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Graveyard Watch
by Samuel Shellabarger
writing as John Esteven
Chapter 1
"Nose-powder," said Mr. O'Donahue, turning a paper that I could see was my record since entering the Department, "the biggest and latest development of the cocaine business, is what I want to be talking to you about, Patrick Connelly."
"Yes, sir," I said, standing at attention. But he knew what went on inside of me when a drug job came up, for he added,
"It'll be of interest to you on account of your father."
"Yes, sir," I answered, and my voice stuck.
Ten years ago it had been, and me a boy of fifteen, that my old man was shot down in the line of duty when Kid Rosso's coke mob had been cleaned up, and since then of all crooks it's the snow men I hate the worst.
"A grand officer was Shan Connelly," said Mr. O'Donahue, "and my special friend when we were in the New York force together, and God rest his soul! — Now, take a look at that."
He handed me a photograph from his desk. It was not the usual police print, but a dolled-up portrait. It was a bullet-headed, broad-shouldered man with no neck to speak of. His bristly, thick white hair looked like a fur cap. But he was not old — perhaps forty-five. He had a beefy, hard-boiled face, round nose, and small eyes. Wore a nifty, English-looking coat. The sport and club-man were written all over him.
"Mr. Bertrand Trenis," said the Chief.
"Crook, sir?"
"Maybe. — Sit down, Connelly. We'll talk it over. This is your first big assignment."
My heart did a handspring. I had put in three years of training and hoping for a chance. What's more, I was engaged to Noreen Sullivan, and the pair of us too poor to marry.
"Thank you kindly for that, Mr. O'Donahue," I said. "I'm more than grateful to you."
He gave me a dry look. "It's up to you to make the most of it, then. Your record isn't all it might be. Intelligence, O. K. Physical condition, super. But discipline, Patrick Connelly? Self-control?"
I hung my head. That was a couple of fights in the training gym that had gone too far.
"Mr. O'Donahue," I answered, "it's not yourself that would be blaming me for a left punch. The patience of a saint I have . . ."
"Ye red-headed Irishman of the world!" he interrupted. "No back talk, if ye please!"
So I said no more, though my hair is not red, but auburn, as he knew well.
"You're no longer at Holy Cross," he went on, "and it's not the Department of Justice that hires you to be fighting with your fellow rookies. Still, you'll be given this one chance for the sake of your father, who was a fine fella and my friend, as I told you. — Now about Trenis."
He leaned back, his fingers at an angle beneath his big nose. The Chief reminded me of an old wolf, being lanky and gray and fang-toothed.
"We have nothing on him," he continued, "but he's begun to smell queer. He's spent most of his life in Java and the East, where he got rich (how, I don't know — speculations, perhaps) and where he married a half-caste girl, pretty as a picture, they tell me, daughter of a Dutchman named Van Bergh. That is, I hope they were married. Anyhow, she calls herself Livia Trenis. Maybe it's no more than an accident, but her father, Van Bergh, a man of no reputation, was employed for a time at the cocaine factory in Sukabumi. Question, number one.
"Trenis retired several years ago — to nurse his liver, he says — and bought a neck of land on Chesapeake Bay, where he spends his time duckshooting or yachting or what have you. Now and then, he and the Missis visit New York on a binge. Recently he engaged a secretary, we don't know what for. She's a handsome girl by the name of Judith Allen. Maybe it's just romance; maybe it's business. We can't trace her, we don't know where she comes from. But if it's business — question, number two.
"He keeps a private physician with him, a Eurasian from India, name: Sidi Ankra. Supposed to be expert in tropical diseases and to help Mr. Trenis with his liver. Perhaps he does, but he might be a chemist. Question, number three.
"The rest of the household are servants — a white butler, several colored maids, cook, and so on. But the house itself deserves your attention, Patrick Connelly, because it's an architectural dope dream. Might be the working model for an Atlantic City hotel. Stucco. Very oriental. Domes, balconies, stained-glass windows mixed up with church details. •Pon my soul, I can't describe it to you. He's got a private chapel connected where he hopes to bury himself. Is it only cracked he is, or crooked, or both? Question, number four. — I hope you're taking in these facts, now."
"Sure, I am, Mr. O'Donahue," I told him. "But if that's all there is to it, I don't see the connection with us. Because his father-in-law worked in a snow factory . . ."
"Keep your shirt on," he says, with a wave. "That's only background. We wouldn't have noticed him except for this."
He handed me another photograph, another full-dress picture. Smooth, dago face, it was — white teeth, thin nose pinched in.
