The Confessors' Club

THIRTY-FOUR

‘Your information was correct,’ I told the Bohemian. ‘Arthur Lamm is being investigated by the IRS. He might be running.’

He sighed into the phone. ‘That’s good news of a sort, if it means he’s hiding out and not dead, a fourth prominent man killed. Fears of a murderous conspiracy are unfounded?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Your client knows, though, doesn’t he?’ By now I was sure he’d guessed that I’d been hired by Wendell Phelps.

‘Debbie Goring promised me five per cent of any insurance she collects if I can prove her father was not a suicide,’ I said.

‘You won’t tell me your client’s name?’

‘No.’

‘Any chance of helping Debbie collect?’

‘Only if I can prove someone else gave her father an overdose.’

‘So we are back to imagining conspiracy?’

‘You’re familiar with very private, exclusive organizations?’

‘Some,’ he said, evading now himself.

‘I’m interested in something called a “C. Club”. It meets on the second Tuesdays of even-numbered months.’

‘That’s very specific.’ He paused so I could tell him why I was asking.

I didn’t. I waited.

‘I’ve never heard of it,’ he said finally.

‘Perhaps you could contact a few friends.’

‘My God, Vlodek; I can’t call around and ask whether they belong to some secret organization.’

‘Barberi, Whitman and Carson each died on, or immediately following, one of those secret-meeting Tuesdays.’

‘This is for real?’

‘Real as death, Anton.’

‘Then I shall try,’ he said.

The Bohemian called back early that evening. ‘No one admits knowing anything of a “C. Club.” More interestingly, two gentlemen whom I know very well, and who are ordinarily very voluble, actually blew me off by saying they had to take important incoming calls.’

‘Dodging you?’

‘These are men who talk confidentially to me about all sorts of things,’ he said, still sounding shocked, ‘but they clammed up, almost rudely, when I mentioned your club.’

‘I’m striking nerves.’

‘What’s going on, Vlodek?’

‘Fear. Where is Arthur Lamm’s primary office?’

‘He runs everything out of his insurance brokerage.’ He gave me the address.

Lamm’s insurance brokerage was in a three-story building in Oak Brook, several towns of better income west of Rivertown. I got there at eight o’clock. Since it was Friday night, only a handful of cars remained in the parking lot. The back vestibule door was locked, but a woman was coming out.

There was a FedEx box outside, next to the door. I opened the supply compartment, pulled out an empty envelope, and pretended to fill out the label. The woman came out, in too much of a hurry to notice I’d used my shoe to stop the door from closing behind her. I slipped inside and went to the directory by the elevators. Lamm’s insurance agency was on the top floor.

My gut wanted the cover of the stairs, but my brain took the elevator because it reasoned I’d look more like I belonged if I rode up. Executives coming back for evening work don’t use stairs; they’re too tired from spending long days being executives.

The top floor hall was empty, except for filled black plastic garbage bags piled outside several of the offices. Luckier still, Lamm’s office was one of them, and his doors were propped open by a metal cart filled with cleaning aerosols, more black bags and rags. I tucked the FedEx envelope under my arm and stepped inside, clever as hell.

A vacuum cleaner was running close by, off to my left. I walked away from the noise, towards the row of offices in the back.

The vacuum cleaner stopped. Footsteps approached from behind, padding softly on the lush carpet. I turned to smile, executive-like.

The vacuuming man wore dark blue trousers and thick-soled black shoes. The pale blue oval on his white shirt said his name was Bill.

I held up the FedEx envelope. ‘I forgot to leave this for Mr Lamm’s secretary.’

He smiled and went back to the vacuum.

It was that simple.

The doors to the private offices had names lettered in black on their glass sidelights. Lamm’s was in the corner. Seemingly study-ing the FedEx envelope, I bumped up against the knob. It was locked. The glint of a square silver dead bolt showed in the gap between the door and the jamb, too solid for a credit card to pop.

I sat behind the L-shaped secretarial desk closest to Lamm’s office, took my pen from my pocket and a yellow Post-it from the pad next to the phone, and pretended to write a note. I stopped to shake the pen like it was out of ink. It was more clever subterfuge, an excuse to riffle the top of the desk. There were phone directories, a dozen folders filled with insurance applications and a file of local restaurant takeout menus, but there were no pens on the desk. And there was no appointment book.

I opened desk drawers, one by one. There were files and note pads, envelopes and paperclips, but there was no appointment diary inside the desk either. There was, however, a pen. I used it to pretend to finish the note on the Post-it, stuck it to the FedEx envelope, and turned it upside down so the cleaning person, Bill, wouldn’t see I’d written nothing. Lamm’s secretary would throw out the FedEx envelope the next morning, thinking only that somebody had accidentally dropped it on her desk.

It had been a long shot, amateurish, and hadn’t yielded a thing about where Arthur Lamm spent six Tuesday nights a year. Nonetheless, I left his insurance agency warmed by the self-satisfied glow of a truly daring and clever sleuth.