Secrets and Lies, page 4
part #3 of Dewey Webb Series
“I’ve been in jail, but not for stealing.”
I mulled that over. “Where did Len fence the stolen jewelry?”
“I don’t know. I think he gets rid of it someplace in Globeville because awhile back I heard him talking about getting the cash for me after he got off work at a brickyard up there.”
“Was it a Polish market?”
He shrugged. “All I know is he got the cash and gave me my cut. I think sometimes, if a piece was more expensive, he’d unload it somewhere else.”
“He never told you where?”
“No.” He cleared his throat. “And that’s part of the problem.”
I leaned forward and put my elbows on the desk. “What?”
He grimaced. “At the last house I hit, a couple months ago, I stole a big necklace. It had a lot of diamonds in it, and a big red stone. A ruby, I guess. It had to be worth a lot of money.”
“But Len didn’t pay you.”
“No. He was mad at me for taking such an expensive piece, but I told him if he could sell it, we’d be set for life. He said it would take longer to get rid of an item like that, and I needed to be patient. So I was. And then he disappeared.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Look, that money I gave you yesterday is all I have,” he snapped.
“You had a wad of money.”
“That’s everything I got, and it’s not much for the long haul. I need whatever dough Len can give me. It’s the only thing that’ll keep me going. I’m too old to do anything else.”
“How do you know he didn’t sell the necklace and leave town?”
“I suppose he might’ve fenced it and skipped town, but I don’t think so.”
“Why?”
“He was talking about one more score. I don’t know what, but he was planning something big. He needs the money, and he needs me to do the job.”
“He won’t break in to a place on his own?”
He shook his head. “He got pinched once and did a stint in Michigan. He said if he gets caught again, he’ll face a lot more time. And he said he wasn’t a good burglar, like I was.” A sense of pride crept into his tone.
I tapped the desk, then told him about the big Irish thug at McGinty’s. “Len needed the money to pay off gambling debts, right?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me. He never seems to have any money.”
“That big thug from McGinty’s is after him.”
“Maybe he was fencing some of the jewels at McGinty’s, and he double-crossed them.”
I shook my head. “That’s the wrong crowd to do that to. And besides, that thug said they wanted cash.”
He nodded.
“Who’s Murph?” I asked.
“Never heard of him.”
“What if Len was working with someone else besides you?” I asked. “He needs a lot of money to pay off his debts, and Murph and his thugs are getting antsy.”
“Nah,” he said confidently, “Len’s only working with me.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Does the name Pickett mean anything to you?”
He shook his head.
“Someone Len wanted to hit?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
I leaned back again and looked at him. “You have no idea where Len is?”
He sighed. “No. I’ve been watching his place now and again, but I haven’t seen him.”
“Did Len ever talk about Vernon Butler?”
“Who’s he?”
“A lawyer. Is Len in legal trouble, or is this another mark?”
“I don’t know about legal trouble, but I know where the next mark lives.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “You do?”
He nodded. “We went by this guy’s house a week ago, the last time I saw Len. But I don’t know the mark’s name.”
“Can you find the house again?”
“Yes.”
I stood up and grabbed my hat. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Six
Gus shoved himself out of his chair. “Now?”
“That thug wants me to find Len, or else.” I shrugged. “So I don’t have much choice.”
He grunted and headed for the door. I grabbed my hat and followed.
“Do you have a car?” I asked, pretty sure I knew the answer.
He shook his head. “Can’t afford one.”
“What about Len? How does he get around town?”
“He’s got a Chevy sedan. It’s an ugly brown thing, beat-up, with a broken taillight. I keep telling him he better not let any of the marks see his cheap car.”
“If he’s posing as a banker, that wouldn’t be good,” I agreed.
We walked down the street to my Plymouth, and while I drove, Gus gave me directions to the mark’s house. On the way, I asked him more questions.
“Did Len like photography?”
As I turned east onto Sixth Avenue, Gus glanced sideways at me. “I never saw him with a camera or pictures, and he never talked about it. Why?”
I told him about the receipt I’d found in Len’s coat pocket. “And it looks like he owns a gun, too.”
“The gun I’ve seen. He hangs with some rough crowds.”
“He may need the gun if Murph’s people get to him before we do.”
He nodded as he stared out the windshield. A few minutes later, he pointed at the corner. “Turn right.”
Gus had directed me into the Hilltop neighborhood, east of downtown. We passed by Robinson Park and the ten thousand square-foot Benedict Mansion across the street. The mansion had been built by George Cranmer, who until recently had been manager of Improvement and Parks for Denver. Another block down, Gus gestured.
“Pull over here.”
I parked at the curb, in front of a small cottage surrounded by larger mansions in a variety of architectural styles. All the houses were set back from the street on big lots.
“That’s the house we’re going to hit.” Gus pointed down the street toward a large, brown Tudor-style house with half-timber framing, steep-pitched, imposing rooflines, a massive chimney, and an arched entryway.
“What kind of jewels do they have?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Len just said this was going to be a big score.”
