Dawn of Betrayal, Page 2

Her smile brightened considerably when I reached for my wallet and pulled out the long green. She rang up my change, all the while telling me what a wise choice I had made. In parting, she wished me much success over the many years I would now share with my new tool of the trade.

  That girl put to shame every used car huckster I’d ever met.

  With my new shiny item in hand I beat it on over to the county building. Passing through the heavy brass doors, I looked left, then right, but the Assessor’s Office was directly in front of me down to the end of the hall.

  The counter clerk was waiting for me when I got down there. He was an older specimen, medium-height, balding and pudgy. Decked out in what could pass for collegiate attire he had the vague jaunty air of a professor. I gave him the address of the old ship captain’s abode and told him I was looking for some property and ownership information.

  He left me dangling for a few minutes while he went and fetched a long leather-bound volume. From the index he located the proper map page and we agreed on which was the property in question. Then he snatched a smaller book from under the counter and looked up the parcel number indicated on the map.

  There was a single page in the thick tome that corresponded to all that was known to the county about the dwelling on Passe-a-Grille Way. The old boy turned the book around and stabbed at an entry with a cigarette-yellowed forefinger. The owner of record was listed as the American People’s Fund.

  Now that was interesting. The name sounded nice and innocent, like any other false-flag organization for some or another group of traitor moles fronting for the international communist conspiracy.

  I asked if I might find out the name of the individual who signed the latest property tax payment. The clerk looked a little uncomfortable as he told me that those records were not public. I pulled out my billfold and snapped out a whole half a sawbuck, folded it twice, shoved it in my fist, and slid it across the counter to the other side. His hand moved up to meet mine and the bill disappeared.

  He scribbled a note to himself and moved off into a back room. I hadn’t failed to notice the shapely young redhead sitting in a secretarial nook at the far corner of the room. When she met my eye, I motioned her on over and asked if she might be kind enough to provide me a mimeographed copy of the book entry that interested me. She looked over what she could see of me, snapped her gum, and told me that there was nothing at that particular moment she’d rather do.

  While she was off using the mimeograph machine, I scoped the counter and spotted a display of business cards for the office staff. I ankled over there and picked out the card of one Horace Wiedemeyer, Inspector, Assessments Branch. I pocketed a short fistful of them just as the redhead came back into view.

  She slapped the mimeographed page down on the counter and asked if there was anything else she could help me with. Not wanting to let her off too easily I asked her for directions to the Recorder’s Office. She batted her lashes and told me with a straight face that I could find it where it’s always been, one floor up. Now was there anything else? I asked her if she knew of a quality lunch spot that served up some good old-fashioned down-home cooking we’d both find enjoyable.

  But this fish wasn’t biting either. She padded on back to her desk with a coy backwards glance and a ‘try-again-big-boy’ bounce to her hips.

  Carrying just that thought, right up until she found her desk and the scenery reverted to boredom, I grabbed the sheet from the counter and carefully inserted it into my shiny new aluminum box. The frail and I made eyes at each other for the next few minutes until the old clerk returned from the back. He fished a torn piece of paper from his pants pocket and slid it across the counter under his fingers. I palmed it and thanked him for his time. Tipping my hat to Red I headed on out to the lobby.

  There was no staircase nearby but I’d spied a pair of elevators in the hall. I stepped up and mashed the button. The door to my right opened instantly but no attendant appeared. I poked my head in there and saw it was one of those new self-service types. I decided to go look for the stairs.

  Up on the second floor, I joined a short queue at the counter of the Recorder’s Office. The assessor’s information gave me something to look at while I cooled my heels in line. I pulled out the slip of paper I’d bought from the downstairs clerk and found it gave the name of the check’s signatory, the amount and the date last fall when it was drawn.

  It was the same name the barkeep had given me the night before: Thornton Cain. A quick study of the mimeograph showed that the main improvements on the island half-acre were a two-story dwelling and a garage. The house was listed with five bedrooms, three baths, an attic, and a partial basement, the latter somewhat unusual for a barrier island, I thought. The three-car garage featured a one-room, one-bath apartment on a second floor.

