Read Online Death in Donegal Bay by William Campbell Gault - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: William Campbell Gault
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soothingly, “it is almost the cocktail hour. Why don’t you stop in here before you go home, and we’ll have a quiet talk and a strong drink?”
“All right,” he said for the third time, this time less heatedly.
On a piece of graph paper I put down the names of all the people I had talked with since Baker had phoned me. I drew lines between the obvious connections and tried to find a pattern in them. The only pattern I could find was what Allingham called it—fighting fire with fire. It shaped up as a blackmail standoff.
But what could Allingham know about the Bakers that was not common knowledge? She had been a hooker, he a conman; Allingham could have learned that from the public press. He obviously had needed more than that. So he had hired Max Kronen to get it for him. Max must have come up with something, or at least convinced Cyrus that he had.
Alan had been privy to more knowledge of the Allingham family than the press was likely to learn—or to print. Cyrus had friends in high places. He had zealous, vindictive supporters in high, medium, and low places. Anyone who dared to defame him would need to be armed with more than hearsay evidence.
When Jan came home, I told her Bernie would be stopping in for a drink.
“And a yack fest about skulduggery,” she added. “I’ll take my shower while you two get that over with, and join you later for more civilized conversation.”
“For your sadly thin information, madame,” I informed her, “Bernie and I are the citizen types who help to keep the world civilized.”
“Orderly, maybe,” she said. “I will not accept civilized.” She patted my cheek. Each to his own, Lochinvar. Charge!”
“Smartass,” I said, and kissed her.
Bernie’s car pulled into our driveway about five minutes later. I knew what he wanted—Scotch over rocks. I had it waiting for him when he reached our front door.
He studied me suspiciously.
“I am trying to play the gracious host,” I explained. “Don’t just stand there. We have important matters to discuss.”
We went out in back, and I gave him the account of my day, from the Allingham fortress to Donegal Bay.
“That’s all out of my jurisdiction,” he said.
“I know. That’s what I’ve been wondering about.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“The Bakers don’t live in the city, either. They’re out of your jurisdiction, too. The only one involved in this mess who isn’t outside is Joe Farini. What is this, a police vendetta?”
“Easy, now,” he said quietly.
“Maybe,” I suggested, “some of the boys down there want to pay Luther back by nailing Farini.”
He shook his head. “Your mouth is ahead of your brain, as usual. I’ll admit we want to get something on Farini. We don’t like crooked lawyers. And the state Bar Association hasn’t done a damned thing about him. Tell me, self-ordained knight in tarnished armor, do you like crooked lawyers?”
I stared at him admiringly. “That’s great— self-ordained knight in tarnished armor. Is it a quote?”
“Oh, shut up!” he said.
“It has earned you another drink,” I told him, and took his glass.
Jan was there when I brought his drink. I went to get her a gin and tonic, and fortified my own glass.
“Now,” Bernie said, “tell me what you know about Max Kronen.”
I said, “I know that he almost lost his license about three years ago for beating up a stoolie who had double-crossed him. I lever followed his career. The other boys in the trade consider him more brawn than brain.”
“Which is not unusual in your trade.”
“Thank you!”
“I meant, of course,” he explained, “the other boys in your trade. Does he have a specialty? Divorce, industrial spying—what?”
“I doubt it. He has four investigators working for him, three men and one woman. They might specialize. My peers have told me he has a real fancy office down there in the San Fernando Valley. And he has worked for some high-priced lawyers. I got the
“All right,” he said for the third time, this time less heatedly.
On a piece of graph paper I put down the names of all the people I had talked with since Baker had phoned me. I drew lines between the obvious connections and tried to find a pattern in them. The only pattern I could find was what Allingham called it—fighting fire with fire. It shaped up as a blackmail standoff.
But what could Allingham know about the Bakers that was not common knowledge? She had been a hooker, he a conman; Allingham could have learned that from the public press. He obviously had needed more than that. So he had hired Max Kronen to get it for him. Max must have come up with something, or at least convinced Cyrus that he had.
Alan had been privy to more knowledge of the Allingham family than the press was likely to learn—or to print. Cyrus had friends in high places. He had zealous, vindictive supporters in high, medium, and low places. Anyone who dared to defame him would need to be armed with more than hearsay evidence.
When Jan came home, I told her Bernie would be stopping in for a drink.
“And a yack fest about skulduggery,” she added. “I’ll take my shower while you two get that over with, and join you later for more civilized conversation.”
“For your sadly thin information, madame,” I informed her, “Bernie and I are the citizen types who help to keep the world civilized.”
“Orderly, maybe,” she said. “I will not accept civilized.” She patted my cheek. Each to his own, Lochinvar. Charge!”
“Smartass,” I said, and kissed her.
Bernie’s car pulled into our driveway about five minutes later. I knew what he wanted—Scotch over rocks. I had it waiting for him when he reached our front door.
He studied me suspiciously.
“I am trying to play the gracious host,” I explained. “Don’t just stand there. We have important matters to discuss.”
We went out in back, and I gave him the account of my day, from the Allingham fortress to Donegal Bay.
“That’s all out of my jurisdiction,” he said.
“I know. That’s what I’ve been wondering about.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“The Bakers don’t live in the city, either. They’re out of your jurisdiction, too. The only one involved in this mess who isn’t outside is Joe Farini. What is this, a police vendetta?”
“Easy, now,” he said quietly.
“Maybe,” I suggested, “some of the boys down there want to pay Luther back by nailing Farini.”
He shook his head. “Your mouth is ahead of your brain, as usual. I’ll admit we want to get something on Farini. We don’t like crooked lawyers. And the state Bar Association hasn’t done a damned thing about him. Tell me, self-ordained knight in tarnished armor, do you like crooked lawyers?”
I stared at him admiringly. “That’s great— self-ordained knight in tarnished armor. Is it a quote?”
“Oh, shut up!” he said.
“It has earned you another drink,” I told him, and took his glass.
Jan was there when I brought his drink. I went to get her a gin and tonic, and fortified my own glass.
“Now,” Bernie said, “tell me what you know about Max Kronen.”
I said, “I know that he almost lost his license about three years ago for beating up a stoolie who had double-crossed him. I lever followed his career. The other boys in the trade consider him more brawn than brain.”
“Which is not unusual in your trade.”
“Thank you!”
“I meant, of course,” he explained, “the other boys in your trade. Does he have a specialty? Divorce, industrial spying—what?”
“I doubt it. He has four investigators working for him, three men and one woman. They might specialize. My peers have told me he has a real fancy office down there in the San Fernando Valley. And he has worked for some high-priced lawyers. I got the
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