has delivered four new barrels; he’s picking up four old barrels that were already stored in the garage.
Cone sees the Steiner loader climb behind the wheel of the van. Away he goes. Cone will make book on exactly where he’s heading: back to the city to make contact with Truck No. 3, dump the trash in the big yellow Loadmaster, and then return the empty barrels to the alleyway alongside that building on Tenth Avenue.
Cone, stays where he is, eyeballing the garage and home. Nice place. The house is two stories high with a lot of windows. Weathered brick halfway up and white clapboard the rest of the way. A tiled terrace at one side with French doors from the house. All set on what looks to be a one-acre plot, at least, with a manicured lawn and a few pieces of Victorian cast-iron furniture scattered about.
He figures he’ll meander up and see if there’s a name on the mailbox. If someone braces him, he’ll tell them he’s the Avon Lady. But he doesn’t have to use any subterfuge. He’s no sooner started up the bricked walk to the front door when he spots a sign on a short post driven into the lawn. It reads: THE STEINERS.
“Ho-ho-ho,” Cone says aloud. He goes back to his car, turns around, and heads for the city. He drives as fast as the cabs on the parkways and expressway, hoping to get back to Tenth Avenue before that business closes for the day. Traffic is heavy, but nothing like what’s coming
He’s back in Manhattan by four o’clock, but it takes him almost forty-five minutes to work his way over to the West Side. He finally parks on Ninth Avenue, with his watch nudging 5:00 P.M. He practically runs back to the one- story cinderblock building. The brass plate next to the front door reads: BECHTOLD PRINTING. Just that and nothing more.
The front door is still open, but when he pushes his way in, a blowsy blonde in the front office is putting on her hat. It looks like a velvet chamberpot.
“We’re closed for the day,” she tells Cone.
“Nah,” he says, giving her what he fancies is a charming smile. “The front door is open. I just want to get some letterheads, bills, and business cards printed up.”
“We don’t do that kind of work,” she says tartly.
“You don’t?” he says. “Well, what kind of work do you do?”
“Financial printing,” she says.
“Thank you very much,” the Wall Street dick says, tipping his leather cap. “Sorry to bother you.”
Back in the Dodge Shadow, he realizes he hasn’t eaten all day. So he wolfs down his two deli sandwiches (salami and egg salad) and gulps two beers. All the ice cubes in his plastic sack have melted, and the beer is barely cool. But at least it’s wet.
Then he drives back to his loft, whistling a merry tune.
He wakes Wednesday morning, mouth tasting like a wet wool sock and stomach ready to do a Krakatoa. He resolves never again to drink Italian brandy with kosher hot dogs, baked beans, and sauerkraut. Even Cleo, who shared the same meal, looks a mite peaked.
He trudges down to the office. It’s an unexpectedly sharp day, with a keen, whistling wind. Breathing that etheric air is like having a decongestant inhaler plugged up each nostril. But by the time he hits John Street, he’s feeling a lot better and figures he’ll live to play the violin again.
“Thanks for stopping by,” Samantha Whatley says bitterly. “So glad you could make it. And it isn’t even payday.”
“Hey,” he says, “you know I’ve been busy with Pistol and Burns. Practically living with G. Fergus Twiggs.”
“Practically living with him, huh? That’s why you’ve got three messages on your desk to phone him as soon as possible.”
“Oh,” Cone says. “Well, something must have come up. I’ll give him a call.”
“That’s more than you do for me,” she says in a low voice. “You bastard!”
“I’ve really been busy,” he says lamely, and flees to his own cubbyhole office before she starts bitching about his missing progress reports.
There are the three messages from Twiggs, and one from Joseph D’Amato. Cone calls the sergeant first.
“Christ, you’re a hard man to get hold of,” the NYPD detective says. “I called you at home a couple of times, then figured I’d try your office. Listen, you and I have got to have a talk.”
“Sure. How about noon here in the office? We can have a sandwich and schmooze as long as you like.”
“Suits me,” D’Amato says. “I’ll be there.”
“You got something for me?” Cone asks hopefully.
“See you at noon,” the sergeant says and hangs up.
Cone then calls G. Fergus Twiggs. Getting through to the senior partner of Pistol amp; Burns is akin to requesting an audience with the Q. of E., but the Wall Street dick waits patiently, and eventually Twiggs comes on the line. His normally cheery voice sounds dejected.
“I’m afraid we have another one,” he reports.
“An insider leak?”
“Yes. On a deal that’s barely gotten under way. I just don’t understand it. Very depressing.”
“I can be in your office in half an hour. I won’t take much of your time, but I think it’ll make you happier.”
“Then by all means come ahead.”
Timothy is in the office of P amp;B in twenty minutes, and moments later is closeted with the Chief of Internal Security. The plump little man is sagging. All he can manage is a tinselly smile.
“It’s a merger,” he tells Cone. “Two food processing companies. I prefer not to mention the names.”
“Sure. That’s okay.”
“Anyway, it’s still in the early stages. Surely no more than fifty people know about it. But there’s already increased trading in the stock of the smaller company. The share price is up two dollars since Monday.”
“Uh-huh,” Cone says. “I suppose documents have been prepared.”
“Of course. Preliminary proposals. Suggestions for stock swaps between the two companies. Analyses of the problems of merging the two management groups.”
“And the documents have been printed up and distributed to those fifty people?”
“Naturally. They’re all involved and have to be kept informed of what’s going on.”
“Who’s your printer?”
“Bechtold Printing on Tenth Avenue. We’ve been using them for years. Absolutely trustworthy. Every Christmas Frederick Bechtold sends me a smoked ham.”
“Do you know anyone at Snellig Firsten Holbrook?” Cone asks suddenly.
Twiggs looks at him, puzzled. “Yes, I know Greg Vandiver, a risk arbitrage attorney. He crews for me in the Saturday yacht races at our club.”
“Will you call him right now, please, and ask him the name of the printer used by Snellig Firsten Holbrook. They got caught, too.”
Twiggs makes the call and asks the question. Then he hangs up and stares grimly at Cone.
“Bechtold Printing on Tenth Avenue,” he reports.
“Sure,” Cone says. “And I’ll bet a dozen other investment bankers and brokerage houses print at Bechtold.”
“You mean Frederick Bechtold, that fine, upstanding man who sends me smoked hams, is leaking all his customers’ secrets?”
“Nah, he’s clean. But he’s throwing out some valuable garbage.”
Then Cone explains what’s going on: How first press proofs are invariably discarded and more proofs are pulled until the density of the ink is correct, colors are in register, copy is properly centered on the page.
“All those fouled-up proofs are wadded up and thrown out. And along comes a private carter who picks up the barrels of trash and empties them into a truck. In this case, it’s a garbage collector called Steiner Waste Control, on Eleventh Avenue. The boss is Sally Steiner, and she’s a stock market maven. She knows what kind of work Bechtold is doing, and whenever a pickup is made at the printer, she has the barrels taken to her home in Smithtown. Then she paws through all those discarded press proofs looking for goodies. And finds them.”
Twiggs’ face reddens, he seems to swell, and for a moment Cone fears the senior partner is going to have
