Killing Orders

VIII

SUNDAY MORNING I drove the mile to Lotty’s through a succession of residential one-way streets, turning often, waiting on the blind side of intersections. No one was following me. Whoever had called last night wasn’t that interested. Yet.

Lotty was waiting for me in her building entryway. She looked like a little elf: live feet of compact energy wrapped in a bright green loden jacket and some kind of outlandish crimson hat. Her uncle lived in Skokie, so I went north to Irving Park Road and over to the Kennedy, the main expressway north.

As we drove past the grimy factories lining the expressway, a few snowflakes began dancing on the windshield. The cloud cover remained high, so we didn’t seem to be in for a heavy storm. Turning right on the Edens fork to the northeast suburbs, I abruptly told Lotty about the phone call I’d had last night.

“It’s one thing for me to risk my life just to prove a point, but it’s not fair to drag you and your uncle into it as well. The odds are it was just an angry call. But if not-you need to know the risk ahead of time. And make your own decision.”

We were approaching the Dempster interchange. Lotty told me to exit east and drive to Crawford Avenue. It wasn’t until I’d followed her directions and we were moving past the imposing homes on Crawford that she answered. “I can’t see that you’re asking us to risk anything. You may have a problem, and it may be exacerbated by your talking to my uncle. But as long as he and I don’t tell anyone you’ve been to see him, I don’t think it’ll matter. If he thinks of anything you can use-well, I would not permit you in my operating room telling me what was and what was not too great a risk. And I won’t do that with you, either.”

We parked in front of a quiet apartment building. Lotty’s uncle met us in the doorway of his apartment. He carried his eighty-two years well, looking a bit like Laurence Olivier in Marathon Man. He had Lotty’s bright black eyes. They twinkled as he kissed her. He half bowed, shaking hands with me.

“So. Two beautiful ladies decide to cheer up an old man’s Sunday afternoon. Come in, come in.” He spoke heavily accented English, unlike Lotty, who had learned it as a girl.

We followed him into a sitting room crammed with furniture and books. He ushered me ceremoniously to a stuffed chintz armchair. He and Lotty sat on a horsehair settee at a right angle to it. In front of them, on a mahogany table, was a coffee service. The silver glowed with the soft patina of age, and the coffee pot and serving pieces were decorated with fantastic creatures. I leaned forward to look at it more closely. There were griffins and centaurs, nymphs and unicorns.

Uncle Stefan beamed with pleasure at my interest. “It was made in Vienna in the early eighteenth century, when coffee was first becoming the most popular drink there.” He poured cups for Lotty and me, offered me thick cream, and lifted a silver cover by its nymph-handle to reveal a plate of pastries so rich they bordered on erotic.

“Now you are not one of those ladies who eats nothing for fear of ruining her beautiful figure, are you? Good. American girls are too thin, aren’t they, Lottchen? You should prescribe Sacher torte for all your patients.”

He continued speaking about the healthful properties of chocolate for several minutes. I drank a cup of the excellent coffee and ate a piece of hazelnut cake and wondered how to change the subject gently. However, after pouring more coffee and urging more cakes on me, he abruptly took the plunge himself.

“Lotty says you wish to talk about engraving.”

“Yes, sir.” I told him briefly about Aunt Rosa’s problems. I own a hundred shares of Acorn, a young computer company, given me in payment for an industrial espionage case I’d handled for them. I pulled the certificate out of my handbag and passed it to Uncle Stefan.

“I think most shares are printed on the same kind of paper. I’m wondering how difficult it would be to forge something like this well enough to fool someone who was used to looking at them.”

He took it silently and walked over to a desk that stood in front of a window. It, too, was an antique, with ornately carved legs and a green leather top. He pulled a magnifying glass from a narrow drawer in the middle, turned on a bright desk lamp, and scrutinized the certificate for more than a quarter of an hour.

