The Brass Go-Between

Chapter three

I knew two of the three men who stood at the small bar at the far end of the dining room. The tall, fragile one with the salt and pepper forelock that kept flopping down into his melancholy eyes was Senator Augustus Kehoel (pronounced “curl” for some reason) of Ohio, who was the delight of the political cartoonists. They always made him look like a grief-stricken sheep dog. At twenty-four and just out of the World War II army with something of a hero’s record, he had married into a car-wax fortune and over the years had spent goodly chunks of it getting himself elected to the state legislature, the U.S. House of Representatives, and finally to the Senate. It was as high as he would ever go although he once had hinted to me of some yearning to be vice-president, which only demonstrated that he was a reasonable man of limited ambition.

Next to him, with a carefully manicured hand in firm control of a double martini, was Lawrence Ignatius Teague, president of the million-member Aluminum Workers of America (AFL–CIO), and pink of cheek and white of hair. I wondered if he still used a blue rinse. During an internal union scrap five or six years before, one of his dissident staff members had sneaked us both into Teague’s suite at the Waldorf, ushered me into a bathroom, and grimly displayed a bottle of blue rinse that he swore the labor leader used faithfully, but I didn’t think it was anything to hang a man for.

“You know Senator Kehoel,” Mrs. Wingo said.

“Senator.”

“Good to see you, Phil,” he said, and we shook hands.

“And Lawrence Teague.”

“Hello, Larry.”

“Wonderful to see you, Phil,” he said, putting his glass down and grabbing my right hand with both of his. “Wonderful.” It really wasn’t, but this was called the Teague touch and I suppose it had helped him to stay in office for more than two decades at sixty thousand a year plus an unlimited expense account. For all I knew, he was worth it.

I told him that I thought it was wonderful, too, and then turned to the third man at the bar who stood quietly, a seemingly untouched drink at his elbow, and separated by far more than space from the senator and the union president. Only his green eyes moved as I turned to him. They settled first on my face, then traveled down to take in and assess my tie, jacket, trousers, and shoes, and finally rose again to fix themselves on a spot an inch or so above my left eyebrow. Somehow I resisted the impulse to finger the spot to find out how deep the hole went.

“And the chairman of our executive committee,” Frances Wingo was saying, “Winfield Spencer. Mr. Spencer, Mr. St. Ives.”

When Spencer moved, he seemed to do so reluctantly, as if it cost him a great deal of effort. He extended his right hand and I accepted it. Although not at all keen on meaty handshakes, I did expect something more than I got from Winfield Spencer, who held his own hand perfectly still while I either pressed or massaged or fondled it, I’m still not quite sure which, but he didn’t seem to care much for whatever I was doing and neither did I, so I dropped it as soon as I could.

“Mr. Spencer,” I said.

“St. Ives,” he murmured, lowered his gaze, turned quickly, rested his elbows on the bar, and began a careful study of the labels on the bottles behind it.

Only Winfield Spencer’s name would cause you to look at him twice if you were interested in money and three times if you were concerned with power. Even in August he wore a three-piece gray worsted suit that could have been tailored this year or in 1939; it was that kind of material and that kind of cut. His hair was pewter gray and it looked as if he trimmed it himself, but had botched the job. He had no sideburns and the back of his neck was irregularly shaved an inch or so above a frayed white collar displaying a few threads that the manicure scissors had missed.

Over the years Spencer seemed to have created a face for himself that was at once both shy and forbidding. It was an ugly face, purposely ugly, I thought, because the mouth was always pursed, the forehead was always frowned, and the chin, a little small by some standards, was always thrust out in an aggressively unpleasant manner. The clip-on maroon bow tie that he wore beneath it didn’t help things any either.

I found it difficult to believe that Winfield Spencer had once shot down nine Messerschmitts for the Royal Canadian Air Force. I found it even more difficult to believe that he was either the fifth- or sixth-richest man in the nation.

The Spencer fortune had been founded in the 1850’s on Pennsylvania coal. It was augmented by Colorado gold and silver, Montana copper, some short-line railroads, and later by Texas, Oklahoma, and California oil, and much later by Utah uranium. It was now buttressed by refineries, a fleet of tankers, and a Washington bank whose deposits, including the considerable pension funds from Teague’s aluminum workers, had been used to buy into some of the nation’s most profitable businesses; and Spencer’s bank made sure that these businesses continued to be profitable by a complicated, almost unravelable tangle of interlocking directorates.

Just out of Princeton in 1939, Spencer had joined the Canadian air force in September and got nine of his own before he was shot down over the Channel in the late summer of 1942. He was invalided back to the States that fall because of injuries, some said, while others claimed that he was eased out because of psychological reasons.

