Secrets and Lies, page 6
part #3 of Dewey Webb Series
“I hear you.”
I hung up and went back to my car. I got in, but sat for a moment and mulled over this information. It sounded like Len Lipski had made a big mistake stealing the necklace from Van der Meer. And, if Len hadn’t been able to sell the necklace, he would be scrambling to get money elsewhere so that he could pay off his gambling debts. That meant he had to pawn more items in order to pay Murph, whoever he was. But if he hadn’t sold the necklace to Gresham, did he sell it to the guy at the Polish market? I didn’t know, but I was going to find out.
Chapter Nine
As much as I wanted to visit the Polish market right away, I didn’t want to miss an opportunity to speak to Chet Inglewood, so I decided I’d go back to Globeville later in the day. The market wasn’t going anywhere. I sped out of the gas station and drove to Eighteenth and Glenarm Place, arriving shortly after eleven.
Masters and O’Reilly had their offices in the Continental Oil Building, a ten-story high-rise with a facing of polished granite and terracotta, and with corner towers and battlements. The building was easy to pick out because of the huge red electric Conoco sign on top of the building which could be seen for miles.
I took the elevator to the eighth floor, got out, and strolled through a large wooden door with “Masters and O’Reilly” on it. Miriam Malloy was sitting at her desk in the reception area. She glanced up, saw me, and frowned.
“Dewey,” she said coolly.
Miriam had movie-star looks, with flawlessly styled curly brown hair, sultry eyes, and soft ivory skin. Unfortunately, she had none of the charm of a star. Some things I missed about working at Masters and O’Reilly; she was not one of them.
“Is Chet in?” I asked.
“He just arrived. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
I waved a dismissive hand, which she didn’t like. “Don’t bother.”
Over her protestations, I walked past her desk and down a hallway to Chet’s door, which was always open.
“Are you ever going to decorate?” I asked as I stepped into his office.
Chet had been at Masters and O’Reilly for a long time, but you’d never know it by his office. The furnishings consisted of gray metal file cabinets along one wall with nothing on top of them, a small metal desk and chair positioned near a window that had a view out to the west, and another wooden chair opposite the desk. No matter the season, the view of the Rocky Mountains was stunning, but Chet never saw it because his desk faced the door. Shelves with brackets were on another wall, empty except for some old newspapers that he’d long forgotten about, and a few file folders. He’d never bothered to hang anything on the walls, and he didn’t have any framed photos of family about. The only signs that he even used the office were some pieces of paper and a few fountain pens strewn about the desk.
“I could say the same about your office,” Chet said with a wide smile.
He was an easygoing man, and he spoke in a soft tenor, which was deceptive. People assumed that it meant he was soft, but he wasn’t. Those who made that mistake paid for it.
“How’s business, old boy?” he asked. Chet had spent time in London during the war, and he sometimes sounded like he was British. “You working a new case?”
He was sitting at his desk, and he gestured for me to have a seat. I took off my hat, settled into the chair, and gazed at him. He’s about ten years older than I am, with brown hair graying at the temples and dark eyes that never missed a thing. He’s just a tad taller than me, but several pounds heavier, all of it muscle. I’d met him when I started working at Masters and O’Reilly, right after I returned from the war.
I nodded, my earlier joviality gone. “Something like that.”
His studied my demeanor, then raised his eyebrows. “What’s going on?”
It took me a long moment to answer. “My father showed up.”
He sat back, stunned. “You’re kidding.”
“Right about now, I wish I was.”
I spent a few minutes briefly telling him about my father and his cohort Len Lipski, their jewelry thefts, and the newspaper article I’d found in Len’s coat pocket. Chet nodded his head while I talked, but didn’t interrupt.
“So one thing you want is to know whether Vernon Butler is representing Len Lipski,” he said when I finished.
“Or if Butler knows Len from somewhere else.” I shrugged. “It could be that Len had been associating with Butler to find out whether Butler had anything worth stealing.”
“That’s hard to know.”
“Until it happens,” I said. “Although Gus didn’t seem to know anything about Butler.”
“And according to Gus, at the moment, Lipski may be targeting Warren Sheldrake’s house.”
I nodded. Chet hadn’t missed a thing. “I tried calling Butler this morning,” I said, “but I won’t be able to see him until next week. The problem is, if he knows Len, he might be able to shed light on Len’s whereabouts now.”
“Well.” Chet leaned forward and picked up the phone receiver. “We can at least try to find out if Butler is representing Lipski.”
“That’s a start.”
He dialed a number, waited, and then said, “Gordon Atwood.” He put a hand over the receiver and murmured, “He’s a clerk at Butler and Butler, used to work here. He might be able to help.” He winked at me. “He owes me a favor.”
I smiled. Chet had come through for me again.
“Gordon,” Chet removed his hand from the receiver. “It’s Chet Inglewood. How are you? Good to hear. Listen, can you do me a favor and see if Vernon Butler is representing, or has consulted with, a guy named Len Lipski?” He spelled the last name. “This would’ve been in the last month or so.” He paused. “Perfect. I’ll be here at one.” He hung up and smiled. “Gordon said he’ll make some discreet inquiries – Gordon’s good at those – and call me back after lunch.” He stood up. “Speaking of that, would you like to get something to eat?”