“It would be difficult,” he pronounced at last. “Perhaps not quite as difficult as forging paper money successfully.” He beckoned me over to the desk; Lotty came, too, peering over his other shoulder. He began pointing out features of the certificate to me: The paper stock, to begin with, was a heavy-grade parchment, not easy to obtain. “And it has a characteristic weave. To fool an expert, you would need to make sure of this weave. They make the paper like this on purpose, you see, just to make the poor forger’s life more difficult.” He turned to grin wickedly at Lotty, who frowned in annoyance.

“Then you have the logo of the issuing company, and several signatures, each with a stamp over it. It is the stamp that is most difficult; that is almost impossible to replicate without smearing the ink of the signature. Have you seen those fake shares of your aunt’s? Do you know what they did wrong?”

I shook my head. “All I know is that the serial numbers were ones that the issuing companies had never used. I don’t know about these other features.”

He snapped off the desk lamp and handed me back the certificate. “It’s a pity you haven’t seen them. Also, if you knew how the forger intended to use them, that would tell you how good, how-convincing-they had to be.”

“I’ve thought about that. The only real use for a phony share would be as collateral, They’re always examined closely by the banks at the time of sale.

“In this case, though, some real stocks were stolen. So the thief just needed to convince some priests and their auditors that they still had their assets. That way it wouldn’t be like an ordinary theft where you’d know just when the stuff was taken and who had had access to it since you last saw it.”

“Well, I’m sorry I can tell you nothing else, young lady. But surely you will have another piece of cake before you go.”

I sat back down and took a piece of apricot-almond torte. My arteries were screaming in protest as I ate a bite. “Actually, sir, there is something else you might know. The forgeries could have been done anytime in the last ten years. But suppose, for the sake of argument, they were made relatively recently. How could I find out who did them? Assuming he- or she-worked in the Chicago area?”

He was gravely silent for a long minute. Then he spoke quietly. “Lottchen has told you about my past, how I created twenty-dollar bills. Masterpieces, really,” he said with a return of his more jovial manner. “Considering I made all my own equipment.

“There are really two breeds of forger, Miss Warshawski. Independent artisans like me. And those who work for an organization. Now here you have someone who has done the work at another person’s request. Unless you believe that the same person who created the new stole and disposed of the old. Really, what you want is not the-the master engraver, but his client. Am I not right?”

I nodded.

“Well, I cannot help you with finding this engraver. We independent artisans tend not to-to make public our handiwork and I am not part of a network of forgers. But perhaps I could help you find the client.”

“How?” Lotty asked before I could.

“By making up such a piece and letting it be known that I have one for sale.”

I thought about it. “It might work. But you’d be running a terrible risk. Even with my most persuasive intervention, it would be hard to convince the feds that your motives were pure. And remember that the people who ordered these things might be violent-I’ve already had a threatening phone call. If they found out you were doublecrossing them, their justice would be even harder to take than a stint at Fort Leavenworth.”

Uncle Stefan leaned over and clasped one of my hands. “Young lady, I am an old man. Although I enjoy life, my fear of death has passed. And such an occupation would be rejuvenating for me.”

Lotty interrupted with some vigorous arguments of her own. Their discussion got quite heated and moved into German, until Lotty said disgustedly in English, “On your grave we will put a marker reading ‘He died stubborn.”

After that, Uncle Stefan and I discussed practical details. He would need to keep my Acorn certificate and get some others. He would find any supplies he needed and send me the bills. To be on the safe side, in case my anonymous caller really meant business, he wouldn’t phone me. If he needed to talk to me, he’d run an ad in the Herald-Star. Unfortunately, he couldn’t promise very speedy results.

“You must resign yourself to weeks, perhaps many weeks, not days, my dear Miss Warshawski.”

Lotty and I left amid mutual protestations of goodwill-at least between Uncle Stefan and me. Lotty was a little frosty. As we got into the car she said, “I suppose I could call you in to consult on geriatric cases. You could think of criminal enterprises that would bring adventure and the flush of youth back to people worried about making ends meet on Social Security.”