I looked up and down the street. “Do you know anyone around here?”
He snorted. “No.”
“What about Len?”
“If he does, he didn’t tell me.”
I stared at the house for a minute. “How were you planning on getting in?”
“I have my ways.”
I gazed at him, and he shrugged. Then I looked back at the house.
“Do you always do your work in this nice a neighborhood?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Not after I took that big necklace.” He gnawed his lower lip. “I was surprised when Len said he had his eye on this one.”
I gazed at the house again. “Did Len actually say he wanted you to break in?”
He shook his head. “We were driving around, and he was complaining about selling the big diamond necklace, and that was when I said if he would try a little harder to sell it, the money would be good. He got angry and came here and showed me that big house. Then he said there was a lot more money to be made at that house, and in an easier way, and he laughed. But he never got around to telling me the details.”
“Something’s going on tomorrow night,” I said. “At least according to the thug from McGinty’s.”
“That’s news to me.”
I nodded, then reached for the door handle. “Stay here.”
“What’re you going to do?” There was an edge in his voice.
“Find out who lives there.”
I got out and adjusted my tie, suddenly wishing I owned a better suit than the brown one I was wearing. I trotted across the street and up a winding path to the Tudor house’s front porch. I climbed the steps and rang the bell. A series of high-pitched chimes sounded faintly from within. The large door opened to reveal a woman in a white maid’s uniform.
“Pardon me,” I said, tipping my hat. “I wonder if the man of the house is home?”
“Mr. Sheldrake hasn’t returned from a meeting,” she said. “And the missus is gone, too.”
“Is that … George Sheldrake?”
“Warren.” She seemed puzzled that I didn’t know her employer’s first name.
I feigned confusion. “Hmm.” I pulled my notepad from my pocket and made a show of studying some notes I’d made the other day. “My information is incorrect. Does Mr. Sheldrake work at First National Bank?” It was the first thing that popped into my head, probably because my friend Elmer McLeod worked there.
“No, he works at Denver Gas and Electric,” she said. “He should be home a little after five. Would you like to wait for him?”
I shook my head. “Unfortunately, I have another appointment. I’ll try him again later this evening.”
“He has a benefit downtown at seven.”
“Then I’ll try another day.” I put the notepad back in my pocket and smiled widely. “Thank you so much for your time.”
“May I take your name and give him a message?”
“No need to trouble you,” I said, as I tipped my hat again. “I’ll come back.”
“Of course.” She made a slight curtsy and the door swung shut.
I hurried down the walk and back to the Plymouth. Gus was crouched down on the passenger seat.
“Well?” Gus asked as I got in.
“Warren Sheldrake lives there,” I said, then started the car “He works at Denver Gas and Electric.”
He cocked an eyebrow at me. “How’d you find that out?”
I told him what I’d done. “Sometimes you just have to ask and see where it leads you.”
“What would you have done if Sheldrake was home?”
“I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “You ever hear of him?”
Gus shook his head.
I drove around the block, then parked in a different place where we wouldn’t easily be spotted from the Sheldrake house.
“What’re we doing?” Gus asked.
“Waiting for Sheldrake. I want to know if you’ve ever seen him and just didn’t know his name.”
“I doubt it.”
“Well, we won’t have long to wait.”
We sat in silence as the minutes ticked by, and at a quarter past five, an older model white Packard Clipper rolled down the street and pulled into the Sheldrake driveway. I eased down the street and stopped when I drew parallel to the house. A tall, thin man in a brown suit, tan hat, and two-tone brown oxford shoes – I assumed Sheldrake – got out of the Packard and walked toward the garage.
I glanced at Gus. “Do you recognize him?”
He squinted down the driveway, then shook his head. “He doesn’t look familiar.”
I sped up and moved down the street before Sheldrake noticed us. I drove back to Sixth Avenue and went west.
“What’re you going to do now?” Gus asked.
“I’ve got to find Len, or I’ll have trouble on my hands.” I gave him an annoyed look. “Thanks to you.”
I didn’t expect an apology, and he didn’t give one.
“I’ll watch Len’s place tonight, in case he shows up,” was all he said.
“Fine.” I headed in that direction.
Gus didn’t say a word until we drove down Lipan Street. I pulled over to the curb down the block from Len’s apartment building.
“You work on Sundays?” Gus asked.
I shook my head. “I try not to.”
“I’ll come around Monday then, to see how you’re doing,” Gus said. He got out, slammed the car door, and sauntered down the street.
I watched him for a moment, noticing that he walked with a bit more assurance than before. Because he knew I had to help him, or something more? I still didn’t trust him, and I had my doubts he was telling me everything. Gus glanced over his shoulder at me, and I nodded and drove off.
As I turned onto Colfax, I thought about my situation. I had the names of a number of people who might have had a connection with Len Lipski. Did one of them know where he was, or how to find him? I tapped the steering wheel as I waited at a stoplight. It was too late to visit Vernon Butler, and Warren Sheldrake was busy tonight. However, Gus had said he wondered if Len had been fencing jewelry in the Polish neighborhood, and I had a hunch it might’ve been happening at the Polish market. I could go back there to see if I could find out more.