  There were already two clerks at the counter helping the people that had been standing in front of me. A young one at her desk glanced up and caught my eye. She looked back to her desk top briefly, but soon got up and ambled on over.

  Parking her cleavage on the counter, she gave me the once over and asked, “Can I help you, Sir?”

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ I thought to myself as I handed her the slip.

  “Good morning Ma’am. I’m looking for some information on the last few times this property changed hands.”

  She led me around behind the counter and into a room filled with musty old leather-bound volumes. She showed me how to find the deed numbers and work from book to book in order to follow the string of transactions.

  According to the latest deed, the current owner had acquired the property in February 1940 from the American League for Peace & Democracy. That name rang a bell. I believe my secretary Yuki had told me it was one of the original front organizations that, like so many others, had gone to ground shortly after Operation Barbarossa put an end to the Hitler-Stalin Pact. This particular front had purchased the house from a family estate in 1936.

  I walked away from there thinking that this Passe-a-Grille spread was pretty much the perfect layout for a safe house. The location was well out of the way. The record trail was a bit transparent, but maybe these birds just weren’t all that bright. Maybe some heavy-handed foreigners lacking the subtleties of finer subversion had set it all up.

  * * *

  It was about half past the lunch hour when I parked down the street from the big brick house. I slipped two of the pilfered business cards in my front pocket, slid a couple more into the slot in the aluminum widget, and stashed the remainder in the glove box. I assembled the rest of my assessor-come-a-calling kit and ankled on up to the front door.

  Having rapped twice I was beginning to wonder if anybody was going to answer when the door suddenly snapped open a crack. I stared at an older oriental face that was peering back at me. I informed him I was in the neighborhood updating the municipal tax assessment and presented my card. He gave it a quick glance of incomprehension. I told him I wished to speak to the owner or, in his absence, the owner’s representative. He was handing the card back when I gestured for him to take it with him. The door closed smartly in my face and his footsteps padded faintly away.

  Several minutes later he reappeared and ushered me into the foyer. The ground floor was spacious and had high ceilings supported with giant timbers. The massive walls of the hall and adjacent great room were luxuriously paneled in a polished dark wood.

  In a subdued voice the little man introduced me to a Mr. Nicola, Frank Nicola, the driver I’d seen the evening before. The new fellow was not tall, but he had the taut body of a skinny guy that worked out. He instructed me to call him Frank and offered me a limp, perspiring paw. I shook what there was of it and the experience left me feeling queasy. I was pretty sure this was the nance that the barkeep had spoken of the night before. Frankie inquired again as to the nature of my business.

  “Pinellas County is in the process of updating the property assessments in the better neighborhoods. We’re looking for additions, interior upgrades,
and improvements of that sort.”

  He looked puzzled.

  “The city fathers apparently aren’t getting quite the amount of tax revenue they feel they’re entitled to,” I continued, “so they sent us inspectors out to shake down the gentry. A brief tour of the domicile shouldn’t take but a few minutes, if I might impose on your time. Are you the owner?”

  The swish was just opening his mouth to speak when a deep voice boomed at me from behind and slightly above. “I’m the owner.”

  I swung around and there was the old party with a look on his pan like a bird of prey pondering an especially troublesome rodent meal. I backed off a step to where I could see them both and said, “Good afternoon, Sir. As you may have heard, it’s time to update the municipal assessment. I’m Horace Wiedemeyer, Inspections Branch of the Pinellas County Assessor’s office. “

  His eyes returned to the card in his hand. This type in no way looked to be light in the loafers, although he could pass for a jaded libertine that wasn’t above beating up on and domineering acquiescent fairy boys. He studied the card intently for another moment and jammed it into a pocket before squeezing out what he probably considered would pass for a polite smile.