Since then Spencer had devoted himself to anonymity, the family fortune, and art. It was art that had brought him and Amos Coulter together. In the early 1950’s a Matisse had been auctioned in London by Sotheby’s. Spencer’s agents had been instructed to buy it; Amos Coulter was on hand to do his own bidding. But Coulter’s new fortune proved no match for Spencer’s older and considerably larger bankroll. Spencer got the Matisse and when informed how high Amos Coulter had bid for it, he had had the picture crated and sent to Coulter without any notice, not even a card.

The two men subsequently became friends, or close acquaintances at any rate, since Spencer was said to have no friends. Coulter was one of the three dozen or so persons who had been invited to view the Spencer collection that was carefully housed and guarded in a private gallery built on his plantation near Warrenton, Virginia, and which supposedly contained the world’s finest collection of postimpressionists. But despite the fact that he had been as close to Amos Coulter as he had ever been to anyone, it still took three personal phone calls from the President himself before Winfield Spencer agreed to serve as chairman of the Coulter Museum’s executive committee.

Some of this went through my mind as I stood at the bar between the Senator and the labor leader and half listened as they gossiped about the state of the union, and some of it I looked up later. Frances Wingo now stood at Spencer’s left, talking to him in a low voice while he continued his study of the labels on the bottles behind the bar. When the bartender slid my drink over to me I turned to Senator Kehoel.

“Good session?” I asked.

“Rotten,” he said. “But considering what we now have in the White House it was better than I expected.”

“Give him time,” Teague said.

“Why?”

Teague patted a stray lock of silvery hair into place while he thought up an answer. “He has good people around him,” he said.

“So did Caesar,” the senator said.

“Think I have time for one more of these?” Teague said, looking sadly into his empty martini glass.

“I don’t know,” the senator said. “You’ll have to ask God.”

As if on cue, God, or Winfield Spencer, turned from Frances Wingo and said, “I think we should start.” He walked slowly over to the carefully set table and took the chair at its head, not waiting for Frances Wingo. I noticed that Spencer moved with a slight limp. Lawrence Teague bustled over to Mrs. Wingo and held her chair which was on Spencer’s left. I sat next to her and the senator and Teague sat across from us.

Lunch, for four of us at least, was ordinary but eatable: grilled double-cut lamb chops, fresh peas, new potatoes, and salad. The bartender, who doubled as waiter, served it skillfully enough, but seemed to wince when he got around to Spencer whose plate contained two hard-boiled eggs and six soda crackers which he grimly washed down with a glass of buttermilk.

There was little conversation during the meal. Spencer ate slowly and when finished he brushed a few cracker crumbs from his vest and tapped a forefinger softly on the tablecloth. I assumed that he was calling the meeting to order. He was.

“When the coffee is served, we’ll begin,” he said, staring into his now empty plate. The dishes were cleared away, the coffee was promptly served, and I lit a cigarette. No one else smoked.

Spencer looked up from his plate and his green eyes seemed to fasten on some imaginary guest at the end of the table. From the tone of Spencer’s voice, the imaginary guest was apparently none too bright. “The museum suffered a theft on Friday night. That is the reason for this meeting. Mrs. Wingo will now give us a detailed report. Do not ask questions until she is finished.” With that he dropped his eyes back to the spot where his plate containing the two hard-boiled eggs and six soda crackers had rested. He didn’t look up until Frances Wingo stopped talking. She had quite a bit to say and she said it well.

“I’ll start at the beginning,” she said. “As all of you know, with the possible exception of Mr. St. Ives, we consider ourselves extremely fortunate to have secured what is known as the Pan-African collection. In truth it is somewhat misnamed because all of it comes from south of the Sahara, but even so it represents the finest collection of black African art ever assembled. Most of the pieces are considered national treasures and have never before been exhibited outside their respective countries. I will not attempt to catalogue all of the pieces that are of extreme value, or even priceless because of their historical worth, but only point out that none of them exceeds the shield of Komporeen in beauty, historical significance, value, and, unfortunately, political importance. The shield, of course, was stolen last Friday night.”

She paused for a sip of water. “The shield of Komporeen was first mentioned by an anonymous Portuguese pilot who wrote of it in his account of his explorations of the west coast of Africa in 1539. He described it as hanging behind the throne of the Odo, or natural ruler of Komporeen, and noted that it was, as he wrote, ‘the subject of much veneration.’ Komporeen, of course, is the former name for what is now known as the Republic of Jandola, which secured its independence from the British in 1958. It was not until the 1870’s that the shield of Komporeen was mentioned again. Sir William Cranville wrote a detailed description of it in what came to be known as the Cranville Report. He mistakenly described the shield as being of ‘obvious Portuguese derivation, but nevertheless of exquisite workmanship.’ Another near quote was when he wrote that ‘the native leaders insist that it portrays their history from ancient times, but I regard this as highly improbable.’”

