The Twentieth Day of January

CHAPTER 14

The house facing Gramercy Park had been built in 1846 to the design of Alexander Jackson Davis and only the ornate railings and balconies could be accused of being Gothic. But it was not its outward appearance that impressed Jim Oakes. It was the cool, calm interior, and the man who seemed to have all the time in the world before he got down to why he had called him there. He was a handsome man, sun-tanned, with a large head and features that could have graced a Roman coin. White hair, almost crew-cut, and eyes that looked as if they could extract the truth without effort. His shirt was a dazzling white and although he was noticeably still, when he moved his hands Oakes noticed the sparkle of diamonds in the gold cuff-links. And when he spoke, the questions were short, but so precise that they admitted no answer but the truth.

This was Oakes’s seventh visit in the last ten months, and he was flattered at the courtesy he was always shown. Pieter de Jong’s family had been around when New York was New Amsterdam and he wore his role as Republican Party Vice-Chairman with an air of it honouring the party more than the man.

De Jong poured the drinks himself, and when he sat back in the white garden chair he raised his glass.

“Your good health, Mr. Oakes.”

“And yours, Mr. de Jong.”

“And how is our friend finding Washington?”

“I haven’t seen him since the election but I hear that he’s working hard with his take-over teams.”

“Seems to be charming the press and the public.”

“I guess that’s not too difficult at this stage.”

De Jong laughed softly.

“Have you had any contact with Markham?”

“We’ve met a couple of times. I guess Vice-Presidents-Elect are not so hard pressed as their masters.”

De Jong leaned forward and put down his glass. He reached over and pressed a bell on the wall.

“You’ll lunch with me?”

Oakes recognized immediately that it was a command rather than a question.

A manservant served the simple but superb meal, and de Jong talked about the New York party organization and the set-up in Washington. It was when they were sitting with their coffees that Oakes sensed that the mealtime talk had been time-filling and that they were now back to business.

“And what are they saying, Mr. Oakes. Now they’ve heard his plans?”

“Difficult to assess, Mr. de Jong. There’s no doubt that the public like it, but on the Hill there’s discontent.”

“From whom?”

“From our side mainly. They don’t like the defence cuts. They don’t like the playing footsie with Moscow bit.”

“So why don’t they say so?”

Oakes shrugged. “Who is going to talk against billions of dollars of trade, or bringing American boys back home? You might just as well talk bad about mothers. The polls show ridiculous figures like 75 per cent for Powell.”

“Have you had any more dealings with Dempsey?”

“A couple of phone calls. Just routine stuff.”

“And Kleppe?”

Oakes shook his head. “No. Since you gave me the loan to pay off my indebtedness he’s not been in touch.”

“And how’s business?”

“Very good, Mr. de Jong. I’ve brought a cheque with me.”

“I think I could help you there. I’ll talk to you about an arrangement, a new arrangement, in about two weeks’ time.”

“It’s not a problem now.”

“I’m glad to hear that. But you just hold your horses, my friend. Has there been any development on the murder investigation?”

“Henney tells me that they’re working in the dark. Seems like the Treasury is involved some way. He says it was definitely a professional job.”

“You mean a Mafia job?”

“No. I got the impression he meant foreigners.”

“Who’s the Treasury man on this job?”

“Henney wouldn’t say. He’s been warned off about talking.”

“You know that old man Haig had a man visit him? Said he was investigating a union problem.”

“No, he didn’t mention it to me.”

“A fellow named Nolan. Said he was from Washington. I’ve got a feeling he might contact you.”

Oakes looked surprised. “Why me?”

“Who knows? But if he does, I suggest you hold him off until you’ve had a word with me.”

“I’ll do that. But why me?”

“You’re a stockholder in Haig Electronics.”

“So?”

De Jong shifted in his chair and half-smiled.

“Maybe about the strike they had way back.”

Oakes’s watery eyes noted the smile.

“You knew about that?”

“Not at the time. But I know now.”

“It’s covered in every possible way. They’d never break it open.”

“It only wants one man to talk, Mr. Oakes.”

“Well, I can assure you it won’t be me.”

De Jong smiled, stood up carefully and held out his hand.