“I’ll buy,” I said as I got up and put on my hat.
I followed Chet back to the lobby. He told Miriam he’d be back before one and she sweetly said she’d take messages for him. Then she proceeded to glare at me as I held the door open for Chet.
“You feel like a burger?” Chet asked as we rode the elevator to the lobby.
“Works for me.”
It was chilly as we walked to a Rockybilt at California and Sixteenth Streets. The restaurant was long and narrow, with a lunch counter along one wall and servers behind it. We grabbed stools at the counter, ordered burgers and Cokes, and talked while we waited.
“How was it seeing your old man?” Chet asked the question that had probably been on his mind from the start. He knew of my past, and how my father had left when I was sixteen.
A waitress brought our drinks, and I took a sip of Coke, then stared at the glass. “It was strange,” I finally answered. “When he walked out, I hoped I’d never see him again. And after time passed, I figured he was dead.” I thought for a minute, the sounds of dishes clattering and voices fading into the background. “I probably should’ve told him to go to hell, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”
“You’re better than he is.”
“That’s what Clara says.”
“She’s right.”
I shrugged.
“Does he want to see your brothers?” he asked.
“‘Maybe later’ is all he said.” I grimaced. “So that probably means no.”
“He’s too ashamed.”
“He should be.”
“No argument there.” Chet lit a cigarette, then changed the subject. “‘Murph’ is the name this red-haired thug referenced?”
I nodded. “You know him?”
“If it’s the guy I know, he’s part of the O’Bannon gang,” he said, mentioning a local Irish mob. “They’ve got some gambling rackets around town, in some warehouses and bars.”
My ears perked up. “Do they operate out of Pickett’s Fruit and Produce at the Wazee Market?”
He pursed his lips. “Not that I’m aware of, but I’ll ask around the office. Maybe some of the other investigators would know.”
“Thanks.”
Our food arrived and we dove into our burgers.
“That hits the spot,” Chet said. He took another bite, then licked his lips in satisfaction. “There’s nothing like it.”
“Yep.” I finished my burger in a few big bites. “What does Murph look like?”
“He’s not very big, not like the thugs he keeps around him. He’s got blond hair slicked back, and he keeps a neat appearance.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for him,” I said.
“What’s your next move?”
“I’m going to see if I can talk to Warren Sheldrake, and then find out if that Polish market is pawning anything for Len.”
“You already visited some pawn shops looking for that diamond-and-ruby necklace?”
“Uh-huh.” I downed the rest of my Coke.
“Did you try Morten Gresham?”
I glanced at him. “You know him?” I shouldn’t have been surprised. Chet seemed to have met, or at least heard of, practically everyone in Denver.
He laughed. “We’ve crossed paths a time or two. Let me guess – he tried to lie to you, saying he didn’t know anything about stolen goods.”
“Right. But we came to an understanding.”
“I’ll bet. Did he know about the necklace?”
“Len tried to sell it to him, but Gresham said it was too expensive and he’d have a hard time getting rid of it. You think he was telling me the truth?”
He nodded. “If that piece is what it sounds like, it’d be hard for Gresham to unload it. He could, eventually, but he’s too greedy to wait too long.”
I got out my wallet and put a one and some change on the counter. “I didn’t find the necklace at Len’s apartment,” I mused, “so what did Len do with it? Does he keep it with him at all times?”
“That might be smart,” he said. “You find him, you can ask him.”
“I keep wondering if Len is dead.”
Chet grimaced. “Could be. Then your father’s out of luck.”
We slid off the stools and walked back to his office. While we waited for Chet’s friend Gordon to call back, Chet asked the investigators whether they’d heard of anyone running an illegal gambling operation at Pickett’s Fruit and Produce, but none had.
“It could be nothing,” I concluded.
Chet and I visited with a few of the people I used to work with to kill time until Gordon called back. When Chet got off the phone with him, it wasn’t good news.
“Gordon checked the case files and asked around. No one at Butler and Butler, including Vernon, is representing Len. As for whether Vernon Butler knows Len outside of an official capacity, Gordon doesn’t know.”
I nodded. “I’ll see what else I can find out.”
“You need anything else, you let me know,” Chet said. “And thanks for lunch.”
I shook his hand. “Thank you.”
“Anytime.”
He went back to work, and I went out to the lobby. I felt Miriam’s eyes bore into my back as I left the office.
Chapter Ten
Tiny white snowflakes started to fall as I drove back to Sherman Street. I checked in with Ida – there were no messages – and spent a little time jotting down some notes in Gus’s file. Soon after, I left for Sheldrake’s office. I cut through downtown and parked on Champa Street, then walked around to Fifteenth.
I’d heard that the Denver Gas and Electric Building had been built in 1910, in what was known as the “City of Lights” era, when Denver builders wanted to light the skyline for all to see. The Denver Gas and Electric Building definitely filled the bill, with a terra cotta façade illuminated with over thirteen thousand lights that formed geometric patterns. At the tenth story, long, imposing cornices covered tall, arched windows. It was one of the more festively lit buildings at Christmastime, and Clara and I liked to drive by it at night.