"Photostat that on your mind," he said. "The name's Mario Cortona — •Cobra' Cortona."
"Yes, sir, I've heard of him."
"Who hasn't? But we haven't got anything on him either, mind that. If, as the saying is, all roads lead to Rome, all the vice trails lead to him. But they just don't get there somehow. They fade out. And Mr. Mario swims around easy as a shark. — In my opinion," added Mr. O'Donahue, "he's the biggest fish still uncaught, unless perhaps it's Trenis. Because — here's the point — Cortona paid a visit to the oriental mansion on the Eastern Shore, and that's how we came to be interested. But that's not the whole of it. Soon after, a large shipment of coke slipped through, and was distributed. The focus of it seems to have been Baltimore, and as usual Cortona hovered in the distance. Do you get me, Connelly? Any friend of Cortona's smells bad; but when one of 'em, like Trenis, lives on the water, owns a yacht, comes from Java, one of the centers of the cocaine industry, has married a woman whose father worked in a factory of it, is not only mysteriously rich, but spends his money like an ijit, he smells worse than bad, and leaves a hot scent. That's question number five, and your big job."
It was a big job — me and Cortona. A grand compliment the Chief was paying me. My head swam.
"Leave it to me, sir," I told him.
"Bedad," he grunted, "and it's you that's left to it. There isn't an experienced man in the Investigation Bureau that Cortona isn't wise to. I had to pick a shave-tail like yourself, and trust to luck. It's my conscience that troubles me to be sending out a sucking-lamb among tigers."
My dizziness passed. I managed to laugh.
"Sucking-lamb, Mr. O'Donahue? It's an elegant picture of me, and thank you kindly."
"Well, and it is then," he answered. "And the more you remember it, the likelier it is you'll be living this day a month. — But here's what you're to do. You'll report to Mason's private detective agency, and go out from there as one of his staff. It's a grand break we're getting. Whether it was that Trenis found out he was being discreetly investigated in the neighborhood, or whether it's some gang trouble, or whether he's genuinely scared because of the valuables he has in the house, I don't know; but the fact remains that he asked Mason for a private detective to keep an eye on things in general. We've an understanding with Mason. We scratch his back sometimes, and he scratches ours. So you'll go down to Sagran with the best opening possible."
"Sagran?"
"The name of the estate. — You'll fix up some telephone code with Mason in case of need. It'll be relayed to us. Now understand me. You're out to get Trenis and Cortona, if possible, on a charge that will stick. And you're out to uncover what you can about the dope traffic. Keep an eye especially on all boats. And God bless you!"
"You can count on me, Mr. O'Donahue."
He shook his head. "I'm not counting too damn much, Patrick Connelly. It's heavy-hearted I am to be wasting this opportunity on an ignoramus like yourself. For what are you but a raw kid with a swelled head? And what are you up against but the coolest hand in the vice racket? But maybe it's the saints will work a miracle for the sake of the Irish blood in you. I hope ye'll not be neglecting your prayers or attendance on the blessed Mass now."
A strict Catholic he was, and a grand believer, and a great help it has been to him in his career.
"No, sir," I told him. "I'm a Knight of Columbus."
"Good for you!" he answered heartily. "I'm rejoiced to hear it. But remember equally you're a very tender shavetail. You've got the chance of a lifetime before you. Don't squander it by foolishness. It's brain and not beef ye'll be needing the most of. Forget your temper, forget your batting average at Holy Cross, forget your conceit. Otherwise — "
And suddenly Mr. O'Donahue's manner changed. He planted his two fists on the desk, and leaned toward me.
"Otherwise, Patrick Connelly, I'm looking now into the face of a dead man."
Something in his voice killed the smile on my lips. I buttoned my coat.
"Is that all, sir?"
"One thing more. Ye've an Irish heart, my boy. Women's eyes have wrecked the chances of more men than powder and shot. I've the feeling that what you'll have most to fear at Sagran is the divil that walks in skirts."
How did he guess that now? Many a time I've asked myself the question. He was a great investigator, but to be great at anything, you must have the gift of guessing; and that can be cultivated, but never learned.
"Faith," I told him, "I'm already in love with the sweetest girl in America, and that's none other than Noreen Sullivan, your own steno; and it's yourself, Mr. O'Donahue, will be ace at the wedding, when I've fitted the bracelets on 'Cobra' Cortona. The divil in skirts is no longer a temptation for yours truly, Mr. O'Donahue."
"Think of that now!" he said softly. "Well, take care of yourself. Good luck!"
He got up and stood looking out of the window. I wondered then, but I know now, why he shook his head.