  “Arthur Lind,” he lied. “Mr. Nicola here will be most pleased to escort you about.”

  I told the fruit I’d like to start with the garage. He minced on out the door in front of me, not making an especially big production of it but disgusting me nonetheless.

  Up to the end of the driveway he swung open the carriage doors and I found myself looking at the late-model Cadillac brougham from the evening before. Next to it was an old Lagonda coupe, in a subdued gun-metal blue color, which looked to be in pristine condition. It made me wonder who the old party was thieving from to afford a collection like this. I scribbled down a few notes of some pretended import and backed on out the door.

  Frankie took me around to a side case of stairs that led half way up to a landing and around the back to a rear door. From there we proceeded into one large room. I had the suspicion it might be his as it looked like something a tacky dame had put together. It also reeked of some vile pansy aftershave.

  My eyes were pasted to the ceiling as I walked around the room pretending to inspect the interior construction materials. In peripheral vision I could see that there was a large bed centered on the far wall between two dormer windows overlooking the street. Under each dormer window was a night stand topped with two electric candles. A walk-in closet took up the whole north wall. A narrow bathroom was built into the south wall. There were no cooking facilities and no other amenities. A record changer sat on a table in the corner.

  The whole set-up fairly screamed ‘love nest,’ but if the room had secrets to tell it wasn’t whispering any to me today. I fiddled with my new aluminum box for a few seconds, slammed the lid, and rolled on out the door. The skunk locked up behind me and escorted me down the stairs. I led him on a walk around the building, scribbled some more notes, and we went across to the back door of the house.

  Frankie asked me to wait in the kitchen for a minute. He needed to attend to some small matter and would have the houseman come along in a moment to take me through the place. As he disappeared out a swinging door I began wandering about the kitchen and eventually stuck my nose in the pantry.

  The houseman slipped in a moment later. He sidled up to me and spoke in a hoarse whisper, “Emilio at your service, Sir.”

  I offered him my paw and was surprised at the firmness of the little man’s grip. There was a glint in his eye that spoke more of the warrior than the manservant. I surmised he might be a Filipino veteran of the last war.

  “I’m from the Pinellas County Assessor,” I told him. “ Thank you for taking the time to show me around.” I followed him through the central hallway and up a wide half spiral of steps.

  Up on the second floor I got a good look at four of the five bedrooms. The master bedroom quite evidently belonged to the old gent. It occupied most of the front half of the upper level. It featured a four poster bed, a pair of dressers along one wall, and a giant armoire, all constructed of dark, well-polished wood, expensive in appearance. The room had a decidedly masculine and aristocratic air, and I could picture an old sea captain at his writing table in front of the window.

  There was a connecting door to a bathroom that also connected to a somewhat smaller bedroom at the front of the place. This room was sparsely furnished, but also appeared to be occupied as there were two open armoires full of clothes.

  The two bedrooms he showed me at the rear of the house were nearly identical and looked like they were set up for guests. Back in the hall Emilio asked me to wait, stuck his head in a closet, and came out with a stout stick fitted with a large steel hook.

  He had the semblance of a grin on his face as he raised the thing up and approached me with it. I was just opening my mouth to squawk when he jabbed it toward the ceiling and deftly hooked onto a recessed eyebolt. The outlines of a folding staircase were barely visible until he yanked on the stick and pulled the thing down.

  He unfolded the stairs and backed away gesturing me to do what I would. I didn’t like the look that he was having difficulty concealing so I climbed half way up the affair, stuck my head in, looked around, and got back down.

  “Nothing new up there,” I chirped.

  He bowed slightly and put the staircase back together. The Filipino took me back down the stairs and showed me some rooms that led off from the main hall. The spacious great room was at the front, on the north side of the house, and a large dining room was behind it. A smaller sitting room was located at the front on the south side, and behind it a large combination library and study. This room interested me the most. I wandered through to take a good look at the window.

  When I turned, the Filipino had disappeared, and old man Cain was standing in the doorway.