Once again Frances Wingo sipped some water. “In 1910,” she went on, “the first detailed report on the shield was contained in a monograph privately published in London by Jonathon Twill, the archeologist. He described it as being cast by the ‘lost wax’ method which was first used by the people of the Nile. He measured and weighed the shield and found it to weigh 68 pounds and to measure 39 inches in diameter. He also noted that it was constantly guarded and for the first time reported its real significance.

“Winston wrote that the Komporeeneans believed that whoever possessed the shield was empowered to rule the nation. He also mentioned that possession of the shield had been the cause of what he described as ‘innumerable intertribal wars.’

“In the late 1940’s a special British commission was appointed to make a thorough investigation of the shield of Komporeen. Although it was unable to interpret the meaning of the bas-relief figures which stem from its center in a series of ever-widening concentric circles, it was able to establish the approximate age. The shield of Komporeen was judged to have been cast in the ninth century. As such, it is far older than the bronzes and brasses of Ife and Benin in Nigeria.

“The shield of Komporeen was on display in the Jandolaean National Museum in Brefu, the second-largest city in the republic. It was only with the greatest reluctance that the Jandolaean government agreed to permit the shield to become part of the Pan-African Exhibition. They did so, frankly, because of their intense feeling of nationalism which made them want to boast, understandably enough, I suppose, of their past civilization which was capable of producing such a magnificent work of art at a time when Europe was emerging from its dark ages.”

Again she paused, sipped some more water, and looked at Spencer. “I hope I’m not taking too much time,” she said.

“Go on,” Spencer said.

“The Pan-African Exhibit has now been on tour for nearly a year. During this time a revolution has broken out in Jandola, as I’m sure you know. Both the Federal government of Jandola and the breakaway province which has adopted the ancient name of Komporeen claim the shield as their own. Unfortunately, the shield has become a primary symbol in the civil war and both sides attach an extraordinary amount of significance to its possession. The U.S. has no diplomatic relations with the breakaway nation of Komporeen. Jandola, for the moment, is content to let the shield remain in the U.S. for obvious political and propaganda purposes. It was my unpleasant task to inform their embassy that it had been stolen. I might add that the reverberations from their embassy, as well as from our State Department, can only be described as severe.

“The theft of the shield was discovered at twelve twenty-five Friday morning. The Metropolitan Police were immediately notified as was I. Shortly thereafter I called Mr. Spencer and then the Jandolaean Embassy. Because of the shield’s unique political significance, it was agreed that news of the theft would not be released. After investigating, the police concluded that the theft was an inside job. You are aware that the museum contains the most sophisticated electronic warning and alarm devices available. Mr. Amos Coulter designed some of them himself. A theft by forced entry is virtually impossible. To bear out the inside-job theory one of the guards assigned to the Pan-African Exhibition failed to report to work the following afternoon. His name is John Sackett and police have been unable to locate him. He has been employed by the museum for nearly eight months.”

Frances Wingo needed another sip of water. “Last Friday, at 11:15 in the morning, I received a call from a man who seemed to be speaking with a voice that he artificially muffled. He informed me that the shield would be returned in exchange for the sum of $250,000. He then insisted that Mr. St. Ives here was to serve as the intermediary, or go-between. He gave me the name of Mr. St. Ives’ attorney in New York, said that more details would be forthcoming, and then hung up. I immediately called the police, told them what had happened, and then called Mr. Spencer. He authorized me to call Mr. Myron Greene who is Mr. St. Ives’ attorney and to arrange this meeting of the executive committee and Mr. St. Ives. I have heard no more from the man who demanded the $250,000.”

She stopped again and took another sip of water. I expected her to go on, but she remained silent and the silence lasted almost thirty seconds until Spencer spoke.

“I recommend that we pay the $250,000 — plus Mr. St. Ives’ fee which is, I’m informed, ten percent.” He addressed his remarks once again to the imaginary guest at the end of the table.

“We are responsible, I suppose,” Senator Kehoel said.

“What about insurance?” Teague said.

“We’re covered,” Spencer said.

“So it’s all right then,” Teague said.

It was the wrong thing to say. Spencer shifted his green gaze from the imaginary guest to Teague. “No,” he said, “it is not all right. This museum has suffered the theft of a priceless, irreplaceable work of art, one that threatens to cause an international incident. Furthermore, the museum’s reputation for security has been damaged, perhaps irreparably. No, Mr. Teague, it is not all right.”