“Keep in touch, Mr. Oakes. Keep in touch.”

Kleppe’s tongue explored his lower lip slowly and reflectively as Dempsey waited for his comment. Finally Kleppe spoke.

“I think it’s best you don’t tell him right now.”

“I’ve done everything except say the words.”

“And he still doesn’t see you as part of the control group?”

“No. I’m just a go-between. A fixer. The guy who waves the magic wand. The carrier of messages.”

“Maybe it’s better that way.”

“I don’t think so, Viktor. Or I’ll have to argue every point to the bitter end.”

“What do you think his reaction will be when he really gets the point?”

“I’m not sure he’ll be able to bring himself to believe it. He’s really beginning to think he made it on his own. A bit of assistance here and there. It’s understandable in a way. He’s had the support of people that even I wouldn’t have expected to pitch in for him.”

“Like who?”

“Hard line Republicans like Pardoe in LA, de Jong in New York, the Lowry gang in Chicago. I’d have thought they would hate everything he proposes to do. They want the old system, where everybody delivers votes and gets their rewards in the usual way.”

“Moscow’s analysis was that those boys would go along with a nice mix of isolationism and an extended market in the East.”

“Sure they will, but they still want the building contracts, the Federal hand-outs and the rest of the Washington fruit-salad. In the beginning they were trying to put the skids under him and suddenly they find he’s the guy in the white hat.”

“Why do you think it’s so urgent to establish the situation with Powell right now?”

“He’s sorting out new appointments, and a couple of weeks from now I’m going to be one of a crowd. I’ll have direct access but I shall not get much of his time.”

Kleppe nodded. “You’re right, but I think we don’t have a confrontation. He’s doing what we want, and that’s what matters. If you have to wrestle him a bit, then do it.”

Kleppe’s red telephone rang half an hour after Dempsey had left.

“Yes.”

“Shoot if you must this old grey head.”

The voice paused, and Kleppe replied slowly.

“But spare your country’s flag instead.”

“There’s somebody followed your friend since he left you.”

“Where’d they start?”

“Right at your place.”

“Why didn’t you phone before?”

“Because I don’t know who he is, and your friend’s only just stopped moving.”

“Where are you now?”

“In a public box near the girl’s place on 38th.”

“Where’s the tail?”

“Walking up and down. I think he’s got a radio.”

“I’ll phone my friend, you just follow the tail and get an identification.”

“OK.”

Kleppe dialled the girl’s number and she answered.

“Is Andy there?”

“Who’s that speaking?”

“K.”

“Just a moment.”

There was a clatter at the other end, then Dempsey’s voice.

“Andy.”

“There’s a guy tailing you. Leave that place, go to the Waldorf, nice and slowly, have a drink in the downstairs bar, talk to someone, anyone, and then leave. Go to the cinema or somewhere public. Get rid of the tail and then phone me.”

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know but I’m gonna find out.”

Steiner watched Dempsey talking to two men at the Carousel Bar at the Waldorf but he was sure they were not contacts. He saw Dempsey walk out of the doors on Park Avenue, stand hesitating for a few moments, then turn left and walk down to 42nd Street and through to Times Square. Steiner watched as Dempsey stood looking across at the cinema posters. He watched him cross and enter the foyer of the cinema and followed after Dempsey, who bought a ticket and walked through the swing doors. Steiner bought a ticket and as he went through the doors Dempsey came back through the other set of doors and walked briskly across the street and along to a cluster of phone booths by Bryant Park. He telephoned Kleppe and then took a cab to the garage to pick up his car. Neither Steiner nor Dempsey noticed the man who had followed them both.

Kleppe’s man phoned him just before midnight and gave him the name and room number of Steiner’s hotel. He was registered as Josef Steiner and the room had been booked for two weeks by the CIA office in Washington with an address on Pennsylvania Avenue a couple of blocks from the White House.

Nolan got up early and by six o’clock he had trotted in his blue track-suit round the lawns in front of the house, breakfasted, and was sitting at his trestle table reading through Steiner’s reports. He telephoned Harper’s Secretariat for the IRS information on Kleppe, and New York for further information on the apartment block on 38th. His man carrying out surveillance at Dempsey’s Hartford apartment radioed in that Dempsey had arrived back from New York at 3am and had gone straight to his apartment. Oakes had agreed to see Nolan at his office at noon.

