked up around the corner, close to a third gone now. I looked at the glass in my hand and decided the bottle could spare some yet.

Ideas don't always start as a faint glimmer, nor do they always blaze suddenly into your head like a bright light. Sometimes they're just there. And they're too goddamned silly to bother with, so you ignore them. Only you run out of other options so you keep coming back to them. And each time, without realizing it, you shore them up a little. A four-by-four here, a sandbag there. And each time your mind comes back around to it, your goddamn silly idea is just a little sturdier, gets just a little harder to push away.

For a long time I found myself making notes and drawing diagrams on the hotel stationery. A general notion, bits and pieces forming and reforming in my head as I grabbed a fresh sheet off the bureau, sifted for the right materials to build with now that I had some shoring in place. At the end of two hours, I had a pile of sheets I could take to Webster's, offer to sell them the whole mess if they needed a new definition for “long shot.”

Because it was a far-fetched plan from the very start, I'll give you that. The odds of success were never very high, climbing only fractions of a percentage point as I refined the notion. But the thing of it was, the risk was equally low. If it didn't work – and it almost certainly wouldn't – Nathan would be no worse off than before. Surely I could convince him it was worth a try?

Or would he even need convincing? Now that my brother'd had a taste of the criminal life, he might be itching for a chance at some real action. I had an image of Nathan on a Wanted poster. Then I had an image of him standing in front of that poster in a neighborhood shop, criticizing the grammar. Then I looked at the more-than-half-empty scotch bottle and decided I'd done enough planning for tonight.

I'd see how my plan looked tomorrow when the sun hit it.

F
riday morning I was at
a vacant office I'd rented the day before. There was a scratched-up desk with a battered metal lamp, a short, wooden conference table, a grand total of four chairs, and not much else. I hadn't bothered to add a lot in the way of furnishings; the austere setting suited my purpose. I sat behind the desk with my feet up, smoking a cigarette and looking at my watch. I was expecting visitors shortly.

Selling my idea to Nathan hadn't been any easier than expected. Wednesday evening we were on his back porch after another of Marie's home-cooked dinners. It had been a rough day for Nathan. He knew now that the bank's missing money was gone for good, and he'd been arrested for the first time in his life. He gave me the basic details, and I was careful not to crack a smile or roll my eyes. It hurt at times, but I managed. Nathan had walked right into the phony brokerage firm as I'd suggested and was basically given the high hat. Raised eyebrows, “Who might you be?” stares, patient yet condescending insistence that they really couldn't help him. The more they tried to fob him off, the more annoyed and demanding Nathan became. He wanted to buy some stock, damn their eyes! Was his money not as good as anyone's? They finally called the cops on him (or the spotter did), and Nathan patiently explained to a uniformed bull that he was a free citizen attempting to engage in a lawful transaction, and was being barred from pursuing this for reasons unknown. The cop came on strong, made threats that were at first veiled and then less so, and Nathan basically dared the guy to arrest him. It was pretty much downhill from there. I gather the cops were a bit rough with Nathan (his shock had made him more indignant than usual), and it was a good hour or more before he was allowed to call me at my hotel to come bail him out. At any event, I told him not to worry about the arrest, that I knew how to take care of it and would get on it the next day.

The conversation on the porch that night was lively at times, and Nathan had to fight to keep his voice down lest Marie overhear what we were talking about. Hell, I wished he'd have invited her to join us; she's a bright woman and might have had some insights. It was tough to tell which was bothering him more, being arrested or the money, but if he had any brains at all (and he had plenty) it was the money.

“Explain to me again why we're not going to the police about this?” There was heavy sarcasm in Nathan's voice as he got his pipe going.

“You didn't get enough of the police earlier today?” He shot me a glare. I backed off, asking: “And what exactly would we tell them, Nathan?”

“For starters, two of my employees embezzled $140,000 from their place of business. That is still a crime, am I correct?”

“You bet it is. And so far, the only material evidence of this crime that we know about are three loan documents with your signature on each one. Wouldn't make for a good opening bid, Nathan.”

“But we know they took it and we know what they did with it! You're a witness.” It always amazes me how easily people can staunchly support the same reasoning they balked at just the day before. It's nothing new, but it's still annoying.

“Nathan, I watched those two men walk into an office carrying a valise. That's all I could swear to. If you can stretch your memory back to dinner last night, you were the one pointing this same thing out to me. And think about this: your only witness here is your brother, whom you recently brought into the bank and introduced under a false name to the very men you're accusing.”