I got onto Washington Street and headed for Globeville, but on the way I encountered a bad accident that had slowed traffic to a crawl. It was after seven by the time I reached the market, and it was closed. I let out a disappointed sigh as I headed for home. When I walked through the door, Clara was in the kitchen, and she was surprised to see me.
“Oh.” She poked her head into the living room. “I thought maybe you were out for the evening.” A bit of disapproval crept into her tone.
“I got busy with some things and I forgot to call,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” She studied my face. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, nothing to worry about.” I generally shielded her from my work. “I’ve got a lot of running around to do tomorrow, and I don’t know how long I’ll be.”
“All right. Have you eaten?”
I shook my head.
“Let me fix you a plate,” she said.
I sat down at the kitchen table and while I ate, she played pat-a-cake with Sam. When I finished, she put him down for the night. Then I read the paper and we listened to the radio until it was time to go to bed. As we retired to our room, I had a fleeting thought about Gus. Did he ever regret missing evenings like these? If he didn’t, that was too bad. I may be a hard man, but I treasured the times with Clara and Sam, and I wished for more of them.
Chapter Seven
Sunday morning, I went to church with Clara and Sam. Afterward, there wasn’t a lot I could do, since most businesses would be closed, but I did spend a good bit of the day watching Len’s apartment building. I never saw him, and I finally went home and enjoyed a quiet evening.
Monday morning broke cold, and outside the window, dark clouds matched my frame of mind. Clara sensed I was not in a talkative mood, and she said little as I had a quick breakfast while she fed Sam. Then I left, and was walking into the old Victorian by nine. Ida was on the phone when I passed by her door. I waved and she smiled, and then I went down the hall to my office. I tossed my hat on the desk, sat down, and pulled a phone directory from a drawer. I had a lot of calls to make. I thumbed through the Ds until I found a listing for Denver Gas and Electric. Their offices were located at Fifteenth and Champa Streets.
I picked up the phone receiver and dialed their number.
“Denver Gas and Electric,” a brittle woman’s voice said.
“Is Warren Sheldrake in today?”
“Yes, but let me check his schedule.” She paused, then said, “He’s tied up until two.”
“Thank you,” I said, and hung up before she could ask me anything more.
Good, I thought. I’d stop by his office then to see if he would talk to me. I could’ve opted for a phone conversation, but a face-to-face interview was always preferable; that way I could gauge a person’s reactions while I talked to him. That made it much easier to detect if someone was lying to me.
I grabbed the phone directory again and found the number for Butler and Butler, Esquires. I put the receiver to my ear, dialed the number listed in the directory, and waited. If Vernon Butler was available, I was going to see if he remembered me from my days at Masters and O’Reilly, figuring that might make him willing to meet with me. Then I’d see if he would tell me if he had any association with Len Lipski. After only one ring, the line was picked up.
“Butler and Butler,” a smooth, feminine voice said. “How may I assist you?”
I tried for my most official-sounding voice. “I’d like to speak to Vernon Butler, please.”
“He’s not available at the moment.”
“When might I be able to speak to him?”
“He’s in court today.”
“May I make an appointment for tomorrow?”
“Let me check his calendar.” A long pause ensued, while I heard the shuffling of papers. “I’m afraid his earliest appointment is next Friday. Shall I put your name down?”
“Not at this time. Thank you,” I said, and hung up.
I sat back for a second, disappointed, then picked up the receiver again and dialed a number from heart. After a few rings, a low, familiar female voice answered.
“Masters and O’Reilly. May I help you?”
I mustered up as much pleasantness as I could. “Hi, Miriam. Is Chet around?”
Chet Inglewood was Chief Investigator at Masters and O’Reilly, and even though I’d left the law office, he was always willing to lend me a helping hand.
“He won’t be in until after eleven, and after lunch, he’ll be gone for the day.” Chilliness bristled through the phone line.
Miriam Malloy was the receptionist at my former place of employment, and her dislike of me was evident. It hadn’t started out that way. There had been a time, when I first started at Masters and O’Reilly, that she’d been pleasant with me, even flirty. But then I’d met Clara, and from that point on, Miriam treated me with a cold indifference that grated on me.
“Let him know I’ll stop by then,” I said.
“I will.” The line went dead.
I cradled the receiver and sat back, feeling the sting of getting brushed off by everyone I’d hoped to speak to. Then I remembered something the red-haired thug had told me, that Len had mentioned someone named Pickett. Who was that?
I checked the phone directory yet again, this time checking the Ps. I found three Picketts and called each of them. Two were answered by women, who said they’d never heard of Len Lipski. The third call rang and rang, and I finally hung up, then stared into space. Then, on a whim, I checked the business section of the directory. And I saw Pickett’s Fruit and Produce. Was Len working there? It would be worth checking. I wasn’t making any progress on the phone, but maybe some flatfooting around town would turn up something. I shoved myself out of my chair, grabbed my hat, and left.