Looking down the list of company names on the board in the reception area, Nolan saw that there was still a panel saying “Logan Powell & Associates, Business Consultants.” The address was the floor below Oakes’s law firm.

Nolan sat in the lawyer’s reception room. It was pleasantly old-fashioned, and on the wall was the original artwork of a Norman Rockwell Saturday Evening Post front cover in a plain white frame. Nolan recognized Powell and Dempsey in a group photograph showing Oakes receiving some sort of certificate.

In a cluster of black frames were photographs of Oakes on a tennis court partnering a blonde woman, Oakes in a USAAF officer’s uniform, and Oakes in the company of various important-looking men whom Nolan could not identify.

A middle-aged secretary came out of the far door and invited him to enter, with a smile and a lift of her eyebrows.

Oakes stood behind his desk and waved Nolan to a chair. He was in his late fifties, a lightly-built man with a ruddy complexion and very pale-blue eyes. The tweed suit he wore fitted his body loosely, and he hitched up his trousers as he sat down.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Nolting?”

There was something in Oakes’s look that made Nolan certain that his name had been deliberately mispronounced. He wondered why Oakes should be playing games before he knew what it was all about.

“I thought you might be able to help me, Mr. Oakes. I’m making some inquiries about the strike a few years back at Haig Electronics.”

Oakes fiddled with a pipe and an old-fashioned tobacco pouch. Without looking up he said, “In what way can I help you?”

“You were Haig’s legal adviser at the time.”

“Still am.”

“I’ve had a chat with Mr. Haig himself. He didn’t mention that to you?”

“No.” Oakes looked up and the washed-out eyes were alert, like a bird of prey’s. “Any reason why he should?”

Nolan was used to tougher adversaries than Oakes and he ignored the question and the challenge.

“Looking through the stockholder’s register I noticed that you bought stock in the company yourself about a week before the strike. Why was that?”

Oakes smiled. “It sometimes pays to show faith in important clients’ enterprises.”

“But why at that particular time?”

Oakes shrugged. “Why not?”

“Because you had been their legal adviser for eleven years without holding any stock. Why was it suddenly so important?”

“There was no particular reason. I had some cash to invest. I chose to invest it in Haig Electronics.”

“Not true, Mr. Oakes. Your bank statements at that period show that you had an overdraft facility of twenty thousand dollars fully utilized. Your tax return for that period showed a net income for that year of fourteen thousand dollars gross. You bought seventy-five-thousand dollars worth of stock. Where did the money come from?”

“Let’s say it was from gambling, Mr. Nolan?”

Nolan raised his eyebrows. “You want that to go on the record, Mr. Oakes?”

“What record would that be?”

Nolan sat silently for a few moments and then spoke quite softly.

“The record of a conspiracy to distort the due process of an election.”

“And what election would that be?”

“The election for State Governor of Connecticut when Logan Powell became Governor.”

Oakes leaned back in his chair, no longer smiling.

“Maybe I should inform you, Mr. Nolan, that I have been elected Senator for this State, and as such…”

His eyes were angry as Nolan cut off his flow.

“I am aware of the election results, Mr. Oakes, but you will remember, I am sure, Article 20 Section I. You are not Senator for this State until the third of January.”

Oakes’s fist came down on the desk-top and the telephone tinkled from the vibration. Saliva bubbled on his thin lips as he shouted, “Are you threatening me, Mr. Nolan?”

“In no way. I am asking for your help as an individual, as a lawyer, and someone deeply concerned with the Constitution, to make a report on what seems to be a serious matter.”

With the bluff of his anger called, Oakes leaned forward. His face was relaxed, and his mouth was attempting a smile.

“You tell me you are investigating a strike that might, and I repeat might, have influenced, not decided, a comparatively unimportant election some years ago. Is this perhaps getting out of proportion, Mr. Nolan?”

He leaned back as if he were in court. He was resting his case. His mouth twisted in the near grimace of victory.

“It got out of proportion when three people were murdered for what they knew about it.”

