Sara Paretsky - Deadlock

That seemed like a reasonable approach. I started on my part of the assignment, secretly entertained by Ferrant’s enthusiasm for the project. He didn’t have Hogarth’s personal feeling for the insured.

The first page of the 1977 policy explained that Grafalk Steamship was a closely held corporation, principal address at 132 North La Salle Street in Chicago. The summary of the coverage on the declarations page showed Grafalk with fifteen hundred employees in eight states. These included sailors, secretaries, stevedores, longshoremen, truck drivers, and general office workers. Directors and officers were excluded from coverage. The total premium for 1977 was four million eight hundred thousand dollars. I whistled to myself. A lot of money.

I flipped through the pages of state and class detail to the back where the audit of the premium was attached. This section was completed at the end of the year. It showed how many people had actually worked each day by class of job and how much premium Grafalk in fact owed Ajax for 1977. The reduction was substantial-down to three million dollars. Instead of three million hours of work, Grafalk’s employees had put in under two million for the year ending then.

I showed this result to Ferrant. He nodded and went back to the cargo policies. I finished the compensation ones, scribbling summary results on a sheet of paper. Ferrant handed me a stack of cargo policies. He was tabulating them by date, total value of contract, and vessel used. We’d compare them later to the tonnage figures of the individual ships.

Hogarth came in as we were finishing the masses of paper. I looked at my watch. It was almost six o’clock.

“Any luck?” Hogarth asked.

Ferrant pursed his lips, his long hair falling over his eyes again. “Well, we have to add up what we’ve got. Doesn’t look good, though. I say, Hogarth, be a sport and give us a hand-don’t look so sour. Think of this as an intellectual problem.”

Hogarth shook his head. “Count me out. I told Madeleine I’d be home on time for once tonight and I’m already late. I’m going to catch the six thirty-five.”

He left and Ferrant and I continued our work, tedious and uninspiring. In the end, though, it became clear that Grafalk had been using only forty of his sixty-three vessels for the last five years. In fact he’d sold three ships in the middle of 1979.

“He should have sold more,” Ferrant said gloomily.

“Maybe he tried and there wasn’t a market.”

By eight-thirty we’d completed a sketchy analysis of Grafalk’s finances. His ships cost about two thousand dollars a day to operate when they weren’t sailing, about ten thousand dollars a day when they were. So the total expense to Grafalk each season for running the steamship company was about a hundred twenty million dollars a year. And the total value of the cargoes he was carrying came out to only a hundred million in 1977. Things were a little bit better in ’78 and ’79 but hadn’t improved much the past two years.

“That answers your question all right,” Ferrant said. “The lad is definitely losing money.” He lined up his stacks of notes. “Odd how much cargo he’s been carrying for Eudora Grain the last five years. Almost twenty percent of his total volume.”

“Odd indeed,” I said. “Of course, Eudora’s a big concern… Where’s Grafalk been coming up with the money to cover these losses? They’re pretty staggering.”

“The steamship company isn’t the only thing he owns.” Ferrant was sweeping the policies back into their jackets. “There’s a profitable railway that connects the Port of Buffalo with Baltimore-he can unload there and ship by rail to oceangoing vessels in Baltimore. That does very well for him. His family owns a big block of stock in Hansen Electronic, the computer firm. You’d have to see if you could get his broker to tell you whether he’s been selling off the stock to pay for this. He’s into a number of other things. I think his wife has some money, too. But the steamship company has always been his first love.”

We piled the policies back into the cart and left it in the hallway for someone to take care of in the morning. I yawned and stretched and offered to buy Ferrant a drink.

He walked with me to the Golden Glow on Jackson and Federal. It’s a place for serious drinkers-no quiche and celery sticks to entice imbibers of white wine on their way to the commuter trains. Sal, the magnificent black woman who owns the place, has a mahogany horseshoe-shaped bar, relic of an old Cyrus McCormick mansion, and seven tiny booths crammed into a space wedged out between a bank and an insurance company.

I hadn’t been in for several weeks and she came over to our booth herself for our order. I asked for my usual, a Johnnie Walker Black up, and Ferrant had a gin martini. I asked Sal for the use of a phone and she brought one over to the table for me.

My answering service told me Adrienne Gallagher, the woman I know at the Fort Dearborn Trust, had called. She’d left her home number and a message that I could call before ten.

A little girl answered the phone and called her mommy in a shrill voice.

“Hello, Vic. I got the information you wanted.”

“I hope they’re not trying to fire you or disbar you.”

She gave a little laugh. “No-but you owe me some free detective work. Anyway, the condominium is owned by a Niels Grafalk-Vic? Are you there? Hello?”

“Thank, Adrienne,” I said mechanically. “Let me know when you need the detective work.”

I hung up and dialed the Windy City Balletworks to see if they were performing tonight. A recorded voice told me that performances were held Wednesday through Saturday at eight; Sundays at three. Today was Tuesday; Paige might be home.

Ferrant looked at me courteously. “Something wrong?”

I made a gesture of distaste. “Nothing I hadn’t suspected since this morning. But it’s upsetting anyway-Grafalk owns real estate along with everything else.”

“You know, Miss War-Do you have a first name? I just can’t keep my tongue around your last one-Vic, you’re being terribly mysterious. I take it you think Grafalk may be behind the damage to the Poe Lock, since we just spent most of the afternoon proving that he was losing money. Would you mind telling me what’s going on?”

“Some other time. There’s someone I need to talk to tonight. I’m sorry, I know it’s rude to run out on you like this, but I must see her.”

“Where are you going?” Ferrant asked.

“To the Gold Coast.”

He announced that he was coming with me. I shrugged and headed for the door. Ferrant tried putting some money on the table, but Sal gave it back to him. “Vic’ll pay me when she’s got the money,” she said.

I flagged a taxi on Dearborn. Ferrant got in beside me, again demanding to know what was going on.

“I’ll tell you later,” I said. “It’s too long a story to start during a short cab ride.”

We pulled up in front of a massive pale pink brick building with white concrete corners and white-enameled shutters. It was dark now, but black wrought-iron street lamps illuminated the building’s facade.

Ferrant offered to accompany me inside, but I told him this was a job I had to handle alone. He watched me as I rang the bell, set in a lighted brass box outside the front door. A house phone was nestled inside the box for communicating with the inmates. When Paige’s voice came tinnily through the receiver, I pitched my voice high and told her it was Jeannine. She buzzed me in.

The stairs were carpeted in a rose-patterned blue rug. My tired feet sank gratefully into the pile. Paige was waiting for me in the doorway at the top of the stairs, wearing her white terry cloth robe, her face not made up, her hair pulled back under a towel as I’d seen her after rehearsal.