Senator Kehoel hurried to say something while the flush rose in Teague’s face. “Perhaps we should first determine whether Mr. St. Ives is willing to serve as intermediary. Are you?”

“Yes,” I said. “I suppose I am.”

“And to help apprehend the thieves?” Spencer asked.

“I’m afraid that’s not my job,” I said.

“Twenty-five thousand dollars should buy something more than a messenger boy,” Spencer said.

“It does,” I said. “It buys you a link to the shield, something you don’t have right now. All you’ve got is a phone call from a muffled voice and you really don’t know if it’s for real or a hoax. But you’ve already made your decision: you’ve decided that you want the shield returned more than you want the thieves caught and you’re willing to pay a quarter of a million dollars for what you want. Of course, what you’d really like is to get the shield back and the thieves caught at the same time. It’s an understandable reaction. Just about everyone would have it, but it doesn’t work that way.”

Spencer was once more staring at the spot an inch or so above my left eyebrow. “How does it work, Mr. St. Ives?” he said.

“You pay me twenty-five thousand dollars to make sure that you don’t pay a quarter of a million for nothing. It’s happened before, of course, especially in kidnaping cases where the ransom has been paid and the kidnap victim has been killed. The go-between business is really a matter of trust. You trust me with a quarter of a million in cash because you believe I won’t part with it until I’m convinced that I can get the shield back. The thieves trust me because they’re convinced that they won’t wind up with a suitcase full of cut-up newspaper and a couple of hundred cops popping up from behind the bushes. And the cops trust me because they know that I’ll give them every scrap of information about the thieves that I get — once the shield is returned. And finally, the twenty-five thousand pays me for whatever risk I take. There’s always the chance that I’ll wind up with a bullet in my back, you with nothing, and the thieves with a quarter of a million and an African shield that they can hang up in the living room next to the Playboy calendar.”

“And that’s as far as your services go?” Frances Wingo said.

“Yes,” I said. “That’s as far as they go and I think it’s far enough considering the risk involved. If what you think you need is a little derring-do, someone who’ll meet the thieves at the old mill at midnight, whip out his Smith & Wesson, and cart them, a 50-pound suitcase full of money, and a 68-pound shield down to the nearest precinct station, then I’m not a candidate for the job. I’m not even a dark horse.”

“That could be the reason that the thieves insist that you serve as go-between, Mr. St. Ives,” Spencer said, still fascinated by the spot on my forehead. “You must have something of a reputation for caution.”

“Some might call it cowardice,” I said.

“Yes,” Spencer said, “I suppose that some might.” He shifted his gaze from my forehead to the imaginary guest at the end of the table. “I recommend that we engage Mr. St. Ives to carry out the negotiations for the return of the shield. Senator?”

Senator Kehoel nodded. “I agree.”

“Mr. Teague?” Spencer said.

“He has my vote,” Teague said.

“Then it’s agreed,” Spencer said. “You will accept the assignment, Mr. St. Ives?”

“Yes,” I said, “provided you accept the conditions I’ve mentioned.”

“They are acceptable,” Spencer said. “Is a deposit or a retainer the usual form?”

“One half,” I said.

“Will you see to it, Mrs. Wingo?” he said.

“Of course,” she said.

“Now that you’re the museum’s official go-between,” Spencer said, “what will be your first move?”

“I’ll go back to New York and wait for someone to call or write me a letter or send a telegram.”

“You won’t remain here in Washington?”

“When whoever stole the shield asked for me, they knew that I lived in New York, so I assume that’s where they’ll get in touch with me.”

“You think the exchange will be made there, Phil?” Teague said.

“It could be,” I said. “There or here or Kansas City or Miami. They might be moving around.”

Spencer got up slowly from the table. “You’ll keep us informed through Mrs. Wingo,” he said.

“Yes.”

As the rest of us began to rise the bartender-waiter hurried over with a telephone. “It’s for you, Mrs. Wingo,” he said. “Your secretary says it’s important.” She nodded and he plugged the phone into a jack underneath the table.

After she said hello she said, “Yes, Lieutenant,” and then she listened for several moments. Finally she said, “I’m sorry to hear that, but thank you for calling.” She hung up the phone and the waiter unplugged it and took it away.

“That was Lieutenant Demeter of the Metropolitan Police Robbery Squad,” she said. “Two children playing in Rock Creek Park discovered the body of a dead man. He’d been shot. He was identified as John Sackett, the guard who didn’t show up for work Friday morning.”