Oakes’s mouth fell open, his surprise and shock obviously genuine.

“Who has been murdered?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Siwecki and Maria Angelo.”

“But surely they were nothing to do with this.”

“Siwecki was the union negotiator and Maria Angelo had background information. That is why they were killed.”

“But who in God’s name would do that?”

“You have no idea yourself, Mr. Oakes?”

He shook his head in bewilderment.

“A union quarrel. That’s what I put it down to.”

“And the girl? Miss Angelo?”

Oakes looked disturbed and shifty.

“I thought perhaps that was a crime of passion.”

“Why did you think that?”

“I gathered there were some flowers sent. A bunch of roses.”

“I sent her the roses, Mr. Oakes.”

“Oh. I see. I didn’t mean… er…”

“To say ‘thank you’ for helping me with my inquiry.”

Oakes was silent, his face turned towards the window, his hands fiddling with the pipe and the tobacco pouch. Nolan sat quietly, watching him. He knew from experience that Oakes was very near to talking and he prayed that nobody would disturb them and that no call came on the telephone.

Finally, Oakes turned to face Nolan.

“I’d like to speak to a colleague of mine. I shan’t be long. Maybe I can help you.”

He stumbled as he stood up, and his steps as he walked to the door were uncertain.

The secretary brought Nolan coffee and stayed talking. He guessed that it was to prevent him listening to the voice in the outer office. It was fifteen minutes before Oakes came back into the office. He looked uneasy but calmer. The secretary left as Oakes settled himself behind his desk. He put his hands palm down on the desk. People under interrogation often did that when they were going to confess. He looked up at Nolan.

“I’ve had a word with a colleague of mine in New York, Mr. Nolan. I needed his agreement. Am I right in thinking that you want to establish if that strike was deliberately contrived to give Powell the nomination?”

“Yes. If that is the truth.”

“Are we just talking or does my statement become evidence?”

“That could be necessary. But your co-operation would be seen as mitigating.”

“You’re asking me to face criminal proceedings, be debarred from practising law and to cease being Senator. That is asking a lot, Mr. Nolan.”

Nolan sighed. “Tell me what you know, Mr. Oakes, off the record. If it is what I think it is, I shall eventually want a written statement—signed and witnessed. But before it would be used I should ask the Chief Justice to speak to you and give you certain assurances.”

Oakes looked amazed. “You mean Elliot?”

“Yes.”

“My God.”

“Who gave you the money to buy Haig stock?”

“Andrew Dempsey. He was Powell’s campaign manager.”

“Why was it necessary to buy stock?”

“So that I could pressure Haig to appoint Powell as arbitrator. In the event it wasn’t necessary. He agreed straight away.”

“Did Dempsey say why he wanted Powell nominated or elected?”

Oakes shrugged. “Just that they were old friends and he wanted Powell to win.”

“Did you know that Siwecki had been fixed, too?”

“Yes. Dempsey and I had a meeting with him. I paid the money to him and the union. And I paid him monthly until his death.”

“Why did you go along with this?”

“They promised me business and cash. I needed it badly at the time.”

“What about the payments to you from Gramercy Realtors and the Halpern Trust?”

Oakes’s face went white, and his hand trembled as he put down his pipe.

“Those payments were nothing to do with the strike business. I assure you of that.”

Nolan sighed. “I need to know, Mr. Oakes. I need to eliminate that matter from my investigation.”

“And it won’t be used?”

“Not if it isn’t relative.”

“Have you heard of Mr. de Jong?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“He’s Vice-Chairman of the Republican Party.”

“National Vice-Chairman?”

“Yes.”

“Go on.”

“He owns those companies and the payments were made to me to keep him in the picture about Dempsey and Powell.”

“What kind of things do you report to him?”

“Anything and everything.”

“Was he a Powell supporter?”

“Not in the early days.”

“When did he become a supporter?”

“At the Convention.”

“Did you tell him about the strike business?”

“Yes.”

“What was his reaction?”

“That was when the payments started. But he’s not a man who shows his reaction. Not to me, anyway.”

“Was it de Jong who you telephoned just now?”

“Yes.”

“You asked him if you should answer my questions?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He said that I should co-operate with you.”

