Then came the sound of a man pissing against a brick wall.
Tentatively, Wild allowed himself to breathe. The statue on the fire escape next to him began to smile, faintly.
Footsteps clip-clopped back up and out the alley, and the two cops were gone.
"That was some feat that bull pulled off," Whitehall said softly.
"Huh?"
"He emptied the piss out himself," Whitehall said, "and scared the piss out of me."
Wild smiled at that, and relaxed a little, then Whitehall smashed his fist into the taped-up window and Wild damn near fell off the 'scape.
But there wasn't much noise. A simple cracking was all.
They paused and waited, watching the alley again, seeing if anybody reacted to the sound, slight as it was.
No one did.
Whitehall returned to his work, picking out the pieces of glass, handing them to Wild, whose hands were cupped; but the wire mesh remained, and glass on the other side of the mesh clung.
"Fuck," Whitehall said. "I thought maybe I could make a hole and get my hand through and unlock this fucking thing. No such luck."
By this point Wild had a precarious house of shards in his cupped, gloveless hands.
"Go down and put those in one of the garbage cans," Whitehall said. "Quietly. Don't take your foot off the step, or the counterweight'll swing the 'scape up."
Wild swallowed and nodded and moved as quietly as he could along the wrought-iron walkway, maneuvering the stairs and keeping his balance though his bare hands were filled with jagged chips and chunks of glass. The most awkward part was getting the counterbalanced final flight of stairs to go down without spilling his brittle cargo, which he deposited as soundlessly as he could in the nearest open can, keeping one foot on the lower step. Then he went back up and got a second load of glass and repeated the procedure.
Whitehall was using wire cutters, clipping along the edges of the window at the wire mesh. Each little snip seemed loud as rifle shots to Wild, whose nervousness was turning into nausea. But the mouth of the alley remained empty of police, or anyone else, for that matter.
Finally Whitehall had snipped an upper corner area of the window sufficiently to push in the netting and the glass that clung to it; splinters and slivers of the already cracked glass gently showered the floor beyond. Whitehall rolled down his right sleeve, tucked the cuff under the glove and reached his hand in and around and unlatched the window.
Then they were over the sill and into Caldwell's office, the glass crackling under their heels. Whitehall left the window open behind them, but pulled the shade. Wild waited as his fellow trespasser walked across the dark room with the sureness of a blind man in his own home, and found the overhead light switch.
"Christ," Wild said, "wouldn't flashlights be better?"
"Why, did you bring some?"
"Well, no…"
"It would take forever with flashlights, Wild. With the lights on, we can make quick work of this."
"Where shall we start?"
"You take the desk. I'll take the file cabinets. Don't be tidy. We want 'em to think we were looking for money or valuables."
Wild nodded and went to work.
The desk was mostly empty. A box of Havana cigars, which Wild helped himself to a couple of, was about it. No sign of anything having to do with actual office work, let alone a box of blacklists.
Whitehall, standing at the oak file cabinets, was taking longer.
Wild called over to him, sotto voce. "Anything?"
"No. Just membership records, dues, some business ledgers. Standard stuff. Try that closet, why don't you?"
Wild went over and opened the closet door and said, "Shit."
"What is it?"
"A safe. A short fat squat safe."
Whitehall walked over and had a look. He said nothing.
"Safecracking isn't in my repertoire," Wild said. "How about you? Got some nitro in that tool belt?"
Whitehall looked the rest of the closet over; there were some shelves, but they were empty.
"Let's take a look out in the outer office," Whitehall said.
They went into the reception area, leaving the inner office door open, letting some light in, not turning on a light in there. Might attract a janitor's attention, Whitehall said.
"I'll take the desk," Whitehall said. "Check out that closet."
"If there's another safe in it, I'll spare you the sad news."
"Quiet," Whitehall said harshly, reaching over and pulling the door to the inner office mostly closed, putting the reception area into darkness.
Listening, Wild squinted in the dark, as if it would make him hear better.
Footsteps.
Then the familiar squeaking sound of a bucket and mop being pushed along. The flop and splash of the wet mop followed. The two men breathed easier, but they breathed quietly. If the cleaning woman out there heard them, noticed them in any way, that greasy spoon full of cops was only a scream away.
Wild was leaning on the knob of the closet door and Whitehall was sitting on the edge of the desk when the squeaking rolled on and faded and, finally, left them alone again.
Whitehall let some more light in from the inner office and said, "Nothing in the receptionist's drawers." Then he smiled. "Actually, I've seen the dame. There's plenty in her drawers."
Wild laughed a little at that; he was pleased to see some humor and humanity in the hulking Teamster. "Let me just finish up this closet," the reporter said.
It was a supply closet. Actual work was done out here. Typing paper, ribbons, various forms and application blanks neatly boxed and shelved.
And, in a box on the upper shelf, a stack of stapled sheets; each document, four mimeograph pages in length, listed various merchants in the city of Cleveland. A cover sheet, on Window Washers Union letterhead, said, "The following have been deemed unfair to our local."
Wild took one copy and put the box back on its high shelf.
His nervousness was gone, but he was, suddenly, famished.
Whitehall, who had come up behind him, was looking over Wild's shoulder at the list of business addresses.
"Want to blow this dump and get a bite to eat?" Wild asked the Teamster. "I hear that little one-arm joint next door ain't bad. All the cops eat there."
CHAPTER 13
The mahogany-paneled, marble-floored banquet room on the twelfth floor of the Hollenden Hotel was packed with restless humanity. More than one hundred of the one hundred and twenty-five whose presence had been requested by Chamber of Commerce president Frank Darby had shown up for the afternoon meeting, which had been given the vaguely compelling title, "Cleveland's Brighter Business Tomorrow: A Plan of Action."
The businessmen, seated in chairs facing the riser on which a lectern awaited a speaker, had no notion of the real reason for the gathering. Cigar and cigarette smoke and impatient murmuring mingled in the air.
Eliot Ness, the man who had unbeknownst to them called this meeting, was late.
He had been caught going out the door of his office by a phone call. But that phone call had been important enough to risk the annoyance of the captive audience that awaited him a few blocks away.
"Eliot," the voice said, "how is Cleveland treating you?"
"Fine, Elmer," Ness said, sitting back down at his rolltop desk. "Are you calling from Washington?"
Elmer Irey was the chief of the Special Intelligence Unit of the Internal Revenue Service. Irey had been the Treasury Department counterpart of Justice Department agent Ness in the two-pronged federal assault on Al Capone.
"I am calling from Washington," Irey said. "I'm not out in the field much these days, I'm afraid."
"I doubt they can keep you behind a desk for long."
"Well…" Irey trailed off.