He didn’t know she was a call girl, then; well, the papers would tell him about it soon enough.
Speaking of which.
“Mr. Wyman,” I said, “if a cop or somebody lifted that diary, and didn’t turn it in as evidence, then it’s going to be sold to the papers. That’s the only reason a cop would swipe it. To make a buck in that fashion.”
His expression was firm. “Let it be known-let it quietly be known-that I will double any newspaper’s highest bid.”
“Okay,” I said. “But you better consider this. The killers themselves may have taken it. If it incriminated them, that’s quite likely.”
“I’ve considered that.”
“They may even have known about its existence, and its hiding place in the apartment may have been information they tortured out of her.”
“I’ve considered that as well.”
“That’s just dandy, ’cause finding Estelle’s killers, well-that’s something I don’t know if I’m up to. I’ll be frank. I’d like to find them. I’d like to blow their brains out. But Captain Drury is looking, too, and he’s much better equipped than I am. And he’s every bit the detective I am, and twice the cop. And there will be dozens of suspects in this thing. Estelle got around. So I’m not promising anything.”
He leaned over and touched my hand. I felt even more uncomfortable, now.
He said, quite earnestly, “Estelle had faith in you. I have faith in you, too.”
“Swell. I got faith in that thousand-buck retainer. You can make me out a check now, or send it over by messenger.”
He looked away, seeming disappointed in me, and in life and the world in general, said he’d send a messenger, and I got out and took the El.
I met Eliot for a late lunch at the Berghoff. Just because we were at war with Germany didn’t mean I couldn’t eat some Wienerschnitzel, if I felt like it. They were even still serving beer in steins, though the menu now described the cuisine as “Bavarian.” Also, my serving of schnitzel seemed postage-stamp size, hardly the Berghoff’s style. War is hell.
We sat in one corner of the busy open room, where waiters in black tails with long white aprons held trays of steaming food high on upturned palms as they wound swiftly around and through the scattered, clustered tables like acrobats with a mission. It was comforting being in this no-nonsense, wood-and-glass Protestant church of a restaurant, a true Chicago fixture dating back before anybody was alive, a bastion single-handedly stemming the tide of change, despite such minor setbacks as meat rationing and “Bavarian” euphemism. Here I felt at home. Here I felt like I was in the Chicago I remembered.
Also, it was the sort of noisy, bustling room, brimming with people, that provided cover for a private conversation.
“I made those calls first thing,” Eliot said, referring to his efforts to track down D’Angelo’s whereabouts. “No response yet. Will you be in your office all afternoon?”
“I plan to be.”
“If I get word, I’ll let you know.”
“I’d appreciate that. Sooner the better.” Drury, working from the letters signed with the initials “A.D.,” that photo and the San Diego referral address, would not be far behind me.
Eliot was eating pig’s knuckles and sauerkraut, a Berghoff specialty. Between bites, he said, “You were right about Dean, by the way.”
“What d’you mean?”
“He’s clammed up, all right. Whether Estelle Carey’s murder was a message somebody sent him or not, he sure took it that way.”
“So he won’t be testifying, then?”
Eliot smirked humorlessly. “Not as simple as that. He’ll testify. He’ll just have a…selective memory.”
“Well, you did say Dean was the last to cooperate.”
“That’s right, and he’s only gradually been revealing bits and pieces of this and that. He’s never mentioned Nitti or Ricca or Campagna or Capone by name, for instance.”
The Capone in question was Ralph “Bottles” Capone, the soft-drink bottler, one of Al’s brothers.
“But he has backed up Browne and Bioff’s admissions,” Eliot went on, “about the Hollywood shakedowns.”
“In other words, he’s trying to tell just enough to get his sentence reduced.”
“Without buying himself a cement overcoat when he finally gets sprung, yes. It’s unlikely he’ll retract anything he’s already admitted; he won’t go opening himself up to contempt or perjury or anything. But it’s clear he’s remembered all he’s going to remember.”
“What about Lum and Abner?”
He smiled, wryly. “Bioff and Browne? The effect has been quite different. If anything, the boys are going to spill even more, if that’s possible.” His expression darkened. “Both their wives got anonymous phone calls last night, telling ’em to tell their husbands to keep their mouths shut or ‘you’ll get cut-your kids, too.’ This morning, I understand, Willie was raving and ranting-‘We sit around in jail for those bastards and they go around killing our families. The hell with ’em.’ That sort of thing.”
“Those phone calls don’t necessarily mean Estelle’s murder was a mob hit, you know.”
He shook his head, smiled wearily. “You still can’t buy that as something Nitti would do.”
“No. It just isn’t in character. I keep thinking of the Cermak hit, and the lengths he went to, to have his revenge without stirring up the heat. This is a man who had the mayor of Chicago killed, Eliot, and got away with it.”
“That was ten years ago, Nate. This is a different time, and Nitti’s a different man.”
I drank some beer. “You may be right. We’ll see.”
“Are you looking into this Carey matter yourself?”
“Not officially. Let’s just say I’m on the outskirts.”
“Those are dangerous outs to skirt. Didn’t you tell me once that Nitti told you to stay out of his business? That was good advice. Drury’s a top-notch cop; let him handle it.”
I shrugged. “That’s good advice, too.”
“Take it, then.”
“What else do you have for me?”
He shook his head again, smiled with good-natured frustration. “Well, I can tell you that the FBI talked to Estelle a few weeks ago. I don’t know if they got anything out of her or not. But I do know they talked to her. So did the tax boys.”
“In reference to Dean’s missing million?”
“Mostly. And the grand jury investigation in general.”
“Would she have been called to testify?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Would she have talked?”
“I don’t know. Maybe somebody didn’t want to risk she might.” He sipped his beer, gave me a crafty look. “There’s also a theory that it was her that blew the whistle on Dean.”
I sat forward. “Hell, I heard she hid out with Nick, when he was ducking his indictment. That she dyed her hair black and moved into a cheap flat with him, in Cicero.”
“Yes, which is where Hoover’s finest picked him up,” Eliot said. “After somebody tipped them off as to where he was, that is.”
“Estelle?”
“That I didn’t find out. It’s an interesting wrinkle, though, isn’t it? Makes Nicky Dean himself a suspect, if it was a contract hit, that is.”
“Can’t you find out whether she fingered him or not?”
“That information’ll likely be given Drury, in good due course. Besides, I can only do so much sniffing around for you, you know. It’s got to seem casual, gossipy. If I poke too hard, somebody’ll poke back.”
“I know that, Eliot, and I appreciate it, what you’re doing.”
Pig knuckles put away, he used his napkin. Smiled again. “Enjoy me while you can, because tomorrow I’m out of here. It’s back to Cleveland.”