“The false name was your idea!”

“That isn't the point, you jackass!”

He huffed a moment.

“Couldn't we at least get the police to search that brokerage office?”

“I'd be surprised if we could, not without jumping through one hell of a lot of hoops. The cops wouldn't find anything anyway. Hell, those guys could have that whole office broken down inside half an hour if they wanted, no sign that it'd ever been there.”

“If the police showed up suddenly and unannounced,” Nathan suggested, “caught them by surprise–”

“That's not going to happen. The local cops are in cahoots with these guys, remember? Even if we tried to go to another precinct or some other authority, I'm telling you they'd get tipped off in plenty of time.”

Nathan sat back puffing his pipe, knowing I was right and sore as hell about it.

“I guess that's it, then,” he said. “I'll have to report this to the bank president tomorrow.” Of course he wanted to now. Now that he couldn't.

“Day late and a dollar short for that, I'm afraid.”

“I beg your pardon?” Nathan blinked a few times. “Aren't you the one who's been telling me I need to do this?”

“You did need to do this, Nathan. You can't afford to now.”

“But I didn't know enough before. Now I know exactly what happened.”

“And now the money's gone,” I reminded him. “And the only evidence points to you. And once Myers and Wiedermann find out it's gone, that they're not going to waltz into that brokerage office and pick up a fat wad of cash – if that hasn't happened already – they'll be even more eager to pin the blame on someone else. And they've already fitted you for the part.”

“So what do you suggest I do?” No sarcasm in his tone this time; maybe Nathan was finally beginning to realize he needed me.

“Continue on as before. Go about your work and don't say anything to anyone about this matter. With any luck, Myers and Wiedermann will panic once Stanton's people lower the boom on them. They may do something stupid, one of them anyway, something that will give the whole game away and leave you in the clear.”

Nathan just stared at me for a minute.

“So the plan now is we wait for one of them to make a stupid mistake?”

“You'd be surprised how often that works, Nathan.”

Thursday morning
I paid another visit to Townsend's office. He saw me right away and I explained my problem. A guy I knew, very upstanding sort, had had the misfortune to be arrested yesterday for disturbing the peace. Just a misunderstanding, really. This guy was currently out on bail and could really do without a court appearance. In fact, if there was a chance the arrest record could disappear, along with any mention of it in the police blotter, this fellow would be damned grateful.

“Which precinct?” I gave it to him and he nodded. “Shouldn't be too difficult. From what I hear, those guys have been known to misplace whole murder victims for the right amount of lettuce.”

“That's what I was hoping.” Townsend agreed to contact a lawyer he knew who was known in that precinct, someone who could explain things, offer appropriate apologies and even more appropriate donations. It would cost a hundred easy, not counting Townsend's fee, but it didn't sound like a problem. I agreed, then had to provide the arrested man's name. Townsend looked up at me, raising his eyebrows politely.

“I take it the surname isn't a coincidence, Mr. Caine?”

“He's my brother,” I admitted.

“This anything to do with the other matter you hired me for?”

“More or less.”

“I see.” Townsend didn't see at all, of course, but he was too professional to inquire further. “That's why I don't like working with family,” he said.

“This was more like a favor,” I explained.

“It always starts that way.”

“Not sure how this is going to pan out,” I admitted. “Could be I might need your help again before it's all through.”

He looked me in the eye for a moment.

“I won't do anything illegal, Mr. Caine.”

“I won't ask you to, Mr. Townsend. In fact, I won't ask you to do anything without I give you the full score on it first.”

He nodded, told me he'd take care of my brother's little misunderstanding, and I left his office. I didn't ask him to keep this between us. I'd never asked that of a priest in the confessional, so I didn't see the need to bother a man like Townsend about it.

I met
Nathan for lunch Thursday afternoon at that same restaurant on the harbor we'd been to the day I first visited his bank. I told him I was having his little problem with the law taken care of and didn't expect there to be any difficulties. And the pompous son of a gun actually said thank you, which was a nice surprise.

“How are Myers and Wiedermann today?” I asked, forking up a mouthful of soft-shell crab.

“Wiedermann called in sick this morning,” Nathan said, which didn't surprise me. He probably was sick, made so by the problem he'd created for himself. “Myers is in, but…”

“He's not all there? Stares off into space, hanging his head like he's lost his best friend? And then the next minute he's wired like a switchboard, sweating and jumping in his seat every time someone punches a stapler?”