“Apart from the de Jong payments, will you make the statement and sign it?”

Oakes nodded. “Yes.”

The secretary was brought in to take down Oakes’s statement and when she had typed it she came back in to witness Oakes’s signature. After she had gone Nolan folded the document and put it in his pocket.

“Are you married, Mr. Oakes?”

“We don’t live together, but we’re still married.”

“Would you be prepared to take a holiday?”

Oakes looked surprised.

“I don’t understand.”

“I could arrange for you to have a secure place in Florida. Otherwise I shall arrange police protection for you here and at your home. They’ll be in plain clothes.”

“You mean somebody could…”

He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence, and Nolan stepped in.

“It’s possible.”

“I think I’d better stay.”

“Fine. May I use your telephone?”

“Of course.”

Nolan telephoned the house and arranged the guard detail, and then waited in Oakes’s outer office until the first man came and took over.

Nolan was making notes in his office at the house when the call came through from New York. As he heard the garbled speech he pressed the scrambler button.

“Nolan.”

“Did you hear what I said, sir?”

“No. Is that Joe?”

“No, sir, it’s Steve Langfeld. I’ve got bad news, sir.”

“Go on, then.” Nolan was aware of the hesitation in his own voice.

“Joe Steiner’s dead, sir. He was shot in his hotel bedroom.”

“When?”

“About an hour ago.”

“Were the police called in?”

“No. Not so far. But the hotel manager is very jittery. I hoped you’d speak to him. I’ve put two men there.”

“Any indications?”

“The shell’s 9mm, and a caller ten minutes earlier has been identified by the reception clerk. It was one of our friends.”

“Give me the manager’s number. I’ll phone him, and I’ll leave straight away. I’ll be at LaGuardia in about seventy minutes. Send a car for me.”

The manager accepted Nolan’s request without argument. The assurance that there would be no mention of the affair in the press tipped the balance.

Joe Steiner had one living relative, a brother. He lived in Paterson and was a sports goods dealer. Nolan drove through the night and arrived at three am. The local police had been asked to alert the brother. Minimum details to be given. He wanted, if possible, no publicity about Steiner’s death.

A man in a red tartan shirt stood in the lighted doorway as Nolan crunched in the snow from the garden gate.

“Pete Steiner?”

“That’s me.”

“Could I come in for a moment?”

The big man shrugged and walked into the hallway and through to the living-room as Nolan followed.

“Mr. Steiner, I’ve got some bad news, I’m afraid.”

“About Joe, huh?”

“Yes. He’s dead. He was shot.”

“So why tell me?”

“You’re down on his papers as next of kin.”

“Joe and I ain’t spoke a word together in ten years. We didn’t get on.”

“I see. You know how he was employed?”

“Some gov’ment agency in Washington, he said.”

Nolan suddenly felt tired and cold. The man’s indifference was unexpected. He had come out with his arguments carefully marshalled. But Joe Steiner’s only living relative didn’t care that he was dead. Nolan suddenly needed to leave, but he had to go through the routine.

“Have you any objection to Joe being buried in the cemetery at Arlington?”

“Don’t make any difference to me, mister, where he’s buried. Was there any effects?”

Nolan could feel the blood rush to his head, and he breathed deeply before he answered.

“A few, Mr. Steiner. We’ll send them to you in the next few days.”

The man folded his arms.

“Better leave it a coupla weeks. I’m going for a week’s fishin’ from Sunday.”

“We’ll do that, Mr. Steiner. Goodnight.”

“OK. You wanna cawfee or sump’n?”

“No thanks. I’ll get on my way.”

Nolan stopped the car a hundred yards from the house. He sat with his face in his hands and saw the hotel bedroom. Joe Steiner had gone to the door of his room wearing just trousers and shoes, his face half shaved, half lathered. The hole in his big white chest was neat and round and there had been no blood. Just a bruise round the small indentation. The blood had come from the hole in his throat where the flexible tube of his windpipe had been ripped open. His shoulder holster was draped over the cold tap, and his small two-way radio was on the bedside table. And the doctor had had to stitch Joe’s eyelids to keep them closed.

As the winter wind howled round the car there was just the noise of the fan and Nolan’s tears.