I drove over to Route 41, the old highway connecting Chicago and the North Shore. Nowadays it offered a quiet, pretty drive past stately homes and the lake. “I’m sorry, Lotty. I didn’t go there with anything more than the hope that your uncle might know who’s who in Chicago forging. Personally, I think his idea is a long shot. If he can do the job and make some contacts, how likely is it he’ll come up with the right people? But it’s a clever idea, and better than anything I can think of. Anyway, I’d certainly rather have a charming criminal as my only Chicago relative than an honest bitch; if you’re too upset, I’ll trade you Rosa for Stefan.”

Lotty laughed at that and we made the drive back to Chicago peaceably, stopping on the far North Side for a Thai dinner. I dropped Lotty at her apartment and went on home to call my answering service. A Father Carroll had phoned, and so, too, had Murray Ryerson from the Star.

I tried the priory first. “They told me you were by here yesterday, Miss Warshawski. I’m sorry I couldn’t see you then. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but we had some rather extraordinary news this morning: We found the original certificates.”

I stood momentarily stunned. “That is extraordinary,” I finally said. “Where did they turn up?”

“They were on the altar this morning when we began celebrating mass.” Since well over a hundred people had legitimate business in the priory chapel on Sunday mornings, no one could possibly say who might or might not have gone there early and returned the stolen goods. Yes, the FBI had sent someone out to take possession, but Hatfield had called at three to say that these shares were genuine. The FBI was keeping them awhile to run lab tests on them. And Carroll didn’t know now if they’d ever get them back.

Out of curiosity I asked if Rosa had been to mass that morning. Yes, and looking grimly at anyone who tried to talk to her, Carroll assured me. Her son stayed away, but he usually did. As we started to hang up, he remembered my question about whether anyone at the priory had talked to Rosa about pulling out of the investigation. He had asked the fathers whom Rosa would most likely listen to and none of them had talked to her.

I called Murray next. He wasn’t as full of the returned certificates as I expected. More recent news occupied his attention.

“I talked to Hatfield twenty minutes ago. You know what an arrogant, uncommunicative bastard he is. Well, I couldn’t get shit Out of him about the returned stocks and I asked every question in my arsenal and more besides. I got him in a corner finally and he as good as admitted the FBI is dropping the investigation. Putting it on the back burner, he said, cliché hack that he is. But that means dropping it.”

“Well, if the real things have turned up, they don’t need to worry so much.”

“Yeah, and I believe in the Easter bunny. Come on, Vic!”

“Okay, wordly-wise newspaperman. Who’s applying the screws? The FBI isn’t scared of anyone except maybe J. Edgar’s ghost. If you think someone’s backing them off, who is it?”

“Vic, you don’t believe that any more than I do. No organization is exempt from pressure if you know where the right nerves are. If you know something you’re not telling I’ll-I’ll-” he broke off unable to think of an effective threat.

“And another thing. What was that crap you gave me about your poor frail old aunt? I sent one of my babies out to talk to her yesterday afternoon and some fat goon who claimed he was the son practically broke my gal’s foot in the door. Then the Vignelli woman joined him in the hall and treated her to some high-level swearing on newspapers in general and the Star in particular.”

I laughed softly. “Okay, Rosa! Two points for our side.”

“Goddamn it, Vic, why’d you sic me onto her?”

“I don’t know,” I said irritably. “To see if she’d be as nasty to anyone else as she is to me? To see if you could learn something she wouldn’t tell me? I don’t know. I’m sorry your poor little protégé had her feelings hurt, but she’s going to have to learn to take it if she plans to survive in your game.” I started to tell Murray that I, too, had been warned off the investigation, then held back. Maybe someone had brushed back the FBI. And maybe that someone had called me as well. If the FBI respected them, so should I. I bade Murray an absentminded good-night and hung up.