“I'd say that's a fair description of his mental state today.”

I nodded. “The play has been made. Your men might not know they've been conned yet. They might never know it. But they know something went wrong and their investment has gone up in smoke.”

“You think they'll try to pin this on me?” Nathan looked down at his food, not sure he wanted my answer.

“They've already pinned it on you, Nathan. And as things heat up, they'll do their best to make that stick. However,” I chewed and swallowed another mouthful of crab, “I have an idea about how to handle that as well.”

I launched into my plan, slowly, giving him a chance to soak up the gist of it. He listened patiently but I could tell he wasn't really biting. I finished and waited for him to say something.

“You want to try and, what would you call it, out-con these confidence men? Try and get the money back that way?”

“I think right now it's our best bet.”

“I have a few problems with that, Dev.” I had several, but figured it couldn't hurt to hear Nathan's. “First off, wouldn't that be difficult to attempt with such men? From what you tell me, they're experts at this sort of thing. How can you hope to best them using the same tactics they're already familiar with?”

“Never try to con a con,” I agreed. “That's what they say, except that's pure baloney, Nathan. The best marks are the ones who think they're too smart to get taken. Con men look for spoiled heirs, greedy businessmen, anyone with a lot of money who thinks having all that dough must mean he's a smart cookie. Now given that, what kind of person do you think believes he's the least susceptible to being conned?”

“A professional confidence man?”

“Bingo. It stands to reason. Like you said, these people already know all the games and believe they can't possibly get suckered, which blinds many of them to that very possibility. I know this because con men sometimes play each other, either to keep their skills honed or for pure sport. Or sometimes because of a grudge. The point is, it does happen. Con men do themselves get conned.”

“I suppose that does stand to reason,” Nathan assented. “Still, I shouldn't think it would be an easy thing to do.”

“It's not. It's very difficult. You have to know exactly what you're doing every step of the way.”

“And you believe you do?”

“For the simple play I have in mind, I know enough. It's a long shot, but it only costs us a little time. We've got what, another two weeks before the first payment is due on any of those phony loans? The point is, if it doesn't work, we're no worse off. There's no real risk here in trying.”

“How so?” You just can't say to a banker that there's no risk; you have to give details.

The waiter had cleared the table and brought coffee. I sat back and lit up a cigarette, waiting for him to make himself scarce again.

“Con men operate in what are known as the ‘soft rackets'. The hard rackets are things like illicit gambling, protection money, prostitution, murder for hire. Any enterprise that involves or is protected by the point of a gun. Con men pride themselves on not using weapons, on relying solely on their wit, skill, and the mark's own greed to turn a dollar. The point is, if we fail, there's really no harm done, we just don't get the money back. Con men aren't the type to take it personally and want to come after us. And it's sure not like they can go to the police and file a complaint.”

Nathan seemed doubtful but promised to think it over. I told them that whatever he decided, we had to get Myers and Wiedermann under control. Our control, and fast. I told him what I had in mind, explained how this needed to be done regardless of whether we took the rest of my plan any further. He needed some convincing, but not much. Maybe he just liked the idea of seeing them suffer a little.

And so that afternoon I scouted out an office for rent, something bare and unassuming and cheap. And here it was Friday morning, and I sat at the desk smoking, looking up at the map of Baltimore I'd purchased and tacked up on the wall. I had a few colored pins stuck in it and some random locations circled in colored pencil, including the brokerage office on Chase Street.

There was a knock at the door and I barked out a harsh, authoritative “Come in!”

Myers and Wiedermann entered, both looking slightly confused. I jerked my head toward the conference table without getting up.

“Sit down over there.”

Neither man moved. Wiedermann started to speak.

“Mr. Caine said–”

“I know what Mr. Caine said,” I interrupted. “Sit down over there.”

Myers looked uncertainly at his partner, then followed him over to the table.

I stretched my neck until it cracked, then put my feet heavily down on the floor and stood up. Shirtsleeves rolled up, tie loosened, and my vest hanging open. I wasn't businessman Kelly Shaw to these two, not anymore. I was a civil servant, tired, overworked, and not to be trifled with. And this had to wash, because if I couldn't sell something that simple to these clowns, I had no business trying to put anything over on a man like Clay Stanton.