Макс Коллинз - True Crime

Cowley nodded thoughtfully. “The man who may be Dillinger.”

I pointed at him this time. “That’s a good way to put it. A man who may be Dillinger. And to be frank, if I had to bet on it, I’m not so sure I wouldn’t bet against.”

Cowley lifted his shoulders and eased them back down. It was about as demonstrative as he got. “Why not clear it up by leading us to this man? We can talk with him, find out who he is, clear this all up.”

I shook my head and kept shaking it. “My client’s girlfriend has been at this man’s side day and night for at least a week. If I lead you to him, how can I be assured your overeager associate won’t lay down a tommy-gun welcome for this ‘man who might be Dillinger’ — a welcome Nervous Purvis is likely to extend to my client’s girl, as well?”

He didn’t blink at my rather arch brand of sarcasm. He just said, “Maybe you can best prevent that by being involved yourself.”

“I don’t see it that way.”

“Are you still shadowing this man?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve ascertained what I need to, where my client’s concerned. I’ve fulfilled my responsibilities. And besides, maybe you’ve actually got somebody in that officeful of college boys who might succeed in shadowing me. Though I sincerely doubt it.”

Cowley looked at me blankly; then the corners of his mouth turned up, barely perceptibly, and he said, “I doubt it, too.”

An El train rushed by and we just sat and listened to it.

Then Cowley said, “We’ve had contact from someone else who has a line on Dillinger.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Someone who’s seen him on the North Side.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Someone with a police agency. An out-of-state agency.”

“Really.”

“East Chicago, Indiana, as a matter of fact.”

“No kidding.”

“A Sergeant Martin Zarkovich and his captain, a man named... it escapes me...”

“O’Neill,” I said.

Cowley, feigning surprise, said, “You know of them?”

“I know Zarkovich. I don’t believe I’ve met O’Neill, but I’ve heard of him.”

“Do you have an opinion of, uh, the East Chicago police?”

“Generally, or specifically?”

“Either. Both.”

“Generally, corrupt. Specifically, Zarkovich.”

He smiled a little and leaned forward in his seat. He held the hat in one hand, now, and seemed to be offering it to me.

He said, “Then you know why we can use a corroborating source. As a matter of fact, if I could handle this through you entirely, I’d feel more comfortable. So would Chief Purvis.”

That surprised me. “Really?” I asked. “What makes me such a sterling character?”

“Being compared to Zarkovich,” Cowley said, deadpan.

That made me smile. “You’re going to have to go with Zarkovich. He’s a cop. Why don’t you bring Stege in, while you’re at it?”

Cowley didn’t answer at first. “There’s little love lost between our office and the Chicago police. Precious little mutual respect or cooperation.”

“I take it this state of affairs predates your coming aboard.”

“I haven’t been here long, Mr. Heller. You know that. Just since April. But it doesn’t take very long to realize the Chicago police are lacking in certain respects.”

“So instead you deal with East Chicago? Look, there are a few good Chicago cops around — and Stege is one of ’em. I know, I know — you’ve heard he doesn’t think much of me. Granted. But you could do with him in your corner, on this one, believe me.”

Cowley rose. He wasn’t leaving: he was just restless. Quietly so. He went over to one of the windows and looked out at the El. Without looking at me, he said, “I hear you’re an honest man, Mr. Heller.”

“More or less,” I said.

He smiled, again without looking at me. “That’s high marks in Chicago. We, uh... have a mutual friend, you know.”

“I know.”

Eliot Ness.

“So,” Cowley continued, “if I say some things off the record, you’ll keep them there.”

“I’m not a reporter.”

“If a reporter asked you.” He looked over at me sharply. “Or even a judge.”

I nodded.

He walked back and stood by the chair. Said, “Zarkovich and O’Neill have made some conditions. One of them is that Stege and the Chicago police not be involved in Dillinger’s... capture.”

“Why do you pause before the word ‘capture’?”

He hesitated. “It has to do with another of their conditions.”

“I see. Have you agreed to these various conditions?”

“Not yet. That’s where you come in, Mr. Heller. Why not help the federal government avoid having to rub up against something as dirty as the East Chicago police? Why not tell us what you know, and keep us from having to deal with the likes of Zarkovich and O’Neill?”

I didn’t say anything.

“Well,” Cowley said, with an air of finality, “think it over. But think quickly. Because this is liable to come together quickly.”

“And go down the same way?”

He nodded slowly. He put on his coat, his hat. “Your help would be appreciated. By tomorrow, say.”

“I’ll be thinking it over.”

“Why don’t you contact your client, if you’re worried about getting his girlfriend involved?”

“I’m afraid I have no way of contacting him. He’s on the road, and said he’d check back in with me. He hasn’t, yet.”

Cowley shrugged. “You’re a detective. How did he get in touch with you?”

Through a referral from a lawyer. Specifically, Louis Piquett. Piquett!

“Say, Inspector. You’re obviously more up on the Dillinger case than I am. What lawyer was it Dillinger contacted to come up to Crown Point and defend him, right before he broke out last year?”

“It was February of this year,” Cowley said. “And I’m surprised at you, Mr. Heller — you said you read the papers, and the papers played up Dillinger’s hiring such a colorful ‘mouthpiece.’”

And I — like you — knew what he’d say next.

“Louis Piquett, of course,” Cowley said, and nodded to me, and left.

They call LaSalle Street the Wall Street of the West. Whatever, it’s a concrete valley where money and power live — if there’s a difference. Between Randolph and Washington streets, well before its claustrophobic canyon dead-ends at the Board of Trade Building, LaSalle in an act of sacrifice before the great god graft devotes an entire city block to City Hall, a modern whitestone monolith with classical airs. Money and power reside there, as well.

But tucked away in the skyscrapers along LaSalle, above the giant banks and brokerages, are small offices where men who are not financial wizards nor politicans but who find their way toward money and power, just the same, also reside. Men like attorney Louis Phillip Piquett.

On the west corner of Washington and LaSalle, a sleek gold-brick skyscraper was where Piquett kept his office. He was on the twenty-fifth floor. Looking down on City Hall.

Going up in the elevator was like riding in an oven; it was just me, the uniformed operator and a couple of guys in business suits. I was in a business suit, too. We were basting in our own sweat. This was LaSalle Street, however, and one of the few places in the city where shirt sleeves were not the heat-wave order of the day. I suppose when you’re on your way to an air-conditioned office, you can afford roughing it.

Piquett’s office was air-conditioned, beyond its pebbled-glass-and-wood facade, and brother did it feel good. The waiting room was surprisingly modern, for such an old-fashioned mouthpiece, with a white wall-to-wall carpet and black leather chairs with chrome arms along the glass-and-wood walls; there were several doors leading off the reception area, all of which said PRIVATE in black letters. A disturbingly pretty secretary at a big black desk, her head a cap of blond curls, gave me a sharp businesslike look, letting me know her chorus-girl beauty may have got her the job, but she was here to work, by God. She was, in fact, typing at the moment, sitting sideways at her desk working at a typewriter on a stand. She had black-frame glasses she maybe didn’t need and a white mannish blouse and said, “Yes?”