  “Have you been able to get all the information you require?”

  He had a slightly bemused look on his face, whereas before he had been downright sour. I wasn’t sure I liked this one any better.

  “Oh yes,” I replied. “I was just wondering about the shelving system in here. It is quite elaborate and there was no mention of it in the previous assessment. I was wondering if it was new.”

  He laughed and said, “No. It’s been here longer than I have. It’s actually a fairly old design.”

  I covered up with, “I’ve yet to see one like it.”

  He smiled again and gestured me to the door. I took note of the large filing cabinet recessed in the wall behind the desk. I surmised that the dark, humorless portrait painting on the wall beside it might conceal a safe. The double-framed window had looked like a tough nut to crack.

  Cain ushered me out and led me down the hall. Abruptly he came to a stop and turned, saying “You’ll be wanting to see the basement as well, will you not?”

  I pondered that a second and, feeling it better to keep up the charade, looked down at the clipboard and said, “That’s right. There is a basement here.”

  He gestured to a low heavy door behind me. As I turned to grab the knob, a sharp voice behind me barked: “Wiedemeyer!”

  I hadn’t turned to respond before I heard a faint squeak and felt a rush of air. The billy caught me on the skull just as I’d set my feet to jump. My vision blurred, but I noticed that Nicola had returned and was standing at Cain’s shoulder. I staggered forward a step, picturing that tough little Filipino with a baseball bat in both hands. The billy lashed out again and I went down like a punch-drunk welterweight with a glass jaw.

  The last thing I saw was my rental car contract clutched in the driver’s grip. Darkness swallowed me whole.

  * * *

  I awoke to find myself bouncing off the floor boards. It wasn’t the first time. A flash of panic came over me, but a wild glance showed me no evidence of enemy troops. No nurses either. Just a blinding white pain. I must be all right. I made a rapid effort to collect my wits, but just as quickly handed them
right back.

  Some time later I stirred again, and the pain this time seemed at least bearable. I raised my head and rolled over to lay its good side on my arm. When my breathing slowed I opened my eyes again and took a look around. I was in a small ramshackle room, lying on a rough plank floor beside a cheap metal cot, trussed up like a dinner turkey. And it looked like I was going to have more than enough time to try and figure out how I had got here.

  June 1947

  To face it square on, the fledgling enterprise known as Raymond James—Private Investigations hadn’t had any real need for a secretary and probably still didn’t. Since I’d first hung out my shingle a year ago or thereabouts the phone hadn’t hardly stopped not ringing. For that reason I got out and about most of the time. Truth be told, I seldom got farther than the Blue Saloon at the end of the block. The young investigatory enterprise was facing some serious questions as to whether it would remain a viable concern.

  The Highland Building came with some semblance of an answering service, a tall, somewhat disheveled, horsy-looking girl behind a small PBX tucked away in the back corner of the lobby behind the elevators. She was supposedly taking my messages, but I hadn’t heard from her in a coon’s age.

  Earlier this year, she’d passed on a few messages from some desperate mutts looking for a divorce op, and I had dutifully called each of them back to wish them luck. I did catch one interesting call toward the end of February, interesting enough that I was still living off the rapidly dwindling proceeds.

  The call had been from Max Gold, head honcho over at Millennium. Seems he’d had some rather delicate merchandize separated from him. John Law was out of the question. He was so embarrassed he would settle for no less than the biggest unknown in town. It turned out to be more of a salvage operation than a case, but I suspect that’s how Moe got to hear of me.

  That’s Moe Silverstein over at Magnum Studios, my present client. I doubt that Moe had heard much of the story, but it was pleasing that Max had read me well enough to trust I wasn’t going to turn around and blackmail him.

  * * *

  Since separating from the Marine Corps in December of last year I had been staying at the YMCA downtown. It was only in March that I took a pair of rooms at the Kensington Arms, a development of four small but well-kept studio bungalows located mid-block on the north side of La Presa Drive in the Hollywood Hills.