I went through a lobby with marble floors to the elevator, smiled at the operator, and rode to the seventh floor. The elevator opened into a reception area. I walked up to a wooden desk, where a secretary was busy on the phone. She no sooner transferred one call than the phone rang again. She held up a finger to me, answered the phone, and transferred the call. Then it rang a third time. She rolled her eyes at me and I smiled. She took care of the call and then focused on me.
“How may I help you?” she said in a pleasant voice.
“My name is Dewey Webb.” I took off my hat and held it in my hand. “I’m here to see Warren Sheldrake.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but it’s very important that I see him.”
I pulled out my private investigator’s license and showed it to her. She arched an eyebrow and tried not to look surprised as she picked up the phone receiver.
“One moment,” she said. She turned slightly and murmured into the receiver, then hung up. “Let me show you to his office.”
She stood up and started down a hall to the left. She wasn’t very tall, but she had curves in all the right places. Her polka dot dress accentuated her figure, which I couldn’t help but notice as she walked ahead of me. We turned a corner and she stopped at a door, tapped on it, then opened it and stepped aside. I got a strong whiff of sweet-smelling perfume as I walked past her and into the room.
Sheldrake’s wood-paneled office was big, with an oak desk with some neatly stacked file folders and a phone on it, a credenza against another wall, and two wingback chairs across from the desk. By a window that looked out on Champa Street was a man in tweed slacks, white shirt, blue tie, and black wingtip shoes polished to a shine. He was the man Gus and I had seen the previous night in the Hilltop neighborhood, but now I got a better look at him.
I guessed him to be in his fifties, with receding dark hair speckled with gray and a wrinkled square face. He was tall and almost too thin, making his fashionable clothes seem less so on his withered frame.
“Thank you, Loretta,” he said, and the secretary nodded and closed the door. He gestured at one of the barrel chairs. “Have a seat, Mr. Webb.”
He leaned against the windowsill and looked at me. Since he wasn’t taking a seat, neither would I. That seemed to make him nervous, and his eyes darted to the chair and back to me.
“I’m going to have a lot of explaining to do with a cop coming to see me.” His voice was refined, with just the hint of a New York accent.
I shook my head. “I’m a private investigator.”
“Either way,” he jerked his head toward the door, “she’s going to be buzzing with questions, and telling everyone she knows.” Then he stared at me. “What’s this about?”
“Your name came up in the course of an investigation,” I said.
“Really? Whatever for?” A hand with long fingers smoothed his dark hair. Then he started to fiddle with his tie, but he realized he was fidgeting and he dropped his hand to his side.
“First, let me ask if you’ve heard of Len Lipski?” As I’d already done numerous times, I described him.
“I can’t say he sounds familiar.” He gave it some more thought, then shook his head as he locked eyes with me. “No, I’m sure I don’t know him.”
That seemed to be an honest answer. I glanced around the office.
“Do you do well for yourself?”
He shrugged noncommittally. “I can’t complain.”
“You live in a nice house in Hilltop.”
His face turned crimson. “Why do you need to know where I live?” He tried unsuccessfully to keep his voice from shaking.
I countered with a question of my own. “Do you own any expensive jewelry or keep a lot of cash at home?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“I’m just trying –”
“I can’t believe you’d come here,” he suddenly hissed.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “I’m worried you might be the target for a burglary.”
He swallowed hard, let out a little cough, and stepped toward me. “May I see your license?”
“Sure.” I took my wallet out and handed him my license.
He looked it over carefully, then gave it back. “What is this all about?” Beads of sweat popped onto his brow.
“It’s possible that Lipski thinks you have valuables, and he may be planning to burglarize your house.”
“How do you know this?”
I hesitated. “I can’t explain that right now, but I would caution you to be careful.” At this point, I doubted Gus would do anything to Sheldrake without knowing what Len was up to, but I didn’t know whether Len might act on his own.
“Should I call the police?” Sheldrake asked.
“You can, but I’m not sure what they could do. Right now, all I have is speculation.” I shrugged. “But the police might keep a closer eye on your house, at least for a few days.”
He nodded. “I’ll do that, then.”
“Are you married?”
“Why, yes, of course. I have two kids in high school.”
“You might want to tell them to watch for any suspicious activity around your house and neighborhood.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea.”
“Ever hear of Gus Webb?” I popped the question at him to see what he would do, but my father’s name didn’t surprise him. I described my father.
“No.” He arched his eyebrows. “Is he related to you?”
“Yes. What about someone named Murph?”
He shook his head. “What’s this about? Who are these people?”
“It’s nothing,” I said. “Sometimes an investigation is a lot of questions that don’t go anywhere.”
“Interesting.” His tone indicated he was anything but interested as he stared at the floor.
“Are you familiar with Pickett’s Fruit and Produce?”
His jaw locked, and he drew in a breath and it seeped out between his teeth. Was I trying his patience? “No. Should I be?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Not at all.”
